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, Hayden Pike, Jean-Jacques Boiziau | J. J. Dagenais, Svetlana Vetrova

Additional Tags:

Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Breaking Up & Making Up, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Jealous Ilya Rozanov, Shane Hollander Walks Ilya Rozanov Like A Dog, Shane Hollander Is a Menace, Omega Shane Hollander, Alpha Ilya Rozanov, Hurt/Comfort, Minor Injuries, Angst with a Happy Ending, Ilya Rozanov Being an Idiot, Episode: s01e05 I'll Believe in Anything (Heated Rivalry), Good Friend Svetlana Vetrova, Scenting, Eventual Fluff, Take a shot every time the author uses the word "scent", Bottom Shane Hollander, Top Ilya Rozanov, Fuck AI you can pry my em dashes from my cold dead hands, Stubborn Shane Hollander, Frottage, Oral Sex, Anal Sex, Knotting, Riding, Scent Marking, Mild Somnophilia, Multiple Orgasms, Free Use Ilya Rozanov, if you squint lol, Piss Marking, Possessive Ilya Rozanov

Language:

English

Stats:

Published: 2026-04-04 Completed: 2026-04-20 Words: 57,322 Chapters: 5/5

ay, recházame (oh, reject me)

Summary

Shane
Last chance. Take your tank top back.

Lily
no, it's a fucking gift
keep it

Shane
Fine.
I'll show you what I do with gifts from alphas like you.

Lily
what the hell is that supposed to mean???
hollander
fuck

Shane doesn't get injured after Tampa, and Ilya breaks up with him to save both their hearts. (Un?)Fortunately for Ilya, Shane isn't letting him go without a fight.

Notes

Now, mind you, my first ever fic for this fandom is less than 5k words. This one is almost 50k in my drafts, so now at least we all know what kind of fuckery we're dealing with, here.

A very, very special and warm thank you to a dear friend, boywithhollanov on X who has been with me through the entire journey of this fic and has contributed so much that it just wouldn't be nearly as good (or as long...) without her incredible input. Her steady encouragement and enthusiasm has made this already fun fic so much more enjoyable to write. I will be including a document with screenshots of our X DMs at the very end of this fic so I can cite her genius, and I would recommend looking through simply because she's one of the funniest people I've ever met.

She's also a literary genius, so please check out her work. I am begging. Go drool in her comments.

And, of course, thank you to Inga for beta-reading and correcting my stupid Google Translate Russian, and Ranya for beta-reading and being a huge sweetheart! I owe you both a kidney <3

As with my other fic, I will be including my favorite works with similar prompts as this one in the end notes of every chapter! This will also include boywithhollanov's fics because I love her and her offensively beautiful mind.

Please turn on Creator's Style! If you're on mobile, click on the Russian for the translation. If on PC, you only need to hover.

Hope you enjoy!

Chapter 1: es que no puedo aceptar tu amor

Chapter Summary

Tampa switched something between them, forcing them both to acknowledge how good they are together when playing on the same team, both literally and figuratively. Shane still remembers the smack of Ilya's mouth on his cheek in the rink, the pulse of his scent gland under Shane's lips in the hotel room. They'd come dangerously close to scenting each other that night, with only the barest of mutual glances holding them off.

Hopefully, though, they won’t have to hold off for much longer. Not if tonight goes the way Shane hopes it will.

Chapter Notes

Graphics included before every chapter are made by boywithhollanov because she freaking RULES!

Montreal hates the Raiders, and Ilya loves it. Every time he glances up, the crowds are a sea of blue and white jerseys, interspersed with brave Boston fans hyping up their beloved team in black and yellow. So many of those jerseys have his name on the back, but the majority of the room has Hollander's. Hollander, Hollander, Hollander. Some pretty lady is climbing the steps to her seat, slick ponytail swishing over the bold white Hollander on her back like it’s emphasising who’s the stadium favourite tonight.

Hollander skates over to him, all blue and white, freckles over a purposefully neutral face. Oh, but his eyes are twinkling so much that they might as well be reflecting rainbow blots on the ice beneath Ilya's knee. Ilya anticipates his scent before it hits him, smothered in suppressant cream and beta-skin strips, but he knows how to find it better than anyone. Looks for it automatically, inhales it as Shane skids to a stop in front of him; snow and citrus, with the coyest undertones of maple and cypress, because even his scent has layers to it that grow stronger depending on his mood.

Like now, buried almost too deep for Ilya to catch, teases the crisp flare of bergamot that always betrays Shane's excitement for a game. His competitive streak that makes the curve of his grin wicked in face-offs. 

“We still on for tonight? After?” Shane asks.

A stab of dread almost winds Ilya completely, though it shouldn't. He's been carrying it around like luggage since March when, in Moscow, Shane fucking Hollander had said stupid things like I love your eyes and I want to learn Russian and he wasn't you. Stupid, silly, impossible things that were never meant to exist in the space between them, this pedestal they both share. Things Ilya cannot hope to have, cannot dare allow himself to take, no matter how much he knows it will hurt them both. 

His alpha is a roiling, angry bastard in Ilya's chest and has been for weeks, but it does the most frustrating thing of crooning and exposing its belly the moment Shane's head tilts minutely. Блять, да что со мной не так... (Fuck, what's wrong with me...)

He nods and ducks his head, pretending to focus on his stretches. “Yes.”

“1919.”

Oh?

“The code. For the front door. I'll text it to you later.”

Ah.

A hint of maple behind icy citrus. Ilya inhales deeper than he means to, lips ticking upward. “Front door. Brave.”

“Fuck you.”

Irresistible. “Later.”

And just like that, Shane skates off with elegant swings of his legs that Ilya definitely isn't watching from his peripheral. He forces his eyes back down to the ice and smothers a giddy smile, relieved that the pre-game buzz is returning to camp under his skin. He can't face the fucking Metros feeling like a kicked puppy. Montreal might start liking him if he loses humbly. 

Marleau slides closer, twisting his stick between gloved hands with a shit-eating grin. “What did Hollander want?” he asked, fully anticipating some chirp from Ilya that Ilya suddenly feels ill-equipped to hand out. He doesn't have to scramble for an explanation, at least, because there's one right in reach.

“Gave condolences,” he says, simply. Thanks for dying, Father. Good excuse.

Marleau blinks, grin faltering, but it's less in disappointment and more in pleasant surprise. “Ah. Kind of him.”

Yes. Mr. Kind. So boring. Ilya sneaks a glance towards Shane, catches his eye for a brief moment, and loves him. 

Fuck.

He looks away fast. “Yes. Canada's golden boy felt bad for me.”

“Told him to fuck off, I'm guessing?”

He wiggles his eyebrows instead of answering and takes Marleau's snort as currency for it. 

No, he didn't tell Shane to fuck off. Ilya’s pretty sure he's incapable of it now, which is just another gut-punch in a sea of them today. Not only has he fallen in love with his rival, but he can't even look him in the eye, on the ice, and tell him the most basic insult to exist on earth. Hell, Shane tells him to fuck off like it's an Olympic sport, why the hell can't he do the same?

Crouching low for the face-off, his attention is fixed solely on Shane for a few hair-splitting moments, and that's also when he resigns to why he can't ever tell Shane to fuck off. Shane's dark, doe gaze slides up with enriching slowness, leaving Ilya's alpha growling and bouncing on claws, desperate for the play to begin. 

Their eyes meet.

Hello, sweetheart, Ilya thinks.

He's so pretty, so goddamn beautiful, freckles bright over a crinkling smile and a scent of bergamot so brisk it fills Ilya's lungs with the taste of Moscow in the cruellest winter.

I love you, his mind roars, so loud and obnoxious in his own head that he's sure Shane hears it. He's helpless to grin back, stick swiping against Shane's above the ice while they wait for the puck to drop.

I love you, his heart screams, and Shane wins the face-off because he’s too busy trying not to let that scream escape the lump in his throat.

Ilya gives this game his all. Smacks Shane up against the boards so often that it's beginning to seem like they have some kind of fresh off-ice feud going on, but Shane's expression is euphoric every time. His smirk is evil, and he gives back as good as he takes, stealing the puck from Ilya with a vendetta so hot it burns tracks through the ice. And it's all Ilya can do to chase after him, watching him fly and pushing desperately to fly with him too.

Ilya’s dying out in a blaze of a doomed soldier's glory, drinking and fucking away until the enemy comes knocking down the barracks and takes away every semblance of life he holds. Because after this, after he breaks both their hearts, Shane will never look back at him when the goal horn blares and give him that smug, crooked smile ever again.

And Shane senses it, his omega senses it. Maybe not the defeat coiling in the base of Ilya's spine, but the way Ilya is pushing for more. Their focus is on each other, vibrant, electric, so potent it's hard to swallow, and by the time the winning goal is scored — by Shane goddamn fucking Hollander — Ilya recognises this whole game for what it was. A mating dance. A display of skill, of competency, of compatibility. He's just shown Shane how perfect he is for him, how perfect they are together, and instead of lying there with his soft parts vulnerable, Shane has proven himself back.

Montreal wins 3-2 in a fight glorious and bloody enough to have Ilya's mouth vibrating and swollen. The loss only stings in that there is little he covets more than winning against Hollander, narrowly beaten by the taste of Hollander's mouth that never changes, even with the ever-unbalanced scale. He stands across from Shane and gives each of his teammates a fist bump and an elated “I love you” or a breathless “good job”. 

And when it's just them, respective captains of their teams with the crowd roaring like the thunder of a colosseum, Shane tilts his chin down and winks.

Fuck, I love you. Ilya bites his tongue, clomping off the ice on trembling skates. I'm sorry.

“Aw, come on,” JJ hollers, shucking Shane by his shoulder pads with more force than necessary. “We fucking won by the skin of our teeth, Capitaine. Come out for drinks!”

“Just another Tuesday for our Hollander, huh?” Someone else teases when Shane shakes his head. 

“We'll do better next time,” he says, chuckling at the unified groans echoing in the locker room.

Despite his words, he's grinning so much his cheeks hurt, because tonight has been phenomenal. Ice still burns under his skin, filling every crevice of his body with aching anticipation that he can't will away no matter how hard he tries. His omega is purring and prowling, ready to release the pent-up desire still rifling through him in ferocious waves. 

He tries not to be a violent player, because it gets him in a hell of a lot more trouble than anyone else simply by proxy of him being half Asian. Given he's also an omega — even a clinically suppressed one — it's even more precarious to balance aggressiveness with cool-headed play. But tonight, the meat of his gums is zipping, his hands shaking so much he has to brace against his locker every so often while he peels off his sweaty gear.

Ilya had been a fucking bulldozer out there. Mean and dirty, never once letting up as if he's trying to prove something. Shane's heart is hammering hard against his chest, and it hasn't stopped since the puck dropped for the first time. His back throbs, and his shoulders tweak with promises of bruises. He fucking hates alpha posturing, but he loves when Ilya bullies him on the ice like that. From anyone else, Shane would have probably been seething even with the win.

With Ilya, it's just right. Tampa switched something between them, forcing them both to acknowledge how good they are together when playing on the same team, both literally and figuratively. Shane still remembers the smack of Ilya's mouth on his cheek in the rink, the pulse of his scent gland under Shane's hovering lips in the hotel room. They'd come dangerously close to scenting each other that night, with only the barest of mutual glances holding them off.

Hopefully, though, they won’t have to hold off for much longer. Not if tonight goes the way Shane hopes it will. He reaches for his phone.

Shane

Hope you’re not too bummed to remember the code

1919

Just in case :)

Lily

i will make you ride those numbers on me until you beg me to let you cum

“You look fucking high, dude.” Hayden bumps his arm with his elbow. Shane quickly turns off his screen, cheeks blazing. “Sure you don't wanna join us?”

Of all the alphas and betas in the NHL, Hayden is probably the closest to omega-passing that Shane has ever met. Locker rooms are usually suffocating with alpha musk, shit that you can probably find in any forest if you look hard enough. Or a barn, honestly. Heavy and animal. Group a bunch of those scents together in close proximity for long enough and your eyes start watering the second you enter the room.

Hayden, though? He smells like moss, most of the time. Fresh, a little dewy, with hints of sandalwood tossed in. There is musk, because he's still an alpha, but he's usually mistaken for an omega on first glance. It's probably why he and Shane got along well from the beginning. Hayden gives absolutely no fucks about Shane being an omega, and never has. Just like Ilya.

Remembering Ilya has Shane's entire face brightening again, which probably gives poor Hayden some misplaced hope. 

“It was a really good game,” he says, by way of explanation. He's not only high because of that, but it'll do. 

“Tell me about it. Never seen Rozanov so fucking juiced. Guy was like an animal out there.”

Mm, yeah, he was. It still replays in Shane’s mind like an old film. “Yeah. Gave us a run for our money.”

“Asshole.” Hayden grabs his towel, slinging it over his shoulder. “Anyway, so, drinks? Outing? Socialising?”

Shane shakes his head, watching Hayden's face fall dramatically. “I'm good. Too sore for any more fun, honestly.”

Wasn't that the lie of the fucking century?

He's adjusting his nest for the millionth time when he hears the front door click open, and his heart nearly catapults itself out of his throat. It's no one's business how quickly he folds the sweatshirt in his hands, the sleeve askew and unkempt, before he all but tosses it onto his bed and launches out of the room at an ass-on-fire pace. His inner omega is bounding at his ribs, thickening the air around him with the scent he knows will drive Ilya crazy. Call it pathetic, call it over-eager, but when he reaches the bottom of the staircase and finds Ilya toeing off his shoes to place them neatly beside Shane's, it's second nature, it's an outright instinct, to throw himself against Ilya's frame, because he knows Ilya can take it. Ilya can grab greedy handfuls of Shane's sides and chest and ass and handle him like he deserves to be handled; his equal, his match. 

His mate.

The impact of that word nearly whites out Shane's vision, but he has the sanity left to mash his lips onto Ilya's with enough force to have them both staggering. If Ilya is surprised by the ferocity, he doesn't show it. If anything, he kisses back harder, just short of crawling into Shane's skin. His glands flare, heavy alpha pheromones dripping onto the walls of Shane's foyer and filling his throat with dry leaves and cashmere musk. It mingles so perfectly with Shane's own that he really doesn't know how they've gone so long without scenting each other. The urge is clawing at his nape, begging and scraping, but it’s not something to be done impulsively. Not for them.

“Get here okay?” He murmurs against Ilya's mouth, pawing at the stupidly hot flannel beneath his hands. The moment it's thrown off, exposing Ilya's tank top, Shane scopes his palms over bare biceps with a manic squeeze.

“Mm,” Ilya hums, pulling Shane in by his hips with a salsa-like swivel. Their lips smack lavishly when he tugs away to speak. “Almost missed the front entrance. Had to follow the smell of desperate omega.”

“Fuck you. It's your fault I'm like this.”

“Is it?”

Shane pretends that the obvious delight in Ilya's tone doesn't make his cock twitch.

“Yeah. You played so hard today.” Shane smears a kiss over Ilya's throat, then digs his teeth in, careful not to mark. Ilya shudders against him, hissing in a harsh breath. Then he's tucking his face against Shane's jaw, and they're both frantic animals biting and ripping off every fabric barrier between their bodies. Shane doesn’t care, for once, that his hoodie is left on the floor, unfolded. His skin is too feverish with need, his omega keening in his chest as Ilya grips and squeezes his pecs hard enough to pinken the skin.

“Bruised you?” 

Shane groans. “Fuck, yes.”

“Where?” 

“Like you don't know, asshole.”

Ilya does know. His large, calloused palm reaches around Shane's ribs, his tongue sweeping over a shoulder, and he presses deliberately on an aching patch of muscle where he'd knocked Shane up against the boards. Shane's next inhale hitches at the delicious burst of pain, and he claps a hand over Ilya's nape, fisting tufts of curls nestled there.

“Fuck, Shane.” Ilya's spill of his name has every nerve curled around his spine fizzling. “You smell so good.”

Shane might die. There's no way any of this is real. This spark in his veins, the growing slick between his legs. Why did he even bother with sweatpants when he knew he'd get wet the moment Ilya walked in?

He smacks Ilya's shoulder. “Bedroom— fuck, bedroom, c'mon, Ilya.”

Not needing to be told thrice, Ilya hooks his hands under Shane's thighs and hoists him up, carrying him blind up the staircase. Shane mumbles all sorts of incoherent, horny bullshit against his mouth while they kiss, growling every time Ilya delays them by having the audacity to stumble in his step. Unreasonable? Yes. But Shane's never gotten fucked by being reasonable with this man. Nothing about their relationship has ever been reasonable.

Finally, Ilya crosses the threshold into Shane's bedroom, which Shane knows with his eyes closed because of how condensed his scent is here. Ilya's spine jolts under his palms as he begins panting harder, like he wants to taste the air alongside tasting Shane's tongue.

He allows no space between them on their way to the bed, pressing Shane into the mattress and slotting perfectly between his legs. It's there, suspended between shucking off Shane's sweats and biting his chin, that Ilya clocks the fact that he's in Shane's nest.

Which has never happened for them. They'd only fucked through Shane's pre-heat once — a really badly timed affair they'd been careful to avoid repeating — and Shane hadn't been able to build shit before Ilya's knot was filling him up, which hadn't been the best course of action, back then. His nests are always neat, orderly, with a meticulous organisation that makes sense only to him. Shirts in one corner, any bottoms with outside fabric on the edges. Softer fabrics closer to the centre, especially ones he wears often enough that detergent can't fully rid them of his pheromones. 

And oh, his pheromones are seriously concentrated right now. More than Ilya's ever smelled them.

Shane's thought about this obsessively. Spent the weeks since Tampa planning around their bulks; where he would place certain items of clothing so that absorbent fabrics were closer to where Ilya was likely to sweat, and how he would fold his socks and ties so they stacked prettily. Dreamt of Ilya’s reaction, his realisation that — even though Shane isn’t saying it aloud yet — Shane’s accepting him as a mate.

Right now, seeing Ilya in the circle more private than even Shane's cottage, has his heart galloping in his ribs. He's watching Ilya so intensely that he half-expects the alpha's face to start melting.

I love you. The confession lodges in his throat, gulped down. He hopes he can say it soon. 

Ilya's expression cracks open, mouth slackening, and he drops into Shane's open embrace. “Fuck, Hollander,” he growls against his cheek, sonorous. “What is this?”

“Made a nest,” Shane says, arching up into the devastating heat of Ilya's body. “Wanted to have you here. Couldn't stop thinking about it.”

The sound gasped wetly over his throat curls into his heart like a wounded animal, and he's helpless to do anything but cradle it as softly as he can. Ilya laves the skin under his mouth with kisses, wet and warm, mirroring Shane's every whimper with a groan of his own, peeling off his joggers with Shane’s ankles helpfully kicking them down.

Quickly, but not quick enough, their naked bodies confront each other, free of any constriction. Ilya pets Shane's thighs, golden curls wild around his head and flushed down to his chest, his moles target practice for Shane’s mouth. His blue eyes swamp into dark, lashes cast low with the agonising burn of his desire scathing Shane’s body inside-out.

He's beautiful. He's so fucking beautiful it hurts to look at him, but it would hurt even more to look away. Slick pools under Shane, soaking into whatever item of clothing is underneath.

“Ilya.” 

“Shane.”

Ilya lifts one of Shane's legs and kowtows, forehead dragging across the side of a calf, nuzzling into a knee, then further across the soft skin of Shane's inner thigh. Worship. There's no other word for how hard his lips press into muscle, how his eyes rake over every inch of exposed skin as if he can't believe he gets to look as much as he wants.

Shane wants to die. His core is imploding. The omega that fought so viciously on the ice, that matched Ilya shot for shot, has finally rolled over and exposed its neck. This delicate part of himself that he's entrusted to Ilya, and Ilya alone, for the years slowly compounding to a decade.

And, if his heart has any say, there will always be a part of him exposed for Ilya. On the ice, in hotel rooms, and in Shane's nests.

“Fuck, fucking fuck, Ilya,” Shane's sigh is a mourning cry as Ilya digs his teeth into his hip, and shit, that's definitely leaving a mark. 

It’s the novelty making this time all the more intense. Because they’ve never done this. They’ve never sprawled in a nest or made angry, desperate noises against each other's bodies or left marks. But ever since Tampa, things have stopped coming to Shane as limits and more as possibilities. Promises. Inevitabilities. 

“So fucking beautiful.” Ilya smatters kisses over every centimetre of hip and inner thigh. “Look at you. Perfect.”

Cheeks pinking, Shane whines, wiggling his hips pointedly. “You riled me up enough today, c'mon.”

The smirk slanted in his direction is impish. “Desperate little omega.”

“Fuck you.”

“Made this beautiful nest, spread your legs for me, getting slick fucking everywhere.” Ilya's next inhale is ragged, scorched, hands pinning Shane down hard enough to leave bruises that will blend seamlessly with the ones from the ice.

“What are you trying to do to me, hm? Trying to kill me, котик (kitten)?"

“I might if you don't get your knot in me right now,” Shane growls, fittingly, spit-fire omega nature returning, though the impact is slightly muted given how hard he's blushing. Ilya coos at him, the asshole.

“Greedy.” But then he licks a broad, red-hot stripe up the leaking length of Shane's erection, and Shane is more than ready to show him how greedy he can be. 

It isn't enough. It's never enough anymore. Even when Ilya's tongue dives into the groove beneath the head of Shane's cock like he's searching for gold, it's dizzying, but not nearly what Shane needs. His inner omega is writhing, whining in tinny tones in his ears, and it takes him a moment to realise that they're crawling out of his throat, too. Searching for Ilya, for the only alpha that has ever felt safe enough for him to expose his throat to.

It's one of those sounds that makes Ilya's gaze smelt, and then Shane's world is tilting on its axis. His knees plant into the mattress above a Nike compression shirt, Ilya's muscular thighs spreading his own while he tries to balance himself on Ilya's lap. There's no adjustment period, no breathing room to clamp onto reality, a cry flying to the ceiling like a gunshot as Ilya's searing mouth envelops Shane's nipple with a mean bite.

Shane mewls, fists making intimate enemies of Ilya's hair, clutching golden strands so tight he almost apologises for it. But every harsh tug is met with a groan and a switch to the opposite nipple, a bite left there, too. His nipples are swollen and puffy, stinging when the cool air flicks over them, by the time Ilya wraps a calloused hand around both their cocks and strokes.

Stars explode behind Shane's eyes, his head knocking back. He's been aching for this since the first shove against the boards hours ago. He's dripping so much that lube or saliva is completely unnecessary, practically an afterthought, but Ilya still hitches an arm around Shane's waist and lifts him up to sneak a hand between his ass cheeks.

“Ilya," he whines.

"Shh, любимый (beloved)." Warm fingers gather the copious slick dripping from Shane's fluttering hole. He jerks his hips, hoping to shove those fingers in, but Ilya pulls back, palm cupped around a small, glittering pool. “I know how to take care of you.”

With a twist, Ilya's hand descends on both their cocks again, and the effortless slide is filthy. They release twin gasps into a kiss that is more tongue than anything, and Shane's gone. Mashing himself in until sweat is the only barrier between their bodies, fucking into Ilya's fist, against his dick where the base is beginning to flare. Even the feel of that goddamn knot, with eyes closed and sparks dancing behind clenched lids, has him drooling openly into Ilya's mouth. Ilya drinks it up and has to clench his fist to the point of pain because of how slippery his strokes have become, a combination of omega slick and precum.

"So pretty, so wet for me." His voice is husky, coarse, a heady groan echoing in the scant space between them.

"Mmf, f-fuck, Rozanov..."

"Always so fucking wet, shit, Hollander."

Shane garbles unintelligibly into the kiss, "For you, just for you, for your knot, please—!"

"Shh, take what I give you. Good boy, such a good fucking boy, Shane."

Despite how good it feels, Shane's orgasm still catches him off guard, a coil snapping on his spine when he hadn't even realised how tight he'd gotten. Ilya's free hand clamps down hard on his nape and keeps him still so he can feast on the slurred yelp that tears from him. He's twisting his wrist, grip mean, and Shane's vision shutters out like someone’s turned all the lights off.

“Fuck, Shane!” Ilya whines, a sound so achingly similar that Shane is momentarily transported back in time, back to a rough-hewn couch beneath his knees and a name pressed to the air between them too much like an explosive. When he'd first had the ecstasy of hearing his first name spoken honeyed and desperate to his face, spoken like no other person ever has, with an intonation too worshipful to ignore.

Just as then, he's too weak to resist the call now. That balloon of want bursting behind his ribs, beside his galloping, full heart. “Ilya…”

He can't turn his face away, this time. Doesn't want to. Sinks, instead, into Ilya's body like an anchor to pliant sand at the bottom of the sea. Shane shimmies ever closer, like he can dig his fluke further into the rocky comfort of Ilya's embrace when there's no closer to be found.

“Ilya, Ilya, Ilya…” Shane prays against Ilya's jugular, licking the rabbiting pulse. Alpha caught in his snare. Ilya rumbles, almost purring, into his sternum, rattling the bones beneath his lips.

Slowly, they collapse back on the bed. Shane's back snuggles into the comfort of his nest, Ilya's curls blanketing his damp chest. Limbs liquid, Shane basks in the glow, inhaling the mix of leaves and maple curling in the air around them, heady and warm, until his lungs are imprinted with it. 

This was one of their shorter rounds, all things considered, even back when they only had an hour to get what they needed from each other. Shane smiles, turning his face into one of the hoodies folded by his head, still remarkably neat. Ilya probably just wanted to get the bursting heat out of their systems from the game; they have time tonight for many more rounds. Ilya's plane leaves late tomorrow, and Shane's pretty sure his nest is enough of an implicit invite for Ilya to stay the night. No omega builds a nest for their alpha to leave after some frotting.

The more Shane comes to himself, sticky skin and clammy cum on his stomach aside, the more his heart begins to rush with something other than anticipation. Now, it pumps with a wild burst of nerves. He'd been rolling around the idea of Ilya coming to the cottage, of spending at least a week there. An entire uninterrupted stretch of time without worrying about planes and practices and being discovered.

And he could see Shane's proper nest, the one he always keeps ready for his heats, the one Shane hopes he'll finally be scented in by the only person who has ever deserved it, if he doesn’t jump the gun and scent Ilya tonight like his omega wants to.

Ilya nudges his pecs with the tip of his nose, but he isn't looking up or moving otherwise. Shane loves his weight, but if he has to spend another second with gunk drying on his happy trail, he might rip off his own eyelids.

“Shower?” He mumbles, raking fingers through Ilya's hair. Ilya tenses, going almost deathly still before the line of his shoulders slackens like he's forcing himself to.

“Mm. You first. Need to find my legs.”

Shane decides not to examine the thread of shakiness in Ilya's voice, because his own belly is unmoored. It's probably just hitting Ilya that he's in Shane's nest, surrounded by Shane's comforting omega pheromones reserved only for a mate. It's not… an easy thing to accept. Not for them. But Ilya presses a reverent kiss to Shane's side as he moves away, and Shane is too weak to avoid smiling and planting a peck to the top of Ilya's head on the way to the shower.

His grin is too giddy, but Ilya's face is stuffed in the mattress and surrounded by clothes, so he can't see it. Shane hopes he's grinning, too.

Ilya wipes his tears on the rumpled leg of a pair of gym shorts just for his eyes to keep burning anyway. Water rains in the ensuite, smattering against tiles Ilya can hear through the wall, caressing the body he just finished begging over. Post-nut clarity has always been a bitch to him, particularly when it comes to a certain omega, but it's never hit quite so deeply in all the years he's spent fucking his way through life and hell.

Shane had begged for his knot. A regular occurrence. Ilya would worry he was sick if he didn't. But Ilya, wretched, cruel, horrible Ilya, had denied him. Denied his omega, his beautiful, challenging, trusting omega, the only thing he begged for tonight because Ilya knows himself. Knows his selfish heart. He's never been good at giving things up, at letting shit go when it's already buried deep in his marrow. Mama left, and she hangs by his neck for it. But Mama isn't forbidden. 

Shane is. Perfect, lovely Shane. Ilya can live a thousand lifetimes, feed a thousand starving mouths, atone for a thousand silent years, and never deserve him.

Ilya forces himself onto his haunches, wiping the crest of his cheeks with the back of his hand like the tears personally offend him. Plugging Shane with his knot, in his fucking nest, would be the quickest surrender known to man. Ilya isn't strong enough to withstand that. But at least he knows Shane is sated. Kind of. Ilya mentally slaps himself for not even fingering him a little; he knows how much Shane loves it.

Should have taken his time. But how can he know that, if he'd taken even five minutes longer, he would have still been able to walk away? Shane is too dangerous for him, too magnetising, an omega that defies the boundaries of every known norm and rule Ilya lives by. 

No, short and sweet. Ilya wants this – this departure, this separation – to be nothing less than amicable.

That is, if Shane doesn't immediately hate him for it.

Numbly, he glances around at the nest. It’s neatly piled, very deliberate in its placing. Ilya’s never seen an omega’s nest, but he’s imagined them to be messy, unkempt things with little to no organisation. Of course, Shane proves him wrong. He tends to do so. He just wishes Shane hadn’t shown him this, hadn’t allowed him in, when something so sacred should only be reserved for a mate, which Ilya knows he’s not. 

He rehearses through his prepared speech while he waits for Shane to vacate the bathroom. Reaches for his phone in his discarded jeans and opens up his notes app because his head is a jumbled mess of Russian and English, so he'd written down exactly what he needed to convey a few days ago.

It's not your fault. It's never your fault. I cannot be this, be with you, it just cannot happen. It is too painful for both of us, and I can live with it, but I do not want that for you.

Please, can we stay friends?

Friends. A sour word that serves no purpose here. He knows it's fucking stupid, even staring at the word typed in computerised font on his phone screen. Friends. He'll take what he can get from Shane Hollander, even if it's close enough to be important but far away enough to be forgotten, to fade.

“Shower's all yours.”

Shane's a dream in a fluffy cream towel and damp hair, cheeks pleasantly flushed from the shower and a good orgasm. Ilya's gaze sweeps over him, gluttonous, as he rises from the bed. Shane tracks him in return, dark eyes unblinking, and if Ilya flexes when he walks past, that's nobody's business but his own. Still showing off, even now.

He showers quick and mechanical, eyes glazed over. Pauses with a hard lump in his throat when Shane's stupid minty shampoo lathers between his fingers and curls. How pathetic is he, tearing up over some omega's shampoo?

Not some omega, his alpha snarls, unhelpful. Our omega.

Not for long.

Steam curdles around his limbs when Ilya returns to the bedroom, towel around his waist, skin cold even though he'd just burned the first layer off not five minutes ago. 

Shane is waiting for him, snuggled safely in his nest. His eyes are half-lidded, cheeks still blooming pink beneath freckles achingly clear in the dim orange lamp-light. He's only bothered to dress in a loose pair of shorts and a tank, with almost all his scent glands exposed to the cool air, to Ilya's eyes and lips and canines. He's enchanting, limbs sprawled loose over his lovely, orderly nest that even their little rutting hadn't been able to dishevel.

He's temptation wrapped in human flesh. He pushes up onto his palms when Ilya walks in, lips already curled up slightly.

“Hold on, wait,” he says, shimmying off the bed when Ilya reaches for the crumpled jeans on the floor. “Jeans are not fun to wear in nests, trust me.”

Ilya pauses, tundra-levels of dread pouring boiling ice into his gut. His stomach cramps so hard he momentarily braces on the dresser while Shane's back is turned. 

Shane wants him to go back to the nest. To stay. Ilya has been playing really fucking casual and hoping it would work, but Shane is approaching with a neatly folded pile of clothes that, even from a distance, look soft and drenched in his pheromones. And fuck. They would feel so good to wear. So good to slip onto his skin and let Shane's scent envelop him, spilling over him, attaching to his glands.

“I cannot ask for that,” Ilya tries, thumb digging painfully into the crease of the towel tucked in at his waist. Shane smiles. Блять (Fuck). His smile is so sweet.

“It's okay, really. These ones are a little big on me, so they'll fit you perfectly.”

“Hollander…”

“Oh my god, just put the damn sweatpants on, asshole.” 

Ilya wishes, desperately, that those words had been spoken in real irritation. That the moniker so deeply suited to himself hadn't been released on a tongue too fond and too used to the shape of him.  He side-steps away the offered comfort in stick-calloused hands and picks up his jeans. 

“Oh, okay,” he hears Shane whisper, and closes his eyes. Puts his pants on while still bent at the waist like he's decrepit because he can't look at whatever expression Shane is making.

“I won't ruin your nest with my jeans, promise,” Ilya says, lightly, throat clogged around the words. Shucks the jeans up to his hips and straightens.

“Ilya, hey.” Impossibly warm hands cup his cheeks, free of too-tempting clothes, and turn him. Ilya is helpless to follow, knees trembling when his eyes find Shane's adorable, concerned face.

“You won't ruin anything, least of all by being in my nest wearing jeans.” Shane tugs him closer, arms sliding over his shoulders, and Ilya can do nothing but hold him. “What's wrong? Is it… your brother? Something going on at home?”

And Ilya loves him. Adores him. Loves his questions, the thread of worry in his tone, like he would punch Andrei's lights out if given the chance. And Ilya believes he would, because Shane is good. He's good and kind and deserves more than what Ilya can give him.

When Ilya doesn't answer, Shane leans in and kisses his cheek. “I'm here. It’s okay.”

Ilya's eyes flutter shut. What can he do but tuck his face into Shane's shoulder and hold him? Hold him while he still can, while he's still allowed. While Shane still cares for him, feels for him, wants him like this. In his space, in his arms.

I love you, Ilya thinks fiercely, clutching Shane's nape to hold him impossibly close. Forgive me.

He opens his mouth, ready to pull back and tell Shane they need to sit, that he needs to talk. His notes are whorling in his head, quiet words that will cut, promises he isn't sure he can keep, when—

“I want you to come to my cottage.”

The world ceases to exist in possibly the least dramatic way possible. The hammer of punishment comes crashing down on the gavel, the echo loud in Ilya's eardrums like the first horn of judgment day. Mama was religious, and along with inheriting her blue eyes and blonde curls and broken heart, he'd gotten her belief in God, too. It has to be a form of fate written just to make him suffer, or nothing else can explain this. 

“Shane,” Ilya starts, the tremble of the beloved name horrifically soft on his lips. Shane bulldozes over him, speaking words a mile a minute, but he pulls back to mash every sincere word against Ilya's temple.

“Just for the summer. Don't go to Russia — come to my house. It's private, so no one will know.”

“Hollander, you know I can't do that.”

“We could have a week. Two weeks, even. It's fun there, quiet. We’d be completely alone the whole time, and we won’t have to go anywhere or talk to anyone. We'd be together.”

Ilya wants to beg him to stop. Wants to sink to his knees and pray again, the cross between his fingertips and plead for Shane to have mercy on him. Tampa memories, warm, bathed in tears and sand, come flashing through his mind without warning or permission. 

I would never be able to go back to Russia.

What would happen to you?

I don't want to find out.

But he knows he would beg, just as he wants to now. Beg for absolution, for mercy, for someone, anyone, to tell him what he was meant to do when faced with freckles, soft lips and sincerity so true it castrated his self-preservation. How could he not fall in love with Shane Hollander? What can he do but love him?

Shane takes Ilya's quiet for hesitation, maybe a ripple in his resolve, and fucking runs with it. The tentative hope on his face, the soft pride in his eyes for being able to ask such a brave question, for taking the step towards Ilya that means everything, is too much for Ilya to look at. He cannot let this drag on any longer.

“Let's sit. Talk.” He barely recognises his own voice. Too quiet. Where is his bravado, his Russian windbreaking confidence?

“Of course.” Shane rubs his hands over Ilya's bare chest, almost thumbing the scent glands beneath his pecs. Pulls him towards the nest. Ilya's spine snaps straight.

“Not here.” 

Confusion mars the gorgeous, smooth skin of Shane's brow. Ilya loathes himself.

“Outside, on your couch. Better. Is… easier.” There's no conviction, as if even he doesn't believe himself and his fucking logic.

“Outside? Ilya, I promise it's okay for us to stay in my nest.” Shane continues tugging him there, bare knee brushing a long shirt sleeve that escaped the fold and now hangs over the edge. His smile turns unbelievably shy, and he shrugs one shoulder. “We could add your stuff too, if it helps you feel comfortable. I left spaces empty for you.”

An ache blooms in the hinge of Ilya's jaw, born of how tightly his teeth are clamped. God, the bones creak when he opens his mouth, his soul and body protesting wildly against his mind.

“I don't want to sit in your nest.”

Fuck. His inner alpha rakes painful nails across his insides, white-hot agony knocking his pulse up several notches. Shane's eyes widen.

“You… don't?” Those brows scrunch, tighter. Hurt. 

“Shane.” Ilya shakes his head, redirects, “Hollander. The couch, please. I want to talk with a clear mind.”

So sweet, his Shane, who carefully reconstructs his face around an expression clearly meant to be neutral but is absolutely failing because Ilya knows him. Knows that the hitch in his breath at the sound of his last name was a Shane Flinch. Knows the dart of Shane's eyes to the floor and the wall away from Ilya is because he wants to hide the anxiety brewing in his mind.

“You trying to say my nest makes your head swim?” Shane tries, tries, as he acquiesces and follows Ilya outside of his bedroom. His tone is off, but the attempt at humour couldn't be lost on a corpse.

Ilya doesn't reply. He allows himself small things; holding Shane's hand in his own, as gentle as he can manage, squeezing when he gestures for them both to take a seat on the couch in question. Sits close enough for their knees to brush, then slowly releases Shane's fingers like it hurts. Reminisces about the times he's had Shane bent over the arm of this very couch, eyes closed and mouth drooling onto pristine leather. Easier times. But can he look into Shane's gaze, balmy brown and cinnamon sugar, and pretend those were better?

Maybe. At least back then he was able to pretend.

They sit in silence for so long that Ilya wonders if he's actually lost his nerve. Every rehearsed word escapes his mind, and he resists the urge to reach for his phone to check his notes.

It's Shane who speaks, who bridges the gap. It's him now, always him. Reaching for Ilya with his words, his tender mouth, his golden heart. 

“Talk to me.” His tone is pleading. He strokes along Ilya's wrist, and they both ignore the way his fingers tremble.

Ilya inhales deeply, closing his eyes. Braces every bone in his body, and clamps down hard on the alpha roaring inside him in protest. This is no place for animal instinct.

“I cannot do this anymore,” he begins, then immediately winces because that is probably the worst possible thing he could have started with. Before Shane can blink, Ilya corrects, “Is not bad. Not because of you. I… This.” He jerks a hand between them. “It is starting to mean too much. It was easier to pretend before. But I cannot keep pretending.”

That is about 2% of what he spent over the last few days, even weeks, revising in his mind. But he's never been good at expressing himself, even in his mother's tongue. What hope does he have here, in the worst fucking language known to man?

And, horribly, Shane hasn't understood. His face lightens, as if he'd been anticipating something else or expected something worse, so of course, he hasn't understood.

“I get it.” 

Ilya stares at him. 

“I know that with everything, it's just overwhelming and scary. It's terrifying enough where I'm standing, so I can't imagine how it feels for you.”

“It is terrible,” he admits.

Shane's lips tip, a sad knowing. “I don't want to make anything difficult for you. I think…” His eyes flutter down, fixating on Ilya's neck, and Ilya knows what's going through his head because it's a reflection of his own thoughts. A scent gland nestled in the sensitive nook of a vulnerable throat. A scent gland that has only ever been suited for one person. 

“We don't have to label anything, or move fast, or— or push ourselves into a corner.” Shane is leaning, leaning in, nose angled down, shy gaze searching Ilya's for permission. “But just being is easier. Right? It's comforting.”

Just being. Oh, when Shane puts it like that, so simple, he really makes it sound like they have all the time in the world to explore this. Like they can truly be anything more without giving pieces of themselves away.

“I feel safe with you.”

Tears burn behind Ilya's lids, so he closes them, posture flagging. The side of his face slumps against Shane's.

“I've always felt safe with you, Ilya. Even back then. That has to mean something.”

Kisses warm the blistering skin of his cheek, migrating down, little flits of unearned affection promised to skin that recognises the prints of this omega's lips, peach fuzz arching up to press as close as it can. Ilya makes a wounded sound that Shane soothes with a croon, nose nudging Ilya's jaw to crane.

He hesitates there, at the cusp between ear and throat. Where a scent gland pulsates alive and greedy. Waits for Ilya to pull away. He should pull away. This isn't how it was meant to go. This goes against all of his careful planning. But he doesn't fucking move, so Shane leans in further. The first ghost of a touch to Ilya's scent gland is almost too light to feel, but it nevertheless punches through him like a battering ram. Every organ splinters, prying a muddled gasp from his throat. Блять (Fuck).

Shane kisses his gland once. The air between them hangs, the dust motes pausing mid-flight while reality dawns on their curled-in forms.

Another kiss. Harder, but still too short. Ilya can't fucking breathe. Shane himself exhales harshly, and then fists a hand in Ilya's hair to angle his neck right. 

Ilya's eyes roll back into his head. There are no words to describe the noise the feeling wretches out of him. 

Shane's jaw drags over his gland, awakening the slit of sensitive skin as if someone's thrown water over a cooking fire, and Ilya finally understands why everyone makes such a ruckus over this. Over how sacred it is to accept the scenting of another on your own body that is territorial over its space. Why scenting strangers is considered sexual harrassment, because nothing in the world compares to how intimate Shane feels. More intimate than sex, somehow.

Maple and ice, buttery and decadent, pour over them both. Ilya tastes him. Tastes him all the way down to his gut, where the acids bubble, shifting chemical compounds to replicate the specific set of unique pheromones that only Shane's DNA produces. Just so that he can never digest anything that isn't Shane, his warmth, his skin, his fucking smell.

“Shane,” he growls. He refuses to acknowledge the way he melts into him, unarmed. His alpha rolls over like some dog, belly up, happy to be gutted alive. His palms latch onto Shane's thighs, thumbs close to the hem of his shorts, and the omega scenting him sighs. 

“Yes, yes, it's okay,” Shane whispers, releasing his grip on Ilya's hair to burrow closer. “It's so okay, Ilya, come here, it's so good.”

He mashes his jaw tight along Ilya's neck, then blindly grabs the closest hand he can find and suckles on the faintly puckered patch of skin on his wrist. Ilya shudders in violent waves, face burning, drunk. No vodka high compares to this. No desperate inhale of nicotine to numb the worst of his days spent in bed alone.

“Shane, Shane.” Like a mantra, growing stronger when Shane lifts his head and cranes his neck to expose the vulnerable gland of his neck—

Like a dousing of cold water, the image of Shane surrendering to him snaps Ilya out of his daze. Him? Of all people, Shane Hollander, the best player in the league, the terror on the ice, the omega from hell, is choosing to surrender to Ilya. And it's wrong. Right in Ilya's bones, but so wrong for Shane, when something like this needs to be kept for a mate alone.

He rips away, physically, emotionally, soulfully. Every inch of him fractures at rejecting what is openly offered, his alpha howling so loud his ears ring. Ilya is off the couch, away from Shane, away from where his heart nests like the beautiful omega whose nest he also rejected.

His scent, his nest, his sweetness. Ilya deserves fuckall.

A whine traps in his throat that he swallows down and instead says, harder than he means to, “Don't do that.”

The room's temperature drops several degrees like it does on the rink sometimes. Usually, it means alpha aggression, a step too far. Now, it just means that he's hurt someone deeply enough to make their safe space crumple. 

“I'm— I'm sorry,” Shane says quickly, shrinking back. No, no. He should never shrink. He should never make himself smaller, not Hollander. Not Ilya's boy. "I didn't mean to— I meant to talk about it first. I'm sorry."

Ilya groans in frustration, shoving his hand through his hair. His wrist glistens with Shane's spit, and now it's in his curls and Ilya wants to fucking die.

“Hollander, I cannot. Do this.” This time, he doesn't want to let Shane cut in with his hope. “This is not good for either of us. I have Russia. You know this, Hollander.”

Hollander, Hollander, Hollander. How many times will he say it before it stops hurting any less? Will he ever be able to see Hollander on the back of a jersey without mimicking the shape of it on his mouth?

Shane's stare is widening, not in terms of size, but in depth. Like he's not truly seeing in clarity any longer. There's a term for it, a phrase in the stupid English language; ‘a thousand mile stare’, or something like that. Whatever it is, Shane is, at least, a hundred miles out.

“I cannot be this with you. Hooking up before was fine because—” He cannot say it didn't mean anything, because it did, it did, but he knows Shane will read the air that way and doesn’t try to correct it. “But it means too much now. We need to stop before this goes too far, because then what will we do?” 

Shane is shaking his head. Ilya wants to grab him and force him still, make him pay attention, make him understand.

Weaker in voice and in heart, he grinds out, “We have to stop this, Hollander. We cannot be anything more. Maybe friends, if you— if you want. I would… like that.”

Brown eyes click back into focus with a ferocity that has him reeling back. “Friends?” Shane repeats, incredulous. “Are you fucking kidding me? I invited you into my nest!”

“I never asked you to do that.”

“You don't get to ask. It's my fucking choice, Rozanov, and I choose to have you there. Do you even—” Shane turns his face away, nose scrunching. “You touched me in my nest, and now you're asking to be just friends.”

Ilya winces. “I'm sorry, Hollander.” Then, trying not to sink too deep into the guilt curdling in his throat, he adds, a little defensively, “But that is why I didn’t fuck you in it. I didn't want to take so much from you tonight.”

And that was clearly the wrong thing to say. Suggesting that he had put into thought why their latest and final sexual encounter was so simple and ended far too quickly. Shane's neck turns slowly, and Ilya's reminded of all the horror movies he's watched. Nothing has ever filled him with more terror than the dawning realisation of his own selfishness on Shane's beautiful face.

“You… planned this?” His voice is so muted, so small. Wounded. A precious, wounded thing. A wolf pup with a broken leg, caught in a snare of Ilya's own making. “Tonight. You riled me up at the game. You came to my apartment. You— You had sex with me in our— in my nest—”

In our—

“Hollander,” Ilya starts, but Shane is curling in on himself. Arms snaking around his middle, back bowing, staring at Ilya like he's done the unthinkable.

“You let me take you to my nest knowing you were going to break us up after?” 

Ilya flinches like he's been slapped. “I wasn't thinking.”

Shane continues as if he didn't hear him, staring at two hundred miles now. “And now you want to be friends?”

“I need you in my life, Shane.” It’s such a stupid excuse, a fucking cop-out, but it tramples on the cliff of honesty.

“As what? A toy you use and discard when it gets too much for you?”

Skin bristling, he bares his teeth. “That is not fair. I never saw you as a toy.”

Shane flashes his teeth back, a sight that, despite everything, makes Ilya's alpha purr. Yes, strong omega. Challenge me. “No, you just thought it would be fucking cute to make me cum in my nest. let me fucking scent you and then act like you're doing both of us a favour by running away afterwards.”

He should correct him, fight back, tell Shane that he's wrong, he's so fucking wrong. But the sharp edge in his tone has every hair on Ilya's body rising, blood rushing in his ears like he's been checked too hard.

“Where do you see this going, hm? Fucking tell me.” Ilya wipes his sweaty hands on his jeans, the scratch of denim grounding as he gestures at Shane with them. “Because I see nothing, Hollander. Only pain. If we take this further, then we are just holding onto something that we cannot keep.”

Shane falls silent. So silent that it gives him space to absorb Ilya's words, and witnessing him do so is one of the worst things he's ever experienced. Ilya watches him deflate, like someone's cut his strings loose, smells his pheromones sour in the air. Distress tones. He's smelled them exactly three times before, and he doesn't want to relive any of those experiences. But he's forced to stay in this reality, in this hell, where he's disappointed Shane Hollander for the fourth time.

“Shane,” he says, gentler, “I know you understand why this is too risky. For both of us. Our careers, and my home country, it is too much.” He drops back down onto the couch, staring down at his hands. The distance between them now is more than just a cushion. It’s a chasm. A peninsula. Oceans apart. “Fucking was dangerous already, and it is hurting enough the way it is now.”

A long pause. His shoulders lax. There's no relief in his chest, no relaxation at the base of his spine where all the tension holds his body upright. This doesn't feel good, or vindicating, or even freeing. Staring down at his father's dead body was freeing, in a complicated, teeth-pulling sort of way. Telling Andrei to go fuck himself was vindicating. Telling Shane he loves him over the phone, in Russian, in Russia, felt so good that his ribs turned to clouds for hours after.

This just feels like knowing there's a bottle of pills to take away the pain but forcing yourself to stay cuffed to what will ultimately kill you, anyway.

“We could try…” Shane reaches out. Not fully, but his hand stretches over to the cushion between them, palm up, a supplication. His eyes have gone glassy proper, heavy with tears, and does he know, does he know, how beautiful he looks when he pretends he's not about to cry?  

Ilya opens his mouth, but doesn't have the gumption to reply.

“Don't you think it's worth it?” Shane’s voice cracks, taking strength he's losing to speak. “I'm not asking for… for forever. I know that it's too far-fetched to think about now, but—” He meets his gaze, and fuck, he's begging. “But wouldn't it be so worth it to just try, Ilya?”

Worth it. Worth what? What would Ilya give to be with Shane, truly, wholly, as soulmates in a way that would terrify Plato? To wake up beside him in his cottage, in the safest place for an omega, and know that they are each other's. To kiss him in public, in private, in front of everyone blessed with enough sight to witness the languid pleasure of Shane's expression when he is kissed like he needs. To rub their scents together without blockers, to share meals, to openly claim one another without fear. 

The answer terrifies him. He would give up Russia, give up hockey, give up living for Shane. And if it weren't for the fact that Shane might have to give up the same, that Shane, too, might lose everything he loves for Ilya, then it would be worth it. So fucking worth it.

Ilya can't speak. But eventually, with Shane watching him, he shakes his head. Slowly, unable to stop it, but the movement is small enough that it would have been missed if Shane wasn't looking.

The tears finally escape Shane's iron control and sway over his lash-line. They stain his freckles. Ilya's jaw clenches so fucking hard that the bones squeak. It takes every ounce of willpower in himself to stop from lurching across the space and gathering Shane in his arms, to whisper…

“I'm sorry,” it leaves him, but it's not the apology he should really give, the apology he wants to give. And Shane knows that, because he only turns his face away, huddling further into the corner of the couch, hand finally retracted.

“You can leave now.” 

Ilya can't help but be a little fucking stubborn, maybe hoping that lingering will make Shane yell. Maybe he’ll scratch and claw and spit, and Ilya can leave with the door slamming instead of pursued by weightless silence, his desire for an amicable breakup tossed from the window. “I’m so sorry, Hollander. Please, you know—”

“Rozanov.”

His mouth snaps shut. Nothing he says will go through, he knows. Shane has achieved his thousand metric stare, tears streaming numbly down his face, the sour tinge of his scent stringent in its poison. Ilya sits frozen for God knows how long, golden crucifix burning against his chest in revolt, his alpha screaming, before he forces his limbs to unlock and moves his ass off the couch.

“Ok,” he mutters, and it comes out the way it always does. Ok-ie. In his stupid fucking Russian accent. A reminder that no matter how perfect he is for Shane, he is still Russian, and can never give himself fully without the fear clamping on his nape.

He crosses the room, turning only to stare at the top of Shane's head leaning against the arm. His shiny black hair is still damp from the shower. He should smell like his mint shampoo and his lovely maple-and-cypress traits, like the menace on the ice Ilya loves him to be. Not… this.

Ilya slips back into his flannel shirt, which he had discarded on the floor. His tank top is upstairs, but he doesn't dare suggest entering that bedroom again, where the rejected nest still carrying traces of his and Shane's seed resides.

“I will text you,” Ilya promises, facing the door. Hates himself so much that he grips the handle until the metal indents his palm. “I will… I will not really leave you, Hollander.”

No response. Ilya doesn't know if he will ever hear Shane’s voice again.

He closes the door behind him with a faint click. Keeps himself together, somehow, all the way down the stairwell until he reaches the last few steps. Ghosts of him and Shane sit there, a lifetime ago, scents soft and sweet and a kiss too light shared. Shane's sated expression, his gooey brown eyes. Ilya can still see them so vividly.

There are another fifteen minutes until his cab arrives. Ilya stumbles down, collapsing against the same step Shane had been on, the railing cold on his back. Did he feel this empty, too, when Ilya left? Or did he close his eyes, smile and snuggle into himself because, back then, Ilya had treated him right?

There's nothing more to do or think. Ilya bangs his head against the railing and finally allows the first hacking sob to escape the confines of his chest.

Chapter End Notes

DONT PELT ME I OFFER FICS! Any feedback is appreciated, of course, though if you want to spit in my face just let me know in advance so I can put my lipstick on.

As I promised, here is a fic I enjoyed that takes place in a similar timeline:

crawling back to you (ever thought of calling when you’ve had a few?) by sinesolesileo. Drunk phone calls, good friend Rose Landry, and one stupidly in love Ilya Rozanov. It doesn't get better than this, folks. Absolutely beautiful writing and a lovely direction to take the plotline into. Highly recommend, please go give them all the love.

And because I insist:

this is not enough (i am not enough) by blankjournals a.k.a my girl boywithhollanov. Inspired by the TLG scene where Ilya stupidly tells Shane he's free to sleep with other people because our favorite thing is to write Ilya being an absolute dunce. This fic is already (rightfully) popular and you've most likely read it, so my suggestion is to go read it again and feast upon delicious writing once more. Lick your chops and enjoy it. I know, I know, not the same prompt, but there will be others in future chapters.

Special thanks to, again, boywithhollanov , Ranya, and Inga for beta-reading, and also to Prince Royce for his song Recházame which inspired the title of this work and this chapter.

(Chapter title translation: It's just that I cannot accept your love)

Thank you for reading! See you for the next chapter xoxo

Chapter 2: aunque nos duela, hay que aceptar ese dolor

Chapter Summary

Boston has to travel to Montreal for the first game, so they have at least a day of rest. After that, Shane has at least four games of seeing Ilya on the ice, smelling him, being near him. Watching him pretend like they aren't anything more than rivals on skates and secretly very good friends on solid ground.

Shane is not going to let him pretend.

Chapter Notes

Back again! This chapter was both heartbreaking and incredibly fun to write. I hope you all enjoy!

As always, peep the fic recs at the end of the chapter! <3

Also, thank you to user pinegreenapples for correcting the French in this chapter in a sweet comment 😭 I really appreciated that!

(Chapter title translation: Even though it hurts, we must accept the pain)

For once, Shane Hollander, number 24 and captain of the Montreal Metros – first ever omega captain – can't actually say that the main reason he's playing like a nightmare on the ice is because he wants to win his team a Cup. That desire is there, as it always is. Two is not enough. He has to forge a legacy, but the importance of that legacy, usually high on his list of priorities, is currently buried under swathes of murderous hostility.

Playoff season practically smacks him in the face and then blows a party whistle while he’s disoriented just for good measure. The first round comes faster than he can prepare for, but the fire burning in his lungs with every inhale more than compensates for his initial fumble.

It starts with the Tampa Bay Stallions, dragged onto Montreal ice for the first game of the playoffs because Shane isn't the captain for show. Already, the name Tampa has him slipping into his uniform with more force than necessary, dropping the stick tape more than once from fingers that refuse to stay steady. 

Of course the first game is against Tampa, because fuck Shane’s stupid shitty life. And guess who the captain of the Tampa Bay Stallions is?

Shane crouches down for the face-off, and Nikolai Solonevich smirks at him while they wait for the puck to drop.

“Feeling pretty tonight, Hollander?” A drag of an accent that hilts too long on the edge of his last name to ever compare to how Ilya says it. 

Time slows. Not romantically, no, not like when he looks up and meets crystal eyes that soften over a crooked grin. The blue eyes he's looking into now are a poor imitation, but it's enough to have his blood belting in his ears. Pretty is such a normal chirp thrown at him that it doesn't even warrant a blink, but another stupid, annoying fucking Russian also likes — liked — to call him pretty, so now the word just sucks.

Shane bares his teeth. “You use that wildcard to pay off your alimony yet, Solonevich?”

He wins the face-off because Solonevich is too busy filling up the rink with his dull, pissed off alpha pheromones. 

The game is a massacre, and it's all because Shane is out for blood. With his reputation, every team that plays against the Metros knows that they need to bring their A game, even when it isn’t playoff season, but it needs more than that to keep up with the way his skates cut deep wounds in the ice tonight. He checks more than usual, snipes back at chirps with a snarl or an insult of his own, and has the team so thrown off that the horn blasts with an embarrassing 4 - 0 for Montreal.

There's no heady victory in his veins, and the roar of the fans with his name printed across their backs does nothing to ease the aggravation boiling inside of him, curdling his bone marrow. Voices are turned up in the Metros locker room, many of his teammates clapping his back for his performance. His first instinct is to shuck them all off, even growl, but he instead grants a smile that, even to him, feels wonky on his face.

JJ is watching him carefully as he strips out of his gear and passive-aggressively aligns it all neat in his locker. He resists the urge to tell him to mind his fucking eyes, because that's just rude, and he was raised better. 

And Rozanov would laugh at it. Shane is determined to do the exact opposite of what would amuse Ilya fucking Rozanov.

"Everything okay, Capitaine?” JJ leans up against the locker near him, gear off, sweat glistening on his chest. His dominant saffron scent is stronger after a game, because even betas aren't immune to adrenaline-induced pheromone bleeding. 

The patches on Shane's scent glands itch. Nobody else has to wear them, just him. The omega. The ‘weak link’. The provocative liability.

“I'm fine.” He needs to hit the showers and then head out for his post-game interviews. Already, he can anticipate the questions he'll get asked;

Mr. Hollander, any reason for your aggressive play tonight?

Mr. Hollander, do you think you may have gone a little too hard on Tampa when the playoffs have only just begun?

Mr. Hollander, will you be able to keep up this momentum all the way to the final?

Translation: Mr. Hollander, are you in pre-heat? Mr. Hollander, are you going to bend over and present your ass to the nearest alpha because you’re an omega and omegas should not be in such a contact-heavy sport? Any comments on that, Mr. Hollander?

He reaches for his phone, pauses, then shoves it into his backpack with a hard huff.

“You're looking a little frazzled, bud. Have you slept at all?” Hayden chimes in. Shane bristles, but tries to keep his tone calm and neutral. Layered under every concerned question is a healthy dollop of silent assumption because his secondary gender is delicate. Sensitive. 

You're looking tense, Hollander. Have you taken your suppressants?

“I slept fine. I'm fine.” 

“So you say.” JJ shrugs, singsong, and Shane's a little grateful for his blasé attitude. He doesn't need any mothering right now, so he avoids Hayden's clear desire to further needle him by scurrying to the showers and turning the water on to the hottest temperature legally possible.

For the remainder of the night, he reaches for his phone several times, but always puts it away before he can turn on the screen. 

The next day brings rest, except it's not a rest day for Shane. It's a good thing he’s the only occupant of this apartment complex, because he's wearing out the floorboards pacing back and forth and would have definitely gotten some complaints about it from a downstairs neighbour. His inner omega is prowling inside him, forcing his legs to move, dragging himself through the apartment in search of something he cannot find. 

In the downstairs bathroom. On the couch. The kitchen counter. The balcony windows.

That night one week ago, the night Shane's entire world crumpled at his feet with none of the fanfare it should have gotten, he'd gone into what can only be described as the worst cleaning episode ever known to mankind. 

Most of it, he can't remember, but after a few hours of laying numbly on the couch, eyes burning so hard he worried they were infected, he got up. Went to his meticulously organised cleaning cupboard — labelled according to room and usage — and took out every single cleaning agent and tool he owned. He took muted pleasure in the simple art of scrubbing every surface until it gleamed because doing anything else meant his heart would give out.

He'd scrubbed the grout between the tiles of his bathrooms, kitchen and laundry room. Replaced the shower filters and his toothbrush. Deep-cleaned the oven and dishwasher. Polished the cutlery, then re-arranged all the cupboards after swiping them clean because one plate was askew, and it had his temples throbbing just looking at it. Fluffed all the living room pillows after wiping down the couches. Vacuumed the stairs. Aired out his shoes, then sprayed them with deodorizer. 

Left the bedroom for last. 

Walking in broke the peaceful haze he'd fallen under. The door was closed, keeping all of it inside. It; his and Ilya's scents combined. The sweet drench of his maple and cypress notes coyly twirling around familiar autumn leaves and, worst of all, lilies. That dormant tone that Shane has only ever smelled once – and once alone – when Ilya's name dropped from his lips the first time.

His knees had buckled, the same knees that held him steady over face-offs, that carried his bruised and battered body around after a game reduced to foam. The floor became his safe haven while his ribcage caved in on itself, the cool wood boards assuaging little of the devastated scorch of his cheeks as the first real, heaving, ugly sob wracked his frame, swiftly followed by others in soldier tandem. One-two-cough-inhale-weep-one, two– 

It took an hour for them to slow to silent hiccups, and another hour more for him to be able to brace on his arms and sit up.

His nest was still there, untouched. Some clothes had crusted-over spunk, others reeked of sweat and bodily fluids. All of it was a reminder that Ilya had taken a look at this carefully constructed offering and hadn't wanted it. 

Shane remembered the fluttering in his stomach while he'd built it, the certainty in his bones that no matter who Ilya was to him, he belonged here. Staring at that nest several hours later, he only wished that he hadn't let Ilya out of it at all. Maybe his pheromones would have stopped him from leaving. From giving up.

He'd collected all the folded clothes and layered them by material into a laundry basket. There was no haze, this time, forcing him to commit every detail to memory in razor-sharp clarity. His old Metros hoodie was covered in dried patches of his slick, his favourite pair of soft joggers used to wipe cum from his and Ilya's bellies. Sweat lingering on a pair of shorts, a t-shirt, and a sock. He organised everything in piles, stripped the sheets, ignoring the thrumming ache of exhaustion in his bones while he ripped away every particle of scent that belonged to him or Ilya from his bedroom.

Ilya's grey cotton tank top was there, too, crumpled on the floor. An actual article of his clothing that Shane wasn't sure was left there on purpose or because Ilya was in a rush to leave. Maybe both. It didn't matter, because Shane had sat on his bare mattress and cried into the cold fabric still thick with Ilya's scent for another twenty minutes.

Then he washed that, too. Alongside all of the nested clothes, the sheets, pillows and pillowcases. Short of washing the fucking bedframe, he had successfully wiped any and all olfactory memory from his room.

The entire apartment had taken him a day and a night before it was squeaky clean, and it was his couch he'd collapsed onto to sleep, not his bed. And, as if everything weren’t already horrible enough, he hasn't been able to nest since then, even though his omega desperately needs the comfort of a safe space. 

Now, one week after that whole debacle, he’s struck with a harsh wave of regret and self-loathing. Why had he cleaned so thoroughly? Why had he allowed himself to erase even the hints of Ilya that he now needs so badly that it's becoming hard to breathe? There's no trace of him, of his alpha, anywhere in this apartment that Shane had bought specifically so they could fuck alone, so they could be as loud as they needed.

Why had Ilya left? Why did he do this to them, to Shane? Was he feeling this fucking awful, restlessly searching his Boston home for a lick of Shane's pheromones? Or has he moved on already, cleaned everything out and taken someone else to his bed?

With a huff, Shane swivels on his heels and marches to the laundry room, the way he has done for a week now. Ilya's grey tank top is still folded atop the washing machine, static, awaiting use.

He lifts it, the soft material dragging across his fingertips, and presses the collar to his nose. Nothing. Just deep-clean detergent he'd used that digs into every thread and pillages it of any recognizable scent trait. With a wounded hitch of breath, he nuzzles down to stick his nose into the crease where the tank would have been pressed up against Ilya's armpits on the drive to Shane's apartment from the locker room, collecting his sweat.

Nothing. If anything, Shane's constant attempts to smell him have just doused the stupid thing in his own desperate, sour tinge. It's fucking torture. He re-folds the tank and beelines for his phone on the kitchen counter. The longer he keeps that piece of Ilya's clothing, the worse his omega paces, because there's a really easy way to get what his omega wants if he would just bite the goddamn bullet.

He just doesn't know if Ilya will grant it. And he doesn't know if he wants to find out. There's no courage in him now. He’d already scented Ilya once and got rejected, so the chances of Ilya agreeing to rub his stupid tank top on his chest and hand it back so Shane doesn’t defenstrate himself are essentially at nil. Wave his white flag of surrender, but Shane isn’t selfish enough to beg.

Ilya is, though, which is the most infuriating thing about all of this.

Shane’s messages app is pinging with a few notifications from his mom, some from his coach about upping his suppressant dosage, but keep that good play, and a check-in from Hayden, who's trying and failing to be casual.

He ignores all of them and scrolls to the name that, despite everything, has left plentiful notifications since that night over the course of the week.

Lily

you are mad, yes? 

mad is okay. better than sad. I do not want you to be sad hollander.

Only a day after he’d left. Shane hadn’t replied, but he made sure to read it so Ilya knew he was being ignored.

After another day:

Lily

i'm sorry. yell at me here. 

or call me and tell me i'm an asshole 

anything you like.

And then, when Shane refused to acknowledge him once more:

please.

Shane almost called him to do what he asked. Yell. Rip into him for being such a giant asshole that Shane can't even sleep in his own bed because it hurts so much, but then he would have to hear Ilya's voice, hear his accent in sultry, apologetic cadence, and he threw his phone before he could succumb to the urge.

But the messages didn’t stop. Every day of the past week brought a new set of Ilya’s words that Shane always read but never responded to.

Lily

why is your country's vodka so shit? you are the only good thing about this boring place

sorry. that is not something i should say to you right now

nevermind i am not sorry. come tell me to fuck off and then i will be sorry

And then another;

Lily 

congratulations

about the playoffs

we will still take the cup of course but congratulations anyway )

And another;

Lily

for fuck’s sake hollander

come on

please say something

Shane nearly gave in again, but the righteous anger snarling in his body refused to abate and instead forced his omega to heel. He's not the same kid he was years ago in Vegas where Ilya had ignored him for six months yet Shane still yielded to him. And he can't even say that it's his omega's fault for the easy submission because it hadn't been. It was him. With his omega growling all loud and irate at being bossed around in his ears, Shane was the one who begged for a crumb of Ilya's attention.

Things have changed. Now, Shane's omega can't sit still without searching the air for Ilya, and Shane is wrestling it down into ignoring its own desperation to bare its softest parts to ungrateful alphas. He isn't that kid anymore, even if he is still Ilya's, even if Ilya is still everything. He’s not going to beg again.

There are more texts today, which eases a small tension living in Shane's chest every morning. He never knows when Ilya will give up. Against his better judgement, he hopes he won't, either, because Shane is still mad at him and doesn't need the hopelessness of a quiet ‘Lily’ on top of that.

Lily

you played very good last night

like hellcat, so vicious

you play this good but you cannot answer texts? selective sickness maybe?

Shane narrows his eyes at his phone screen. There is no way Ilya’s getting indignant right now.

“Fucking alphas,” he mutters. His thumbs hover over his screen, twirling in the air, because he's about to break a week of silence, and all he feels is a tornado of fury in his chest. He needs to be civil about this, otherwise he will snap, and that seems to be what Ilya needs to feel less guilty.

And Shane wants him to sit in that guilt. Wants him to regret it and come back.

Sitting on the nearest stool, he rests his elbows on the kitchen counter and inhales a few times before he finally types. 

Shane

You left your tank top here.

Within seconds, the text bubble appears. His inner omega purrs at the thought of Ilya waiting anxiously for a text from him. 

Lily 

fuck, hollander

He winces. He can hear it in Ilya's voice, his smooth baritone, his last name coated on that wicked tongue.

Lily 

keep it

Shane

What the fuck?

No.

Lily

yes 

gift from me 

Shane

I don't want shit from you, Rozanov.

Lily

too bad

Frustration burns under his skin. Just who does this man think he is? First, he lets Shane to take him to his nest, the one place no other soul has been in. Then he allows Shane to scent him, fucking scent him, and then jerks away like he's been burned when Shane offers himself up in return. Then he breaks them up, leaves, and harasses Shane over text for a goddamn week because he just can't leave him alone. Because he wants to be ‘friends’.

Bitter, Shane can’t help but remember Svetlana. Ilya’s old friend, who knows eeeeeverything about hockey, who sometimes fucks Ilya, who is convenient and always there if Ilya needs her. Is that what Ilya wants from Shane, now? Old friends that sometimes fuck but it’s never anything more than that for either of them? Or does Shane lose that, too? Lose the first person that ever made his body feel more than just a vessel for hockey and carrying his stupid brain around.

His omega whines because there is still a thread of hope in his heart that Ilya didn't mean what he said that night. Or, rather, what he didn't say. That when he shook his head, wordlessly telling Shane that it wasn't worth it for them to try, that Shane wasn't worth the risk, he hadn't meant it.

But that hope is dwindling as time passes, because yeah, he can understand the logic behind Ilya's choice that night, and he doubts it was an impulsive decision. Shane may accept that Ilya is his mate, but clearly, Ilya has more than enough reservations to reject their pairing outright, if he's even been honest with himself about the whole thing.

So, Shane knocks his omega down in his mind, trying to squash any resemblance of the boy he was in 2014. We’re not enough, he tells it, eyes squeezing shut. It isn’t enough.

Anger spills, oil-slick, into his chest, caking there over the already-present sap that's been plaguing him for a week. Everything pisses him off, but when another text from Ilya chimes in his hands, something else is beginning to sneak into his psyche. 

Lily 

does it still smell like me?

The way Shane's mouth splits open is not dissimilar to how he'd bared his teeth at Solonevich yesterday. Mean, aggressive, the promise of a beating under his skin.

Shane

 No. I washed it.

Lily 

you washed it??

Shane

 Obviously. 

I don't want to keep smelling an alpha who doesn't want me. I'm not that kind of masochist.

His fingers spasm at his honesty, the light of his phone screen glowing spectral holograms across his nails. The typing bubble appears, but only for a fraction of a second because of how fast Ilya types out his reply.

Lily 

i never said that

Shane

 Never said what?

Lily 

that i do not want you

He scoffs, humourless.

Shane

 Yeah, you want my body. You want me to be easy for you. 

Lily

yes, always

The phone creaks momentarily in his hand, but thankfully, Ilya sends another message before Shane has a chance to do actual damage.

Lily 

but not only those things

that is why i had to stop what we were doing

Heat bursts along Shane's lashes like a spider's crawled behind his lids and sank its fangs into the meat of his eyeball, but he doesn’t cry.

Shane

 Fuck you.

Without waiting for whatever Ilya might say next, he pushes away from the counter and leaves his phone there. He likes to think he does that so he can do something productive with his fucking time, but all he does, again, is pace the endless halls of his apartment in an endless search for what he'll never have again. He doesn't train or watch tapes of some of the Tampa Bay Stallions’ old games, and he certainly doesn't rest. Just walks around, sits down until his knees bounce a few minutes later, and then gets up to walk around again.

He forces himself not to watch the first Boston game against Detroit. He doesn't want to see Ilya's face, even if his inner omega is tearing him apart at the seams about it. Ilya still lets him know that he won, anyway, through a text Shane reads and doesn't answer, even though his chest still twinges with pride.

Tampa might have gotten to the playoffs by the skin of their teeth, but they still got there on their own merit, and it shows in the next game. It's not a humiliating loss — 2 - 3 —, but Shane carries it in his gums on the way to the locker room. They've adapted to Shane's new aggressive playstyle, and they give back tenfold, which doesn't really help in the old try not to get any fucking penalties, Hollander department.

Doesn't help that Mom's been texting alongside Dad, expressing some concern over just how irritated Shane seems to be nowadays. And by the time the team lands in Tampa for the third game, Shane's omega has decided that every single scent that isn't Ilya's is offensive and a declaration of war.

Worser still, the anger is fading, making way for a bone-deep yearning that won't relent no matter what he does with his body. His omega is constantly bowed low in his chest, pushing him to say things he would normally have kept clamped behind his teeth every time Ilya sends a message provocative enough. 

Like now, twenty minutes before they have to get on the ice.

Lily

you can wear my tank top as good luck charm for this game

since Tampa beat you last time

Shane’s eye twitches.

Shane 

I think I'll give it to Solonevich as a display of sportsmanship, actually.

Lily

ha ha 

not funny

very not funny

Shane

Wasn’t trying to be. 

Lily

ha ha

since when did solonevich become omega? bitched by his wife before she left him maybe?

Shane

He’s still an alpha. The tank doesn’t smell like you anymore, remember? 

It’s been in my apartment.

Smells a lot like me, actually. He’d probably think it was mine. 

A gift.

Lily 

you are not going to give random alpha my fucking clothes with your scent on it hollander

material is too nice for him and his weak slapshots

he is barely russian too

i will set fire to tampa and their stupid horse team

Shane 

You can always agree to take it back instead.

Lily 

no

if you keep it then you have to keep telling me to take it back

Shane

 If you want me to talk to you so much, maybe grow a pair and stop pretending we can just be friends.

The Metros locker room is too bright, the overhead lights stroking irritably across his forehead, and every single pheromone trait is drilling holes into his skeleton. He hates it. He hates all of it. He wants Ilya to come back.

He's halfway into his gear before Ilya replies.

Lily

maybe you would not mind it if you gave it a chance

i can be very good friend to you, ask marly

just let me

Montreal wins the third game, 3 - 1. Shane checks defenseman Felix Milne so hard he wavers on bruised ribs for the rest of the game, and Shane finds his scent so atrocious that he doesn't even feel sorry about it. 

Shane

You could be a good alpha instead.

Of course, he gets no reply to that one, and practically smacks his locker shut on his way to the post-game interview, ignoring the way his teammates startle. The sound makes his own ears ring, too.

Shane finally cries again after the fourth game in Tampa, not because they won and just need one more game to move on to round 2. He cries in the bathroom of the hotel he shares with Hayden, tears bleeding down his cheeks, because Hayden had turned on the Boston vs. Detroit game, and Ilya had looked like nothing was bothering him at all.

“Holy shit, dude, you're going to give yourself a rash,” Hayden whistles, mouthguard hanging from his mouth while he stares, wide-eyed, at Shane at his locker.

Shane pauses mid-motion, fingers slick with a huge glob of suppressant cream. “Sorry?”

“You've been hacking that shit on for like, what, three days, now? Can't even smell you, anymore.”

His scent glands do feel unbearably tender now, and have for a while. Not sensitive, per se, but rather like he'd dragged a hot iron across them and kept pressing on the blisters left behind even after they burst. This much cream, plus the strips he has on that are much larger than they need to be, are leaving his glands inflamed every time he cleans up in the shower. His aggressive use of scent-neutralising body wash probably isn't helping, either, and definitely isn’t medically advisable, but the last time he caught a whiff of his own pheromones, he'd almost dug his nails into his neck to claw out the source.

Even his personal scent disgusts him. He's hyperaware of every time his body moves against itself, a marionette doll hung by strings and chafing scratchy cotton on rickety limbs. The way his toes are always touching has his feet flexing every few minutes to try to escape the sensation. His own hand brushing his sides when he dresses makes him flinch violently. Shampooing his hair is just trying not to bite his own fingers clean off, and even his tongue is aggravating when it touches his teeth.

Others have been giving him a wide berth for it. If his own touch and smell annoy him, then the rest of the world has him borderline homicidal. The only person whose touch he needs, whose scent he craves, is in fucking Boston, relaxing because they won in their first four games and are waiting to see if they have to face Tampa or Montreal. 

Given its playoffs season, it’s very unlikely that any sex is happening, but that doesn’t stop Shane from thinking about Ilya potentially fucking other people while he's on the ice, holding back the urge to impale his stick in the ref's thigh for every shit call.

Instead of thigh-sticking, he slathers on the cream, wincing when his fingers brush his throat and chest. A hazard of living in your own body is that you apparently can never stop touching yourself, no matter how hard you try.

“Come on, buddy, that’s enough–” Hayden reaches out to take the tub in Shane's hand, and Shane snarls.

“Don't touch me.”

The thick chatter suffusing the locker room clips to silence. Immediate. The guillotine schnicks! it's way down onto Shane's nape, sharpened to a needless point by all the eyes now frozen in his direction.

Hayden's expression tightens, mostly with concern, but now there's a fresh wave of hurt there, too. Shane's gut constricts with guilt, white-hot shame washing over him. Fuck, what is wrong with him? Why is he acting like this? It's been more than two weeks since Ilya rejected him, and he's now starting to take out his shit on his own best friend.

Slamming down on his inner omega that feels absolutely no remorse, his shoulders slump. “Fuck, I'm sorry, Hayd,” he says, gentler, and hands Hayden the tub of cream without any more protest. He doesn't let their fingers brush, but he tries, at least, to give him a sincere look of contrition. 

Hayden, because he's a really good friend and Shane doesn't deserve him, smiles and slowly shakes his head. “We're all high-strung, man. I snapped at Jackie last week because she put salt in my water again.”

Shane ducks his head, grateful for the excuse offered. Evermore grateful that the locker room tentatively returns to its bustle, though not nearly as loud.

“You need the electrolytes. You sweat like a horse.”

“I do not! And salt in water tastes fucking horrendous!”

That, Shane, agrees with.

Lily 

good luck tonight

win so I can beat you in round 2

His teeth ache. 

Shane

You'll try.

But I don't think you can beat me if you don't even have the balls to scent me.

Nobody is safe from the animal Shane Hollander is becoming. Not even his idiot of an alpha mate. At lunch with his parents, Shane tries so hard to keep himself under control that his water glass trembles when he brings it to his lips. The salmon is overcooked, and this restaurant still doesn't have any ginger ale.

Ilya would. Ilya keeps ginger ale stocked for him. Kept.

So, yes. Shane's aggressive, constantly on the verge of biting his own flesh off or biting some passerby alpha for smelling too strong, scent glands inflamed and checking his phone every few minutes in the hopes of a notification from Ilya. He never misses one, but he still checks, anyway. Every post-game interview asks questions edging on annoyingly personal, like they're waiting for him to go into fucking pre-heat on the ice and present his hole to the nearest alpha. Coach Theriult keeps threatening to bench him if he doesn't calm his fucking balls, but it's kind of hard to bench the guy carrying your team through the first round of the playoffs.

And carry he does. Game 6 rolls around with a victory for the Metros, and Shane's so elated that he doesn't jerk away when Hayden unthinkingly tackles him for a hug. In fact, the locker room is tolerable again for the first time in what seems an eternity, so really, anything is possible. He undresses, experimentally poking his own side, and it doesn't invoke the strong disgust he's been battling.

Good, so he's over the worst of what Ilya put him through, then. Mostly, anyway, because exhaustion is hooking into his bones deep enough to scar, and there's a headache brewing behind his eyes. Still. If he's over the worst of it, then he can actually get his head in the game. Both games.

Boston has to travel to Montreal for the first game, so they have at least a day of rest. After that, Shane has at least four games of seeing Ilya on the ice, smelling him, being near him. Watching him pretend like they aren't anything more than rivals on skates and secretly very good friends on solid ground.

Shane is not going to let him pretend. 

Shane

 Last chance. Take your tank top back.

Lily 

no, it's a fucking gift

keep it

Shane

Fine.

And just in case Ilya dares to start feeling relieved:

Shane 

I'll show you what I do with gifts from alphas like you.

Lily 

what the hell is that supposed to mean?

hollander

fuck

Ilya may or may not be dying.

And that's only a slight exaggeration on his end, because beginning every morning is torturous. Short of just smoking himself to an early grave, Ilya begins each new day with a hangover so bad his tongue almost falls out of his mouth one morning. Not the typical hangover, either, where he can at least say he danced, had fun, got drunk, and talked to many Finnish dudes about how hot their cousins are.

Worse? He isn't even drinking. He doesn't, during the playoffs. Doesn't drink, doesn't fuck — not that he could, anyway — and doesn't do anything that could distract him from how his insides are rotting away.

He bangs his head against the bathroom mirror, staring down at his body like he doesn't recognise it. His alpha has been dormant for weeks. He can trace it back to that night, exactly a month ago, where he'd rejected Shane and left his Montreal apartment for shittier pastures. After he'd gotten back to his hotel, his inner alpha terrorised him for an entire sleepless night before it went cold. Complete silence. Ilya had been happy for a few hours until he'd taken a shower and realised he couldn't smell his pheromones as strongly anymore. 

He's in withdrawal. Smokes an entire pack a day to feel something, picks fights with opposing teams in the hopes of getting decked and inciting his alpha, but it's only when opening up his text log with Shane that the motherfucker stirs with a plaintive whine.

It's torture, though. Not knowing if what he says will be enough to piss Shane off enough to reply, or if he'll contend with another hour of silence. Yes, he deserves it, he really does, and he should leave Shane alone at least for some time so the wound isn't so fresh, but god. He can't unlatch from him, no matter how hard he tries.

And fuck, he's never been more grateful to a piece of clothing than he has to his tank top for making polite Canadian Shane Hollander text him back. Of course Shane would try to return it, but Ilya refuses to take back what seems to be the one thing that is keeping Shane from ignoring him again. A fucking tank top. 

Except, now, he's a little worried it's coming back to bite him in the ass. Shane refuses to elaborate on what he meant by I’ll show you what I do with gifts from alphas like you, which isn't at all good for Ilya's mental well-being. 

Is Shane burning it? No, unlikely, because he never wastes good material. Maybe he'll repurpose it into a rag for when he cleans his floors. Or he'll turn it into socks so he can indirectly step on Ilya every time he wears them. 

And what other fucking alphas are giving Shane gifts? Hayden Pike? Nikolai Solonevich? Scott Hunter?

Ilya shudders and splashes cold water on his face. He'd really rather not think about Scott fucking Hunter gifting his omega things. 

Fuck. There's that word again. His omega. Even now, Ilya can't stop thinking about Shane in these possessive terms, can't for the life of him flush Shane from his veins like he needs to, like he should. If he's not thinking about Shane's teary eyes and soured pheromones, he's thinking about Shane's smile, his petal-pink mouth, his giving jaw leaving his delicious scent all over Ilya's gland. If he's not clutching his stomach tight to ward off cramps in hotel sheets or his own bed, he's tugging uselessly at his cock with Shane's freckles and the sinful arch of his back burned behind Ilya's eyelids.

Not that he's been able to finish. His body knows who owns it, and it damn fucking isn't himself anymore. Rejecting Shane has completely shut down the functions of his organs and limbs outside of surviving and playing hockey. 

It's awful. Waking up with bile in his throat and a vibrating heat in his groin after another dream about Shane, and being unable to reach for relief.

But that would all be fine. Tolerable. Ilya has buried both his parents and punched his brother in the face; he can get over rejecting his mate.

If not for Shane. Goddamn. Fucking. Hollander.

All day, Ilya's been on the verge of hyperventilating, pacing his hotel room while he waits for a reasonable hour to roll around to justify getting to the rink. Tonight, he'll see Shane in person for the first time in a month, in the flesh, up close, in a way no TV can ever get. He'll smell him, hopefully, even if Shane's pheromones are usually buried under suppressant strips.

He can't help but wonder how Shane's going to play tonight. He's been an absolute menace from the very beginning, leaving games, more often than not, with bloodied teeth and a frantic heat in his eyes.

He's angry. Angry enough to have articles bullshitting about omega temperaments as if Shane isn't the best player in the league. 

He's so angry. And Ilya knows it's because of him, but does Shane have to look so fucking hot while he's pissed? It's like he's begging for Ilya to text him incessantly.

Shane's post-game interviews get progressively worse, too, if worse could encompass his obvious aggravation, even with his polite boy mask firmly super-glued to his face. He could be nodding along to some ESPN reporter, giving out the perfect answers, but every time his eyes sweep over the camera, he looks livid, like he's trying to find Ilya behind the lens and glare at him.

God, come to papa. It's so annoying. Ilya always needs to put something in his mouth so he physically can't call and beg Shane to let him eat his ass until he cries, breakup be fucking damned. 

Finally, the hotel clock strikes home, and he's out the door so fast that he forgets to close it and has to double back.

As he's leaving to meet his team in the hotel lobby, his phone chimes with an incoming message from Shane. Ilya's heart rabbits to his throat, and, despite the circumstances, he half-expects a where are we meeting? text like everything is normal.

No such luck, but maybe that would have been better for his sanity.

Jane

[photo attachment]

You're right. The material is great.

Shane's already in the Metros locker room, based on the picture, apparently alone. Or maybe he took this while everyone was still on the way.

The camera is tilted down from an upward angle, teasing just enough of the lower half of his face to be tantalising, slanting towards his collarbones. His curled mouth is set, but parted, red from worrying the flesh with his teeth. His fingers are tucked into the collar of his compression shirt, dragging it out and revealing the cotton grey of Ilya's tank top pressed right up against Shane's chest. 

Ilya's foot catches on his opposite ankle, and it's only by the grace of God that he doesn't mash his face against the carpeted hallway.

Shane is playing their game with Ilya's tank top on. He's going to sweat into the material until the light grey morphs into whatever color heavy clouds get before rain, and it'll smell so fucking good when he does. It'll be rife with his pheromones, heavy with his body's warmth.

Ilya wants that fucking tank top back as soon as the game is over. Shane should throw it at his visor when he gets mad over Ilya winning, and Ilya will wring out all the sweat straight into his throat. He'll shower in it.

Ilya

fuck 

hollander 

give that thing back after i eat your ass tonight

beat

beat your ass

Jane

You'd like that, wouldn't you.

Too bad. Lost your chance. 

Ilya

so fucking mean to me (

this is bad start to friendship you should be nicer

Jane

Call us friends one more time.

See what happens.

And oh. Fuck. His head spins.

He rides the high of the picture down to the lobby, opening his phone every five minutes so he can stare at the picture with the brightness so low that he has the screen up to his nose. Shane's throat is exposed, smooth and probably warm, and fuck. Ilya's hard in the locker room, hard when they get on the ice for the pre-game warm ups where Shane doesn't even look his way but makes a show of flexing his shoulders like he's feeling the tank beneath. 

He's hard up until the face-off, where Shane's close enough for Ilya to catch a whiff of him, and then his dormant alpha comes roaring to the surface with a growl that slips between his teeth before he can stop it.

Instead of blissful, friable ice, he gets an entire inhale of moss and musk. Actual musk.

“Smell that?” Shane mutters, eyes tracking Ilya's expression with single-minded focus. His mouth quirks maddeningly when Ilya's nostrils flare. “Hayden scented the tank top. I've been feeling off, so it helps.”

Pike. Hayden fucking Pike has rubbed his scent glands onto the top Ilya wore to Shane's apartment a month ago to soothe Shane. To soothe Ilya's omega.

The puck drops, and Shane skates away with it while Ilya is trying to see past the red in his vision. Any camera pointed at his face will capture his narrowed eyes and heavy snarl.

The game is brutal after that, because Ilya isn't giving a goddamn inch, noxious air bleeding into his lungs that tastes more of the green poison in his heart than the fresh ice he skates on. 

The first period moves too fast, and then when the second period begins, Shane skates by and shoves him so hard against the boards that his already bared teeth rattle. Just for a moment, a rare breath, their faces are inches apart. With the helmets, there's no way to do anything, so Shane just decides to be a fucking asshole.

“Get a nice whiff in, Rozanov,” he rasps, almost breathless. His lashes are low, his brown eyes smug, feral, and Ilya inhales a deep lungful of fucking Hayden Pike.

Shane glides away, his chuckle low but mean, so mean, and Ilya's hot on his heels. He's going to steal that puck, he's going to score, and then he's going to drop gloves and shove his fist up Hayden Pike's ass until he can wiggle his fingers from his goddamn nostrils.

His alpha is finally alive again in his chest, overwhelming his senses, and so when time stops, Ilya is trying to inhale while his wild heart is hammering like a gong in his throat. 

And then it, too, stops moving altogether.

It shouldn't have hurt so much. Shane's made of tough shit, tougher than most alphas because he's always had to be. He's gotten whacked into the boards and earned countless concussions, probably more than most players can complain about. He knows what the pain feels like, knows the moment he's hit what part of his body he's going to be favouring for the next few hours or even days.

Marleau's bulk bashes into him with enough force for Shane to go flying for the boards. Impact – his gear takes the brunt, but something in his body is weakened enough that it pierces even through the protective layers, leaving behind a sickening crunch that echoes in his head. It hurts so much more than it should.

He doesn't mean it, the sound he makes, the sharp cry of pain exhaled when he goes down. His helmet smacks on the ice, and his vision goes black. 

The arena plunges into pin-drop silence.

Ilya's heart is on the ice, bleeding into the taped on lines separating his and Shane's legacies; it isn't getting up. 

Shane isn't getting up, either. Shane, one of the strongest players in the NHL, a man who can withstand checks and gruelling practice runs and Ilya's cruelty, isn't getting up from a hit that shouldn't have left him sprawled over like the strings to his veins have been cut.

Ilya's inner alpha is silent again. It, too, has no idea what to do, how to react, because it's never even occurred to it that its omega mate could ever be struck down so harshly. Not this omega.

“Marleau, you motherfucker!” Pike's angry voice, dropped low in an alpha's temper, is what snaps Ilya out of his daze, propels him forward, where Shane is slumped like a rag doll on ice. Medics are shuffling forward, curled over Shane, obscuring him from Ilya's view. 

But not enough for Ilya to miss the spatter of blood on pure white, not enough for him to miss a gloved hand extended, limply, in his direction.

They peel off Shane's helmet, surgical in their care, and his head flops to the side. His dark hair is matted to his forehead, and his freckles are deeply pronounced against his skin, still flushed from exertion. His eyes are closed.

Мама (Mama)—

“Hollander,” Ilya calls, weak, so weak, just like he was years ago. Too small to be heard, with a voice too young to reach what had already left him behind. Shane isn't stirring, even when carefully pushed onto his back by the medics. More of them rush onto the ice, carrying a spinal board, and Ilya's panic flares tenfold.

Мама, проснись (Mama, wake up)—

“Hollander!” His inner alpha snaps through him, deepening his voice.

The medic closest to Shane looks up sharply, a rebuke clear on her expression, but it works. It works, the way the alpha inflection — forbidden to use in games — brings Shane to the surface like a flower reaching for sunlight. Lashes flutter, brown eyes squinting open. Ilya makes a strange, pained noise, part relief, part agony.

Not dead not dead he's not dead my Shane is not dead —

Мама, почему ты тоже не проснулась? (Mama, why didn't you wake up, too?)

The ref presses a hand to Ilya's chest when he dares to skate too close and starts disrupting the medics’ work. He snarls at the fucker for it, but he's unable to rip his eyes off of Shane while they load him onto the board. They hold him carefully, yes, but clinically. Precisely. Not with the kind of tenderness he deserves. Not with the reverence his body should be handled with.

“Is he okay? Fucking tell me,” Ilya says, yells, screams, or maybe he's still whispering. He can't even hear himself, and apparently, neither can the goddamn medics because nobody is answering him.

“Get back to your bench, Rozanov,” the ref orders firmly. 

Shane is finally lifted off the ground.

Lifted. Not raised, not cradled, not held, but lifted up like he isn't the only thing Ilya needs to remember his heart beats every day. Shane is in pain, fighting to stay awake, probably searching for the voice that had brought him to consciousness in the first place, but Ilya can't run to him. Ilya is left to sink back to the edge of the rink, away, too far away, while his mate is taken alone through the tunnels, surrounded by medics who don't know how to speak to him with the right softness.

Ilya's mate. The one he rejected. Would it have been worse, he ponders, if he had scented Shane back that night? If they had accepted each other? Would this terrible hopelessness in his ribs, the wailing of his inner alpha, be all the more painful?

It would have been. It would have hurt so much more. And Ilya wouldn't have been able to control himself, his reactions, in front of his teammates, their fans, in front of the cameras and the ghosts of his parents and God. He would have crumpled beside Shane on the ice and pleaded with him to wake. He would have abandoned the game to stay by his side.

He stares down at his skates, avoiding anyone's eyes, and feels the burn of his lashes reach down to clog his throat too. He obviously made the right decision in walking away, but now his mate is abandoned on a spinal board, and Ilya is the worst alpha for leaving him there.

“Ilya…”

“Shane? Shane, can you hear me? I need you to stay awake, okay?”

Lights dance across his vision. His ears ring with a low, desperate Hollander! His omega might be purring in a curled ball in his chest, because there's a smile on his face. Fuck, everything hurts, but that lovely voice…

“Wh’re's… Ilya…”

“Who? Shane, keep your eyes open. We're taking you to the hospital.”

He winces. “Mmkay…”

“I am here to visit Shane Hollander.”

The receptionist doesn't even blink and gives him the floor and room number with a bland reminder that visiting hours end at 9PM. It's only 8 in the morning. Ilya doesn't tell her that he's never spent more than two hours in Shane's presence (disregarding the incident at his place in Boston), and any longer than that will probably kill him.

Twelve hours. 

Twelve hours of aching, sloping agony that petrified the spinal fluid holding him steadfast against pain. The game last night had been a poor imitation of hockey. Fans cheered with such limp enthusiasm that, on a better day, Ilya could have laughed at Montreal sounding dull for their team. But nobody played well after that. Boston's victory was hollow. 

Marleau hasn't stopped apologising, telling Ilya over and over that he never intended to hit Shane so hard. Ilya believes him, of course he does, but he hasn't been able to look him in the eye just yet. Not without the threat of socking him in the jaw for what he did to Shane. Ilya can hardly ever say he's in favor of Hayden Pike, but he can at least admit that he respects the alpha for taking on someone twice his size in defence of his best friend.

And he's thankful that someone punched Marleau when he couldn't. 

For twelve hours, Ilya has ceased to exist outside of every waking moment breathing for Shane. Worrying for Shane, need for Shane, thinking of nothing but Shane. He hasn't eaten or slept since the fall. Exhaustion tugs behind his eyes and pulls them forward, his blinks slow and hard, but even when he tries to catch some form of rest, his body protests and he ends up scouring the internet for any news on Shane's condition. Of course, given how good Yuna Hollander is as a manager, the details are kept under wraps.

But then there was a statement on Shane's official Twitter about being in recovery and thanking the staff at the hospital he's in, and Ilya booked it from the hotel like his ass was on fire. Still vague as hell, but a sign of something.

So, Ilya's riding the elevator of the hospital Shane with absolutely no idea what he's walking into. The fall was bad enough to warrant a neck brace and a spinal board, so all of Ilya's worser nightmares have taken rein. Is Shane permanently paralysed? Out of hockey for months, years, until he white-knuckles his way through physiotherapy, only to be too old to play again, if he even gets clearance to?

How bad is the concussion? Will he remember who he is, what he is? Will he remember Ilya?

Maybe it's better if he doesn't. For both of their sakes. Shane would hate losing hockey more than he would hate losing Ilya. Of that, Ilya is sure of.

The wing Shane is kept in is blissfully quiet, with only nurses monitoring in the halls, flitting in and out of patient rooms. The door Ilya wants is at the end, so out of the way it's probably deliberate, because only people who love Shane desperately are willing to walk these haunted white walls and squeaky linoleum floors that sound too much like a mother's grieving howls.

When Ilya reaches the door, he doesn't let himself peer in through the small window on his way in, maybe as yet another way of torturing himself. 

Dappled sunlight caresses floors shaded in speckled baby blue, softening eggshell white walls through a surprisingly large window. Ilya steps in, closes the door as quietly as he can manage in case Shane is asleep, but when he turns, Shane is inclined up in the bed and mostly awake. 

He's in a state, yet he's still so goddamn pretty. Bandages wrapped in a figure-8 around his arm and shoulder, held tight to his body, and heavy bruising along his freckles that, even from where Ilya stands, does nothing to mute their vibrancy.

He's battered and purple, and still, his face lights up as soon as Ilya steps into his line of sight.

“Ilya!” Shane warbles, expression quickening like the sun reaching for grass. God, his smile. It's so dopey and ecstatic, like he's been hoping against hope that Ilya would show.

Of course I would, любимый (beloved). That's what friends should do.

Yeah. Right.

Ilya barricades himself against the wall, hands hanging uselessly at his sides. There's nothing stopping him from marching forward and tasting that smile except every last shred of self-preservation in his body.

“Hi,” Ilya begins, tongue fat and heavy around the words. His stupid fucking accent sounds much thicker right now and it frustrates him. “I just wanted to—” See you. Smell you. Touch you. “Are you okay?”

Shane's lips curl shyly. “Yeah, yeah, I'm good.” Then, sweeping a glance over himself, he adds with a light chuckle, “Well, apart from a concussion and a fractured collarbone, inflamed scent glands and apparently some odd arrhythmia. Out for the playoffs, but…”

Ilya frowns. “Inflamed scent glands?” He hasn't heard of that happening before. Is it a pre-heat symptom? It would explain Shane's recent reign of terror on the ice if his scent traits are going haywire. Ilya himself becomes a goddamn nightmare if his pre-rut aligns with the playoffs.

He winces internally. Fuck, his own thoughts sound like those stupid news articles swearing up and down that omegas are too sensitive for hockey. Not everything needs to trace back to pre-heat. Shane deserves to be a hellblazer on the ice without everyone reducing it to his secondary gender's temperament.

Shane wiggles his head, unaware of the shame festering in Ilya's stomach. “Used too much scent suppressant, made the glands angry. Could've been worse, right?” He shrugs his good shoulder. “We all get our bell rung eventually.”

Too much scent suppressant? Ilya stares down at his feet, realising he can barely smell Shane despite him being the only occupant of the room. “Right.”

A beat of silence, the air pulsing between them, thick with unsaid words. Then, softly,

“Hey.”

He glances up. Shane's gaze is soft, even when he's squinting against the light. Soft, forgiving, fathomless pools beckoning like a lighthouse to an unmoored boat swaying in a blackened sea. The blue floors are fittingly colored for this kind of vision, for how bright Shane is, laying there like he isn't the most infuriating, stubborn thing to ever grace Ilya's heart. 

He holds out his hand on the bed, fingers crooking toward himself, a silent plea to close the distance. “Heyyy,” he tries, again, slightly louder. Ilya's throat clogs, and he shakes his head, shushing the omega with as much gentleness as he can muster. “Ilyaaa.” 

The Ilya in question closes his eyes and pushes himself back against the wall behind him, because there is no earthly reason why Shane should be saying his name in such a playful yet needy tone. It's too much. Coming here is too much, even if not seeing him at all would have been self-flagellation.

“Hollander, I'm here, yes?” He spreads his hands. Isn't this enough? It has to be enough.

Shane's easy smile falters.

“No, you're not.” His legs shift restlessly under the shit-thin hospital blanket. As if he can stand up and walk over. “C'mere.”

“Shane.”

“Yes. Yes. Come here, Ilya.”

Ilya doesn't move. Not because he doesn't want to. God knows he wants to. Mama, somewhere in heaven, knows he wants to. He hopes Grigori is rolling somewhere in a too-tight grave because he, too, knows that Ilya wants to. But he doesn't move. His inner alpha coils and spits and snarls; he smacks a hand over its maw and silences it with Russian warnings that would make Andrei pale.

He does all of this inside, wishing and cursing and fighting, only for the dearest creature on Earth to slump in the hospital bed with eyebrows scrunched up in defeat. His gooey gaze shatters along with what had been the most lovely smile Ilya had ever seen.

He looks so goddamn sad.

I can't, Ilya wants to say, to sink to his knees and press his forehead to the floor. Don't make me. I can't do it.

Trickling towards him, however, are tones not dissimilar to the ones he smelled in Montreal a month ago. Fifth time he's encountered these distressed traits that, despite Shane's glands being inflamed, still slip free to burn the hairs of Ilya's nostrils. 

But these are worse, so much worse, than any of the past four times Ilya has been subjected to them. Aided, no doubt, by the drugs they have pumping through Shane’ system make him this loopy. Chemical compounds bursting through skin, oxidising into rotten sweetness like he's shoved his head into someone's grave and took a hard bite at the dust of their decayed skeleton, maggots and all.

Shane turns his head away with a sob that's so poorly stifled Ilya almost slaps himself across the face for causing it. With how his face is scrunched up, his legs parting under the blankets, wrists turned up to face the cool air, Ilya wonders if the oils of those distressed pheromones are scalding Shane's already sensitive glands. It must hurt. It must hurt terribly.

Ilya gives in with a muttered curse. Crosses the room with strides too large for even his long legs, every bone in his body ready to find home in Shane's instead.

“Shane, enough,” he implores, though it's not said in exasperation. He tentatively presses his palms to Shane's unbandaged shoulder, the other on his chest. “Please, enough of this. You are hurting yourself.”

Shane blooms under his touch, turning towards him, lashes wet. “You're the one hurting me.”

God, he must be really high if he's being this devastatingly honest. Ilya finds it almost funny that the Shane doped up is the Shane least likely to beat around the bullshit Ilya is working at that particular moment. 

“I know,” Ilya whispers. He leans down, like the wretched monster he knows he is, and cups Shane's face in the deliberate, delicate way he was supposed to be handled twelve hours ago by people allowed to touch him in public. “I know, котик (kitten). I'm sorry.”

The familiar pet name dripping from his tongue like a compulsion draws a fresh wave of tears. Ilya shakes his head in protest, but Shane only screws his eyes shut and tries to hold in the worst of the noises. His scent is acrid, camping in the back of Ilya's throat, so wrong, so upset, by an omega crushed small behind a broad chest that has always been a stalwart.

“No, no, no, Shane, please.” This is the worst form of punishment he could have received. Was a hit from a bus too much to ask for? 

“Ilya,” Shane calls like he can't see him, feel him. Ilya whines and dips low.

He will regret this later. Probably. Most likely. Absolutely. He will. But the moment his lips brush the apple of Shane's cheek, he hears a hitch of breath and a long, shaky exhale, the catharsis of pent-up agony. A broken bone mended. All it took was a kiss.

So Ilya leaves more of them. 

Never separates his mouth from Shane's skin, but rather drags it along in a feather-light trail across the dunes and hills of the face he kisses. Kisses across freckles, bruised cheeks, several times, like he can taste the pigmentation and carry it forever on his tongue. Kisses over a forehead soothed out of its unhappy wrinkles. Kisses to the apex of two brown eyes that Ilya swears change color — oak on the ice, molasses above flushed skin, a hummingbird's wing when filled with tears.

Shane follows every kiss with a tick of his head, the acidity in his scent slowly mellowing out. Ilya's shoulders relax, too, now that his omega is calmer. 

“I'm sorry, I'm sorry,” he says, migrating to the divots in the corners of Shane's mouth, the ones that turn down when his cheeks rise into a smile. “I'm so sorry, Shane. You deserve better.”

Shane's free hand grazes Ilya's jaw, his own tilting until their breaths align, hot and wet. “I don't want better.”

It shouldn't feel new when their lips meet again after only four weeks of separation. Ilya has gone more than this without Shane's mouth, without his warm skin. He's spent the entirety of his young adult life kissing people, mostly women, and comparing them to the same mouth each and every time as if any of them had a chance to measure up to what can only be described as heaven's gates. And when those gates opened for him, for only an hour or two for less than a handful of times every year, the gap between the ordinary and Shane Hollander grew ever more cavernous.

Yet, this kiss is the one Ilya knows he will never, ever find a replacement for. Perhaps not even with Shane himself.

Shane's nose smushes into Ilya's cheek as their kiss delves deeper, and the rush of air as he exhales hard raises the hairs on the back of Ilya's neck. Ilya loses himself in the familiar sway of movement, in the slow, decadent sweetening of a previously sour scent. A purr rumbles in someone's chest, either his own or Shane's, shared between their tongues.

Then Shane's hand shifts. Dips away from Ilya's jaw, loosening the anchor, and thumbs close to the gland on Ilya's neck.

Their lips separate with a wet squeak. “Hollander,” Ilya warns, though he doesn't really sound authoritative. Just fucking terrified.

“I can't stop looking for it everywhere.” Shane hitches up, catches Ilya’s bottom lip in a maddening suckle and roll of his teeth. “It's driving me fucking nuts all the time. I want your pheromones on me.”

Ilya digs his nail into his cheek, just so, and marvels at how Shane gasps into the sting. “Should not have washed my top, then, hm? So silly,” he says, meanly. 

“Scent another one. Give it to me. I'll wear it everywhere.” Sweet omega. “Scent me. I need it so much, Ilya. Please.”

And, because he wants to murder Ilya, apparently, because he wants Ilya dead, Shane cranes his neck, exposing the long column of his throat, as if his words weren't enough of a demonstration that he wants Ilya to do what he simply should not once more. A second time. A second fucking time.

“Hollander.”

“Come to my cottage.” Torture. This is genuine torture. “Come with me, spend my heat with me. I want you there.”

“Hollander, you are high. They have you on drugs. I cannot—”

“Please.”

And who can reasonably blame Ilya for the way he veers towards Shane, a young vine finding purpose in the eroded crevices of sandstone castle walls. His mouth has found the scent gland on Shane's neck before he has a chance to think too much, licking gently. The flesh is puffy and feverish under his tongue. He can taste the lingering, faint stress pheromones that haven't evaporated yet, and he knows that a simple brush of his jaw against this little pheromone vent will fill the air with a much better aroma. 

Shane's fingers immediately settle into his hair, and that's when the cool tube of the IV in his hand brushes Ilya's overheated ear, shocking him out of the daze he'd been put under by the magnetising presence beneath him.

Ilya jerks away like he's been burned, clapping a hand hard over his mouth while he listens to Shane's devastated whine.

“Goddammit,” Shane mutters with a loud grunt, head knocking back, cushioned by the pillow behind it. He closes his eyes with an irritated scrunch to his brow.

“Hollander, you are not in your normal state of mind. And even if— fuck, I said we cannot do this.”

“I'm on painkillers, not drugged out of my mind. I know what's going on.”

“Do you?” Ilya demands, wiping a hand over his eyes. “You just asked me to scent you in a public hospital.”

“I thought you said we should be friends.”

He stares at Shane, incredulous.

“Friends do not scent each other, Hollander.”

Shane glares at him, and if Ilya weren't so incensed, he might have cooed because of how much he resembles an angry kitten. “Oh, but they kiss and call each other pet names in Russian, huh? Funny how your definition of friends stops at only half acting like a mate, Rozanov.”

“I wasn't—” He was. He had been. They both know it. Ilya had walked in prepared to be cordial and then book it, and now they're both whisper-yelling at each other like a bickering married couple.  

He groans, stepping back further until his spine hits the window, pulling at his hair. The spikes of pain help him see through the haze disrupting his focus. At least Shane hasn't gone back into distress.

“This is what I mean. This is why we should not be something more.” He gestures to Shane in the bed, hurt, and then at himself, hurt in a less evident way. “What if someone walked in? Hm? Then we are both fucked.”

“If we're acting like this anyway, what's the difference if we do it when we're something more?”

Oh my god, now they're just fucking talking in circles. Ilya emits a low growl, between frustration and disbelief at how adamant Shane is. How is he meant to reason with this creature?

The door to the hospital room creaks open. He immediately wipes whatever expression his face was making into something neutral, tucking the animal instinct to bite at Shane's nape and make him heel behind his teeth like a cyanide pill. 

Boiziau slips into the room, all 6ft of brown skin and broad shoulders, bringing in with him a leather overcoat and saffron pheromones. He freezes momentarily in the doorway when he catches sight of Ilya standing at the window like he's been shot and needs the damn wall for support, eyes slanting towards his captain with an unmistakable protectiveness that sets Ilya's entire body on edge.

“Rozanov,” he says, probably realising that Ilya is here as a show of sportsmanship, which isn't far-fetched. Even with Ilya's reputation as an asshole.

“Boiziau,” Ilya returns with a nod.

“JJ,” Shane pipes in, eager to be part of the little greeting troupe. Boiziau's attention rips away from Ilya to focus back on his captain, softening the edges of his face. His grin is blinding, and the way he walks easily to Shane's bedside – permitted to, without question or the self-conscious check over a shoulder – is unfair. It's so fucking unfair.

“You feeling good, Capitaine?” Boiziau hitches down, leaning elbows on the rail of Shane's hospital bed. He's so fucking close that Ilya has half a mind to snarl at him to back off.

Betas aren't typically as territorial as alphas and omegas tend to be, as their tempers give way for commanding the room away from their respective partners and onto themselves. Boiziau is the perfect – a loosely used term Ilya chooses – representation of a beta. Inoffensive scent traits, a charming presence, and able to make Shane Hollander smile like butter melting on a hot skillet.

Ilya wants to fucking die.

“Mm, m'okay,” Shane replies, legs shifting again. Ilya tracks every movement like a hawk, keeping a tight lid on his pheromones while Boiziau reaches out to look under Shane's hospital shirt to assess his collarbone as if he’s suddenly a fucking medical professional. “They have me on the good stuff.”

Boiziau snorts. “Vraiment (Really)? All these years I try to get you drunk, and all it takes is a hit from Marleau?”

Shane honest-to-god snickers.

Ilya is considering ripping off the windowsill and shucking it at Boiziau's head. Instead, he tucks his fists into his coat pockets and straightens.

“I apologise for Marleau,” he says, sagely, like the good captain he is. A thrill skates over him when Shane looks his way. Yes, eyes on me, not the spicy-smelling fake doctor beta. “He feels terrible. He did not mean to hurt you.”

“He could not come here and apologise face-to-face?” Boizou asks, sharp eyes at contrast with his light tone. Shane whacks him weakly. Ilya wishes he’d done it stronger. Maybe dislocated his annoyingly handsome head from his neck.

Ilya counters, unblinking, “I did not want him near Hollander, so I came myself.”

“Ah. Good capitaine.”

“Yes.”

“O-kay,” Shane interrupts, squirming. Ilya watches him and just barely stops himself from sighing fondly. Idiot looks uncomfortable, IV and wires poking out of him like he's hooked up on life support. His eyes squint against the light from the window, so Ilya surreptitiously positions himself against the worst of the sun's glare, blocking it from Shane's face.

Boiziau, busy fussing over Shane's hospital blanket, doesn't catch the tortured softness Shane sends in Ilya's direction. Ilya looks away with a mild sniff.

“Your glands are still angry?” Boiziau's voice has taken on a gentle timbre of concern. Ilya watches in abject horror as the fucker shucks off his coat, unzipping his charcoal grey jacket underneath with eyes focused on Shane. 

“My mom already scented me a little a few hours ago, so it's not so bad,” Shane says, shrugging his good shoulder.

“Ah, but you need more, yeah? Come on, take my jacket.”

Shane's eyes flash, just for a second, towards Ilya. Ilya couldn't have missed that gleam in their depths if he’d had a blindfold on. His inner alpha snarls hard in his throat, and it takes an embarrassingly strong swallow to keep it wrangled within.

“You've probably been sweating in it all day, JJ,” Shane says with the most fake disgusted scrunch Ilya has ever witnessed in the history of Shane Hollander Expressions.

"Je t'en prie (You're welcome)."

Boiziau whistles, a brisk sound, with a wag of his finger for Shane to sit up. Then, for all his stupid finger wagging, he still helps Shane move enough to wrap the offending fabric of his jacket – that he has been sweating in all day – around Shane's frame, enveloping him in saffron and cloves and, if Ilya isn't mistaken, hints of jasmine.

And while Boiziau's head is angled low as he helps Shane adjust, Shane's gaze slants towards Ilya properly. The corner of his mouth tugs upward.

Ilya gives back what can only be described as the upgraded dead-eyed Slavic stare that he hopes conveys just how much he imagines throttling his omega mate for this little display. And by throttling, he means digging his canines into every inflamed gland and infecting them with his venom so they never heal.

You little shit, he conveys silently.

And Shane, despite his usual lack of expression, actually wiggles his goddamn eyebrows.

Boiziau stands back, surveying his work. Has he forgotten that Ilya is standing right here? He supposes Shane does have that effect on people. 

“Better?” 

Shane hums, inhaling deeply. A pulse erupts in Ilya's jaw when the air teases with a hint of pleased omega. “Yeah, much better. Thanks, JJ.”

Why the hell is Ilya still here? Why the fuck is he just standing around? He did what he came here to do; apologise for Marleau, make sure Shane isn't dying, and get the fuck out of dodge. Why are his feet frozen, watching as JJ Boiziau reaches across the bed to brush his fingers over Shane’s forehead, moving his cute, choppy bangs away with a little smile–

“I will go.” Ilya's voice comes out colder than he anticipates, but with the way his insides are churning with an enraged alpha rioting inside, he could probably have sounded worse. It’s a miracle he isn’t stinking up the place, a fact Shane almost seems disappointed by as his nostrils flare and find nothing.

“Tell Marleau I'm okay. It's all part of the game.” Shane's lips are fighting a smile. “Hope he's alright.”

Then, as if by divine meddling, Hayden of all fucking Pikes enters the room. Ilya doesn't even consider staying back to watch this son of a bitch put some ugly scarf thick with his forest floor scent on his omega, too. His sanity is already hanging on by a thread.

“Oh, hey, Rozanov,” Pike starts, a little surprised to see Ilya, before his nose scrunches. “Holy shit, guys. It smells like a bakery in here.”

Ilya almost runs out, tail between his legs and bristling. He's not out the door fast enough to avoid hearing, in Shane's high little giggle: “Smells good, right?”

Fuck the French. Every flavor of them. Boring Canadian included.

Chapter End Notes

Thank you to boywithhollanov, Ranya, and Inga for beta-reading this chapter! Here are the fic recs I promised:

oh comely by weeb_grass. I love this because, unlike my Ilya, the Ilya in this fic is actually complete shit at breaking up with Shane. Like genuinely so terrible, and he didn't even have feral biology internally screaming at him to stop! Zero spine, I love it. Also, the break-up made my heart fall straight out of my ass, so that was fun. If you've read it already, I recommend a re-read. It doesn't hurt any less on the 700th rehash.

You might have clocked that Shane is going through Omega Rejection Ilness, which leads me nicely to my next fic rec if this is your cup of tea:

they say it's my fault but I want (him) so much by blankjournals, a.k.a boywithhollanov. Yes, I will be recommending one of her fics every chapter, I don't care. BUT this one is relevant, set in episode 4 in the club where Shane gets decked in the face with omega rejection illness. Very delicious read, honestly. Go slobber all over it, gun to your head.

That's all for this round. I hope you enjoyed this chapter!

Thank you for reading! See you for the next chapter xoxo

Chapter 3: I want you to come claim it, I do

Chapter Summary

It's the day after he's settled back into his apartment that a package is dropped at his door. Shane hasn't ordered anything, but Mom does like to send him quilts made of capybara fur or something else ridiculously soft because his inner omega is still an omega under all the bluster. Any omega likes soft things.

So, when he snips open the box in the kitchen, he doesn't expect to immediately buckle and have to brace on the counter to avoid shattering his kneecaps.

Chapter Notes

And so, the fuckery begins 😈 I love a good fic making a dumb alpha suffer! We're already halfway there, folks. I want to thank everyone who has left comments for me on the previous chapters, you all have no idea how encouraging and sweet they are! I got a sudden influx of them because @clubshilya/Nae on X posted a screenshot from chapter 2, so I want to give her a special thank you for that. I absolutely freaked out, and all the comments have been absolutely wonderful. I know it takes an effort to commit to ongoing fics, so I really want to express my appreciation for everyone being so patient and lovely!

For those of you who wanted to throw a brick at Ilya's face in the previous chapter... I hope you have some left to use.

Also, I've been forgetting, but feel free to yell at me on X!

Peep the end of the chapter for fic recs! Thank you for reading!

If someone had told Shane only a few months ago, when he was still with Rose, that he would be spending playoffs season in recovery whilst also doing everything he can to terrorise Ilya into admitting that they're better off as something more, Shane probably would have jumped off a cliff. After spiraling about it for twenty minutes straight.

He isn't sure he would still be doing this if he were in his right mind, though he can't reasonably excuse his behavior as anything other than him being in the rightest mind he's ever been. Something about revelation, about knowing truth, and striving towards it. Because Shane's never been about abandoning what's right.

There are several things true at once that are currently fueling Shane's reign of terror on the world's dumbest alpha:

1. Shane is gay, and Ilya is not-completely-gay. Like full-fat milk and half-and-half. Or is he skim milk because of his diet? Whatever, they go in the same coffee.
2. Ilya and Shane both recognise each other as mates. Sort of. Ilya seems to be in denial, or at least vehemently ignoring this simple fact for reasons that are logical yet unacceptable to Shane's mind.
3. Shane's omega is very determined to bring Ilya back into his arms, even if it means weakening the body it lives in.

The doctors had explained it to him in the privacy of his hospital room once he'd been lucid enough to really grasp what every word meant: Omega Rejection Syndrome. Mostly common with celebrities due to the nature of their occupations and the risks associated with a mate that could potentially tarnish their image.

It manifests differently from person to person, though the stages are usually across the board for every rejected omega. Usually anger, at first, mixed with restlessness, and then an aversion to any sensation that doesn't come from the mate specifically.

Check. Check.

Shane is currently in limbo at the third stage. Crucial, according to the doctor. 

“It's common for the secondary gender to target certain organs in the hopes of appearing weak enough to need intervention from the mate.” 

He had held that word in his head for a while after. Weak. Something Shane rarely is, and never wants to be. Weak is not the same as vulnerable, which is what he wants to give Ilya. But his omega is insisting on it, because that somehow is more appealing than just dangling Ilya by his ankle over a cliff until he agrees to come back to where he belongs like a good boy.

Neither Shane nor his omega are rational at the moment.

“In your case, your inner omega is choosing to attack your heart and insulin levels. It's mimicking common symptoms of hyperglycemia while forcing your heart to pump faster.”

Shane had asked if that meant he was on the road to developing diabetes. One of the doctors shook her head.

“No, Mr. Hollander. You have what we call hemadulcis tachycardia. Sweet Blood Disease.”

How about that? His inner omega is so desperate to have Ilya back that it's trying to make Shane's blood taste and smell sweeter. More enticing. As if Ilya isn't currently busy winning games in San Jose, several miles too far. 

Under any other circumstance, Shane is sure the Rejection Syndrome would have progressed to the final stage by now: mate death. Not literal death. Just… living life unmated. Which is something neither Shane nor his inner omega wants to go through, so. 

But the rejection Ilya leveled at him that night hadn't been a genuine one, certainly not out of a real impulse that usually causes rejections, which Shane's readings have supplied him on. 

Perceived incompatibility? It's laughable for Ilya to ever think anyone is more suited to him than Shane.

An inherent dislike that overrules biological attraction? No. Ilya likes him. Maybe more, if Shane thinks about it, which he doesn't.

An already-present partner that is preferred? No, and especially not for Shane.

So, Shane is left with the understanding that Ilya is only trying to save them both from the chaos and potential misery that could follow if they were to step into this fully. If they were to be together, truly together, and anyone found out, it could very well be catastrophic for both of their careers. And, also, given that Ilya's home country is less than kind to queer people, there is legitimate risk in that, too.

Which is technically what Ilya said that night. He explained all of this. Even said the same things in Tampa. And maybe Shane would have just… left it alone for that. To avoid stressing Ilya out. To give him what he wants, when it's the opposite of what they both need. Shane wouldn't have pushed.

If not for the fact that Ilya is completely incapable of acting like anything other than Shane's mate. Territorial, touchy, worried. 

So, really, Shane's doing them both a favor by not buying into the we can be friends bullshit.

“Honey, no screens,” Mom admonishes from the kitchen, knowing exactly what he's up to even though she can't see him. He grunts, non-committal, as a text from Ilya pops up.

Lily

did you like the game last night?

His lips quirk up. Ilya has been diligent in keeping up a one-sided conversation despite Shane ignoring him most of the time.

Lily

was boring for me

too easy to win

Shane snorts, puts his phone down just as his father walks into the room. As he passes him on the couch, he reaches out and lightly rubs his wrist against Shane's neck scent gland. A burst of soil and coffee tones envelops Shane like a warm hug, and he sinks further into the cushions with a low hum. It's easier to accept scenting from omegas and betas, so Dad and JJ especially have been vigilant in keeping their scents fresh on him. JJ sends his clothes, usually, and so does Hayden, letting Shane wear them until the scent changes and he has to send them back.

Mom scents him, too, sometimes. None of them know why part of his treatment is consistent pheromone marking, given that the doctors had kept that kernel hidden from everyone but Shane for privacy reasons, but they haven't asked about it, either. He’s grateful that none of them are prying, because he isn’t sure how he could explain any of this without revealing too much. Maybe his parents have an inkling if they’ve managed to connect his recent behavior with the tentative prognosis offered by his doctors, but they’re moreso focused on his healing collarbone and concussion.

Another message. Shane sneaks a peek.

Lily

how are you feeling?

your collarbone? did you take your meds today?

Switching to his camera, he lifts his phone up with his good arm and angles it down to where his arm is held in a sling, showing the collarbone in question even though it’s clothed, but the bandage is visible through the peek of his collar. 

And also the jersey he's got on, 16, with an A on the chest. JJ's.

He sends it with a thumbs-up emoji. The fact that he has a concussion is a pretty good excuse to not spend the time texting Ilya back.

Lily

this tells me nothing

is that boiziau's??? it is uglier than normal metros jersey

so yes probably

take it off

With a snicker, Shane types back.

Shane

I'm not going to take nudes for you, Ilya. I'm at my parents house.

Lily

oh! he speaks!

i show i care for your injuries like good rival captain and you sass mouth me

Shane

You’re the one telling me to take my shirt off at 2 in the afternoon!

Lily

because it is offensive to look at

ugly color

i need my eyes for hockey

this is sabotage

Shane

I wear the same colors?? 

Lily

yes you metros are walking police sirens

is this why you always frisk me to steal the puck?

Shane

What does that even mean?

Lily

you check players like a cop looking for weapons in pockets

frisky

Shane

So the little friend I felt in your shorts when I checked you at the last game was a gun?

Several minutes pass as the typing bubble pops up, then disappears, then pops up again. Eventually, Ilya concedes.

Lily

take off the jersey hollander

Shane 

Come take it off yourself.

Lily

at your parents house?

since when are you so scandalous?

Shane

Not here, asshole. 

At my cottage.

Lily

you will not bring that monstrosity to your cottage

Shane

I'll have to.

It'll have to help me through my heat since you refuse to be there.

Ilya doesn't reply. Shane sets his phone on his stomach and takes a very self-satisfied, if slightly irritated, nap.

Boston loses to San Jose in the 7th game, and it's a devastating loss. They were neck and neck, teetering on the edge of a win, and the game itself had been a war zone for all three periods. Shane watches the game with sunglasses on, head cushioned on a pillow, his chest tightening as Ilya braces his hands on his knees and stares down at the ice. Blood is trickling on the edge of his mouth from a hard hit, and even the cameras pick up the sweat pouring from him to rain on his skates with every breath.

Shane wanted the Cup for Ilya. If it's not Shane who wins it, then it has to be Ilya. Shane can feel the itch of loss as if it's his own. Getting to the conference final and losing in the last game will gut anyone, but it hurts worse when it's one of the best players in the league facing it.

That night, Shane doesn't tease or riot or terrorise.

Shane

Fuck San Jose.

Lily 

fuckers stole my cup from me 

should go to their houses and throw eggs at their windows

Shane

That's a terrible idea.

Lily

what is terrible is letting them take my cup

Shane shakes his head, even though Ilya can't see him. There was no ‘letting’ involved, never with Ilya.

Shane

No. You played incredibly. 

Then, thumbs twiddling, he adds with a shaky exhale:

 I'm proud of you, Ilya.

A few too-long seconds pass before his phone vibrates.

Lily

thank you shane

I promise I will win the cup for you next year

Shane

I'll win it for myself.

But maybe I'll let you hold it.

Lily

and people say you are nice

shane hollander is still an asshole

Shane

 I contain multitudes. 

Lily

i will not bother looking up this word

Shane giggles and shifts, clutching his phone far too close to his face.

Shane

Means I'm a layered person. I can be many things.

Lily

ah

so you admit that you are an asshole?

Shane

I am.

Then, before Ilya can send something back;

I'm also yours.

There's a zing in his gut when he types out the words that have been pooling inside him for… well, probably since he was seventeen and didn't know himself. A simple fact that transcends biology, that defies logic and common sense, neatly packaged into three words. He wishes he spoke Russian so he could repeat it in Ilya's tongue and make him understand in his mother tongue. 

Those damn three dots dance again. Teasing. He aches to know what expression Ilya is making. Is he smiling? Frowning? Chewing on his lip? Or is he staring at the phone screen like it can break open the barriers between them like Shane is?

Lily

are you?

Shane

Yeah

And you're mine.

We both have multitudes.

Lily

you and your boring english words

Shane

You and your posturing alpha bullshit.

Ilya sends a middle finger emoji and nothing more. Shane tries not to think too hard about it.

Finally, he can get fucking sloshed. 

Losing to San Jose is nothing short of a humiliation ritual dressed up as a respectable, if heartbreaking, loss. San Jose. Their left-winger skates like he's got Twizzlers instead of blades on his feet, but they still rip Boston's chance at the Cup out of Ilya's raw, aching hands. The locker room is silent as a graveyard that night, a silence he is intimately familiar with, and he isn't in any mood for speeches.

“Get out,” he says, instead, exhausted. “Get drunk or go home to your families. We will beat their asses blue next time.”

Marleau bumps his shoulder against Ilya's, but says nothing. That's as good as it's going to get. Momentary camaraderie that, ultimately, slips like sand between his fingertips. At least, this time, his phone doesn't buzz from a disappointed, raging call from Papa or a gloating, condescending taunt from Andrei.

It buzzes with a message from his beloved.

Jane

Fuck San Jose.

After the past few weeks of psychological torment, Ilya is almost surprised. Almost. He forgets, at times, that Shane is a man with a heart that understands Ilya on a level no one has or ever will be able to match. He gets it, better than anyone. The sting of a loss, the weight of a legacy bearing down on shoulders that hefted the Cup before, and so smart in losing that honor again.

Shane Hollander knows more about the responsibility of the Hall of Fame than anyone else. That they also share.

Ilya is alone in the locker room when he replies. Alone when he descends, knees trembling violently, to his car in the arena's player-designated parking lot and replies again. Alone, when he drives to the nearest club with full intention to run up an astronomical tab, replying when he stops at red lights.

He's alone in a room full of gyrating bodies when Shane says I'm also yours.

Multitudes is such a stupid fucking word. Such a convoluted term for something as simple as a man wearing several faces. Russians have a word for this, and it is simply a better word because it is Russian. Многогранный (Multi-faceted). Spelled prettier, too. Pretty like black stars over beach-sand skin.

You and your posturing alpha bullshit.

Yes. Shane is многогранный (multi-faceted). Ilya is just a лицемер (hypocrite). Russian words are more versatile.

His alpha is stone-still within, which is fine. It is. It's been that way for so long that Ilya almost feels too human to function, until Shane texts and his soul lights up again. Funny. It used to be easy to feel a spark in his gut.

A simple order of straight vodka at a bar, grinding on a beautiful woman, dancing under strobing lights that will one day render him blind. He is at a bar, yes, but the vodka sparks no joy. And he doesn't even consider finding a woman to make eyes at, because even if he did, there would be no question as to his body's reaction. Disgust, visceral and whole, that it would betray itself so. Worse than losing to fucking San Jose. That's a humiliation ritual, but taking another body that isn't Shane's, delighting in another's touch, is a cardinal sin.

Besides, he's here to drink his sorrows and try to get himself to cum later, though he doubts that'll work. His dick is the most uncooperative piece of limp shit to ever exist, and it doesn't help that Shane is constantly egging him and his possessive nature. The omega clearly has some kind of death wish, or maybe a lack of self-respect, because there is no reward or worth in chasing after someone like Ilya. After what Ilya did to both of them.

Ilya is an alpha, but he falls prey to Shane's machinations again, and again, and again. If they were in the same city, Ilya would have caved weeks ago after all those damn pictures and messages shamelessly claiming him. He never even thought he could call Shane Hollander shameless.

And now that he's out of the playoffs, Ilya isn't sure how much longer he can hold on.

Shane's pretty freckled face is in gorgeous HD on his TV, and he can't orgasm.

Because this is what he's been resorting to: angrily stripping his cock with strawberry-flavoured lube — the last of his supply since the rest had gone to other fruitless attempts at jerking off — and staring at Shane's features like they've personally wronged him. They have. Those wet, doe eyes blinking owlishly at a reporter's questions, answering in perfect, polite French with a little smile. Sweet Golden Boy.

Sensation is a distant hum in Ilya's bones. Frustratingly out of reach, jeering at him over a cold shoulder. His dick is heavy and leaking in his fist, the tip a vibrant red, veins pumping blood hot enough to blister. He thumbs at the slit when TV Shane sways his head in his version of a nonverbal no and groans when it only makes his obliques shudder in some imitation of pleasure.

It isn't working. At this point, Ilya's jerking off to pass the fucking time. No amount of vodka burn in his veins will help.

Mind fizzling in static, Ilya can't do more than beg. Pathetic, grousing at the Shane Hollander Speaking French Compilation video blasting on loop in his fucking apartment.

"Почему ты словно создан для меня? (Why does it feel like you were made for me?)” His grip tightens, pace slowing, pulse hammering in the deep tissues of his cock. It twitches as TV Shane's deep, French monotone echoes in Ilya's living room. “Ты делаешь меня таким жадным, малыш. Таким эгоистичным. (You make me so greedy, baby. So selfish.)"

His balls tighten up against his body, but it's without the promise of an orgasm. There will be no release for him tonight. Maybe never again. He's robbed himself of Shane and thus plundered any last essence of enjoyment he could ever expect from living life, and the worst fucking part is how easily he could get it all back. If he just surrendered. If he just gave in, despite how fucking bad it would be.

His phone buzzes. Ilya's head lolls back on the back of his couch to glance down at its screen, lit up on the cushion beside him.

Jane

Are there any alphas you know with omega-passing scents?

I can't keep raiding Hayd's and JJ's closets, so maybe someone on your team could help.

Only soft materials, please.

Ilya groans, screwing his eyes shut. He strokes himself faster, harder, willing the nasty roar of jealousy to somehow pour into his dick and force an orgasm. His alpha rouses inside him, bristling, caking down his fury with a healthy dose of self-recrimination. Shane isn't being serious. He isn't.

Ilya's lashes flutter to peek at the adorable way TV Shane's mouth curls down when his smile is particularly cheeky. His fist tires, and he releases his cock, wincing at the wet slap! of its weight on his heaving stomach.

"Почему ты не хочешь сжалиться надо мной (Why won't you have mercy on me)," he whispers, throat closing, "моя Шаня (my Shanya)?"

Лицемер (Hypocrite).

Playoffs are less interesting without Ilya to follow, but Shane watches anyway with his parents. It's been a long time since he's spent long, interrupted hours with them like this, longer still since he's been in his childhood home for more than a few days. Weeks pass in a haze of medication and monitoring, of the occasional hospital visit to gauge his progress, and both his parents pretend like the lack of a nest in his bedroom is completely normal.

Dad still passes along a few clothes every now and then, but Shane only wears them and gives them back a few days later.

“This would be nice for a nest,” Dad tries, again, passing along one of his favorite soft sweaters. He's more worried than Mom, given that he's an omega himself and can't fathom not making a nest while the body needs recovery. Especially because they know Shane needs to be scented.

Shane hums, slipping it on, and walks away before his Dad's worried gaze can crack him open.

He still can't build a nest. He's tried multiple times. He knows his omega needs it, needs it terribly, but the moment he folds a shirt and lays it on his bed, he's bombarded with memories of doing the same thing months ago for Ilya. And then he's quickly putting the shirt back. Bracing on the edge of the bed, whining as his pulse kicks up a manic, painful rhythm, calling for an alpha who can't hear.

He's on meds for the Sweet Blood Disease, but it doesn't assuage all of the symptoms. The worst of it is the palpitations, hammering on his ribs like his heart is held hostage. Sitting or laying down doesn't help. The only thing that can help is Ilya.

Who is still being stubborn, but Shane dares to hope that he's wearing him down. The stalemate of his health's downfall won't stay forever, though, so impatience is beginning to set in. Impatience, frustration, longing. So much longing that, when his body wakes in the middle of the night with a heart desperate to leave him and find home, he curls tight into a ball and cries. Quietly, to avoid disturbing anyone. But it's the quiet that burns.

Just before the last series of games, the Cup Final, Shane insists on going back to his Montreal apartment. His sling is off, finally, and he doesn't need monitoring for his concussion anymore. Besides, if none of this works out, he doesn't want his parents to witness whatever will happen to him when he goes into mate death. He doesn't think it will happen — hopes it won't — but he is nothing if not thorough. 

Plus, he really can't take the long looks they exchange when they think he's not paying attention. Hayden's been giving the same damn looks, too, like they're all just waiting for him to spill the beans.

Not this can. It's tightly sealed and will stay that way for as long as he can manage it.

Ilya figures out where he is when he asks about Shane's shoulder and receives a picture of Shane conveniently dressed in one of JJ's hoodies  — that are definitely not his usual style — while he's reading on his couch.

Lily

whoever gave you that thing has bad taste in fashion

is that your couch? you are back in montreal?

Shane

Fuck off, it's JJ's. I like it.

And yeah. I don't need to be babysat anymore.

Lily

you should not be alone

Shane

 I can think of an easy remedy.

A pause. Then;

Lily

for fuck's sake hollander

Shane stares at his phone, a frown crawling onto his face to usurp the small smile that has been building there. Tone is difficult to parse in normal conversation for him, and over text it tends to be even more difficult unless emojis are used. Usually, he can trust that Ilya is either being sarcastic or flirtatious, though even that is a hit or miss. Their conversations used to be surface-level sexting for years before Tamla, and before Ilya left, they'd called more than they texted, so understanding was easier.

But he can't tell what tone Ilya is using here. Is this exasperation? Amusement? Flirtation?

Or is he getting sick of Shane chasing him? It doesn't seem likely, but despite spending weeks trying to work Ilya to the marrow, he's not budging. He checks in, insults the clothing Shane wears if it's JJ's or Hayden's because he's clearly possessive, and negs endlessly for Shane's “friendly” attention. Alpha mate behavior. But when it comes down to the bare bones and splayed hands, Ilya pulls back and acts as if Shane is the one overstepping bounds.

Is this really how Ilya treats his friends? Is Shane even different from anyone else? Is Svetlana getting the same treatment? Marleau?

Mouth souring, Shane turns off his phone and sets about unpacking from his trip. His heart whacks hard and fast against his bruised chest, winding him, but he's nothing if not stubborn.

It's the day after he's settled back into his apartment that a package is dropped at his door. It's wrapped tight in insulated cloth, a box incredulously placed right at his doorstep with no return address. Shane hasn't ordered anything, but Mom does like to send him quilts made of capybara fur or something else ridiculously soft because his inner omega is still an omega under all the bluster, and any omega likes soft things.

So, when he snips open the box in the kitchen, he doesn't expect to immediately buckle and have to brace on the counter to avoid shattering his kneecaps.

Ilya's pheromones permeate the air as if they'd burst from an air-sealed container. Dry autumn leaves and cashmere with a musk pornographically thick fills every one of Shane's senses. His inner omega howls, actual desire pulsing hard under his skin for the first time in months. Ilya's scent coats his tongue, drips down his esophagus like his innards are sweating in a hot sun.

“Fuck,” he groans, straightening to peer into the box. Ilya's clothes are folded inside in several, neat little piles. Shane grabs the box with an elated gasp, and scurries up the stairs to his bedroom, the soles of his socked feet buzzing and his tailbone quivering with every step. 

Taped to the inside flap of the box is a note in Ilya's handwriting, a cursive scrawl that Shane only barely read through the fog descending on him.

“Ilya, Ilya,” he chants, dumping the contents of the box onto his bed. The urge to nest is an impossible pull under his nails, spiking in his chest, his thighs where his glands lay. He doesn't nest. Doesn't want to think about it, because it might ruin the experience of finally, finally, getting what he needs.

Ilya has included a very mindful selection. Soft materials, of course, but not exotic shit that never quite feels right under Shane's hands. Every article of clothing is a sensory paradise to his questing fingers – a cotton pair of joggers with an insulated lining, a satin shirt Ilya has probably worn to many clubs with the buttons opened to his fucking navel, socks that feel either bamboo or maybe even modal, gentle on the calloused hills of his fingers. They don't catch or scrape.

And they smell divine.

Best of all, nestled under a pair of Nike gym shorts – Shane knows Ilya wears Under Armor exclusively, so did he get Nike and scent it because Shane likes Nike? – is a Boston Raider's jersey. A frankly offensive addition amongst the other clothes, but when Shane tugs it free, he's hit with a mouth-watering, sweaty musk that leaves his gums vibrating. There's a bold C on the chest, 81 on the arms, and a giant print of Ilya's last name on the back.

Ilya's jersey. The one he wears to his games, his practices. Shane pants, peeling off his shirt and pressing the jersey to his bare chest. His inner omega purrs, and for what seems like the first time in forever, his heartbeat settles.

Shane sinks his teeth into the collar of the jersey and crawls up the bed, dragging it along like a dog with a bone and groaning as it rubs against the scent glands beneath his pecs. He nuzzles into his pillow, eyes fluttering shut, clutching the fabric until his knuckles hurt and his teeth squeak horribly, but he doesn't unlatch.

Contentment settles over him in a weighted blanket, warming him from his toes to his brow. Surrounded by his alpha's scent, safe and hidden away, where nothing short of the end of the world can find or interrupt him. Home again.

Hours later, he opens bleary, sleep-warm eyes and reaches for his phone charging on the nightstand. He snaps a picture of the box, then opens up his message log with ‘Lily’.

Shane

Did you fit your entire Boston closet in that box?

Also, really? [photo attachment]

Lily

ah, you got our gift

Shane

 Yeah. From the “team”.

Lily 

their captain is very generous

do you like the clothes?

feel better?

Shane 

Yes. Fuck. So much better.

Thank you.

Lily

now you can throw out the ugly hoodies and stupid jerseys, yes?

Shane

I'm not going to throw them.

Lily

you feel guilty for keeping them no? now you have no need because you have better clothes to use

you should at least donate

even though orphans deserve better than this but begging is not choosing

Shane snorts into his pillow, rubbing his face against the jersey pressed to his nose.

Shane

Beggars can't be choosers.

And no, you asshole, for fuck's sake. I'm going to return them.

I don't just leave their clothes in my closet.

Lily

no? I thought maybe you keep in case they go homeless

then you can return and they will not start from ground floor

Shane

You mean ground zero?

Lily

yes ground zero

like you are doing a charity

Shane

They are the ones helping me. I don't think hoarding their clothes in return is a very charitable thing. 

It's why I want to stop relying on them.

Lily

yes they are very helpful

do they cook your food as well? wash your hair for you? my team can do better

marly makes good oatmeal

Shane

Fuck off.

Stretching, his limbs release their pleasant ache, warming through the evening sun drifting through the window. His bare thighs rub the leg of a pair of sweatpants between them idly, scent blooming.

Nibbling his lip, he types:

Shane

Are you free this week? We could watch the final in my apartment.

It'll be one hell of a do-over, but it'll be something at the very least. His omega is frothing at the mouth for more than just Ilya's scent, which is enough to comfort but not enough to heal what's infected within him.

It takes Ilya a few minutes to reply, and Shane is almost asleep again by the time his phone vibrates.

Lily

ah, cannot do

sveta is coming for that

she will kill me and dump my body in a river if I watch cup final without her

His inner omega chuffs. He has many a feeling about Svetlana, not all of them positive, even if he recognises those feelings as irrational. Kind of. He still hasn't analysed much of them.

Shane

Fine. Come over before the final.

They still have at least 3 games left. You can spend a day or two here.

Lily

what for? I thought you did not need to be babysat

Shane

I don't. 

Dread oozes slowly into his gut when Ilya takes too long to type out a reply again. Any dizzy state of warmth and contentment trickles out from his body, wrung from the cloth of his soul, because it's starting to feel like he's completely misread a situation that seemed pretty fucking obvious twenty seconds ago.

He sits up slowly, the jersey tumbling from his chest, thumbs flying across the screen.

Shane

We don't have to do anything.

Hanging out is fun, too.

I just want to see you.

Lily

we won't do anything

we are friends

Shane's mouth presses into a hard line. There's that stupid word again. He has misread the situation, then.

Shane

 Are you actually fucking with me right now??

You sent me your clothes!

Lily

to make you feel better

boiziau and pike can send but i cannot? not allowed? you would have taken from my team but mine is a problem?

Shane

You know it's not the same thing.

Lily

you are not letting it be the same thing

Shane

Maybe because I don't have my fucking head shoved up my ass, Rozanov.

Lily

hollander enough

enough of this

you are making this hard for both of us

A wet, bitter laugh escapes Shane's throat, and it's only then that he realises his eyes are burning again. Only hours after thinking that, finally, something had given in, had yielded into beautiful surrender, but he's back to the drawing board, back to trying not to cry. His heart begins to rumble uneasily in his chest again, just when he'd thought he could feel the sun on his skin after weeks of numbing cold.

Shane

You're such a fucking asshole.

Lily

this is news to you?

Shane

Go fuck yourself.

He sets down his phone and ricochets off the bed, snatching up the discarded box laying limp on his bedroom floor. He divides Ilya's clothes into piles: ones that have only Ilya’s scent, and others that have started to leech onto Shane's pheromones thanks to him rubbing all over them like a street cat in heat. He'll wash those, just to be real fucking petty.

His eyes catch on the jersey, slumped by the pillow. There's no grin on his face when he reaches for his bedside drawer, but there is a vindictive mania in his chest that's boiling over onto his tongue.

His box of clothes has probably been in Montreal for less than half a day if they're already back on his doorstep.

Ilya stares down at it – this neatly taped monstrosity that can only hold a bomb inside. Maybe the whole box is a bomb, a C-4, and his entire Boston home is about to be engulfed in flames. With the way he's been treating Shane, honestly, he more than deserves it.

Inside the box are the same clothes he sent, which is about what he expected. Given that the way their last text conversation went, there would have to be a shift in the cosmos for Shane to send Ilya his clothes in some kind of cute reciprocal. 

That's not what's happening here. What's happening is that Shane is being a stubborn brat.

Not in the sense Ilya expected when he broke them up. When he walked. In Ilya's admittedly naive mind, he'd pictured Shane angry, distant, perhaps sad after some time, but that their relationship would mellow out into something… something. Never quite right, but never able to untether itself. It would have been some awkward mimic of a friendship that Ilya would have held onto with his damn teeth just to keep Shane in his life in any capacity.

He never expected Shane to fight him back on it like this. It startles him, still, when Shane sends a text clearly meant to invoke Ilya's alpha instincts with an intention that is somehow so clearly sincere. Shane isn't fucking with him for revenge; he's fucking with him so Ilya yields and comes crawling back.

And oh, Ilya wants to. He's not too proud for that. But he has to be the one thinking clearly between the two of them since Shane is being unbelievably fucking stubborn about it all.

So, yes, Ilya knows he's being horrible. He knows. He's just waiting for Shane to give up, because that is the sensible thing to do when you care about Ilya Rozanov. Eventually, it is easier to take a step back and care from an appropriately unhelpful distance.

With a dreary sigh, Ilya hefts the box inside and dumps it onto his coffee table. He rips it open, hoping for a sliver of Shane's gorgeous scent, but he's hit with nothing apart from his own musk. Shane clearly washed whatever he'd touched just so Ilya couldn't get a whiff.

Silly thing. He needs scents to recover, but he sends back the one scent he needs most for what? Because Ilya isn't letting them both live in some fairy tale land where Commissioner Crowell shits rainbows and the media only talks about the pigeons in arena rafters?

He's about to reach for his phone – God knows for what reason, probably to scold Shane for being obstinate – when he sees an edge of plastic in the box. Frowning, he digs under the piles of clothes. Buried there, like a badly wrapped present, is his jersey, protected in waterproof packaging. 

Well, it's a sandwich bag, to be clear. Shane has folded up Ilya's jersey and stuffed it inside a storage sandwich bag made for keeping frozen chicken in the freezer.

A befuddled smile twitches at Ilya's lips. “что за хрень… (What the hell…)"

He rips open the zip line, pulling out the jersey, and all the blood goes rushing straight to his dick.

“Holy fuck—” He doubles over, gasping hard on his way down while his knees decide to take a quick smoke break. He sinks onto his couch like it's his saving grace, then immediately shoves the collar of his jersey into his mouth.

His alpha awakens in a frenzy, clawing to the surface of his mind without no finesse or even intimidating grace. Just a bumbling fool clawing at a mountain's rocky face for a lick of stored water.

The fabric is damp. No, damp is too stingy a descriptor. It's sodden. Across the front and seeping into the back, staining the printed logo that he's carried on his chest for almost a decade, marring Ilya's legacy with the unmistakable taste and smell of omega slick. Shane's slick. Thick, sweet, with a rare heavy musk that only arises if Ilya abuses the living hells out of Shane's prostate until his tears taste like toffee and his lips are curved around a sated grin.

Gasping, Ilya straddles his own couch, bent over his own gear, eyes rolling back into his head as Shane fills him. Instinct driving him, he shoves a hand down his sweats, curling around the livid flesh of his cock that's already leaking profusely. The spark of touch has him snarling around the fabric in his mouth, tongue lapping at the collar where the scent and taste are thickest.

Callouses chafing, he thumbs the head of his erection, hips jerking into the movement. “Shane, Shane, любимый (beloved)."

His eyes screw shut, finding the studied scrolls of Shane in his mind's easy give. Freckles speckled across lively cheeks, curling into crescents when a smile blesses those lips. Broad shoulders that carry kisses like they can be burdens or exaltations. Thighs that would make a jockey blush. A gaze smouldering like browning butter beneath wet lashes.

Ilya's free hand shoots out, desperate to find warm skin, but he only finds the cloth of his couch. Not enough, just like it hasn't been for months, but it doesn't– it–

Oh god. Oh fuck. He's about to cum. It hits him all at once, the recognition, the coagulation of pleasure tightening in his core until it fills to burst, juice vessels exploding. He's going to cum, he's going to cum, he's going to cum—

White engulfs his vision, his back bowing, and he collapses onto his stomach with a pathetic whine. His entire body shudders for what feels like hours, hair dragging static on the couch as he rubs into it to try and regain his senses.

Palm stuffed down his pants still, he can feel just how much he's spurted, and it's mildly disgusting. A little concerning, actually. His balls are sparkling like a champagne bottle finally free of its cork.

Panting, Ilya wipes his hand on the jersey, licking mindlessly at the collar like some fucking dog, tasting Shane even still. He is dead. Murdered. Floating above his own body. He probably lays there for far too long, because when he forces himself up on shaking calves, his underwear and sweats are sticky and vile. Shane would hate it.

Ilya

hollander

hollander

shane

did you jerk off on my jersey?

Jane

 [photo attachment]

Yep. That's his jersey. Spread atop Shane's bedsheets. Hints of bare knees peek at the edge of the picture, like Shane's straddling it, which is torture enough. What's worse is the purple dildo slumped by the collar, the thick length and silicone knot drenched in a glorious sheen of slick, from the tip down to the suction cup. 

Shane had fucked himself on Ilya's Boston Raiders jersey. Had left his mark there. The flavor on Ilya's tongue while he'd jerked off had been straight from the source, not wiped down after the fact.

God, Ilya needs to start going to church again.

Ilya

fuck

you are trying to kill me

Jane

Maybe. That's what knotheads deserve.

Send Marleau's next time. Or anyone else's. I have enough to mark your whole team.

Ilya almost drops his phone onto his face. Fucking Marleau? The Boston team? With a grind of his teeth and a low curse, he scrambles to nip that shit in the bud.

Also, knothead? God save him. He's never been called that.

Ilya

you are not funny

never joke about that

Jane

Who said I was joking?

You said it yourself that Boston has a generous captain

Marleau should know I accept his apology. Maybe he'll appreciate a willing omega better than you.

“Fuck this shit.”

A mad, red thicket consumes his every waking thought, aided by the gnashing of teeth his inner alpha is making a display of. For once, human and animal reconcile and join ranks, filling Ilya's body with the strength to move despite his bone-watering orgasm.

He fills another box with his clothes, different ones from before. He wipes them on his glands hard enough to bruise, especially the ones on his thighs and chest, even some against his soft cock where the musk is strongest. He does this while he washes his jersey twice, until all that lingers is the detergent, and then stares at it. There's no question that he'll be sending it again, but he doesn't want to just rub it on his body and call it a day.

Send Marleau's next time.

Hayden scented the tank top. I've been feeling off, so it helps.

Smells good, right?

Ilya shoves on the jersey and heads for his home gym. He was due for a workout, anyway, but he definitely pushes himself to a new limit tonight, dick-vaporising orgasm be damned. He jogs on his treadmill until his quads protest, then continues, fists clenched, sweating profusely into the fabric, and that knowledge makes him run longer.

Stumbling off after God knows how long, he still isn't satisfied. His inner alpha is a riot under his skin, like it can reach the jersey if it scratches him deep enough. In as rare an occurrence as a blood moon, Ilya agrees with it. Whole-heartedly. So, he does what any normal, well-adjusted, definitely not manic possessive alpha would do.

Just before he turns on the faucet, Ilya lays the jersey on the bench in his shower and pisses right there on the collar where that fucking dildo had laid. 

Purposeful aim, teeth gritted, all rabid dog marking his territory. It would be gross to look at if his jersey wasn't black and didn't get stained by the pale gold stream. His scent thickens until it's a victory clogging in the drain of his throat. Even the fucking delivery guy will smell him.

He hangs the jersey up on the bathroom door to also absorb the steam of his shower, the particles of his shampoo, and his body wash. Shane won't know what to do with such an onslaught of Ilya's pheromones and the memories of his body. Maybe he'll shut the fuck up about other alphas.

Then, half-deranged, Ilya waits for it to dry before he folds it up and stuffs it into a new box. Scrawls the words you're fucking mine in rigid, solid black marker on the inside flap before he tapes the thing shut.

He might regret this. Or he might not. Depends on how willing Shane is to learn what lines to cross.

He absolutely regrets it. Fuck whatever lines he tried to reinforce; this is the stupidest thing he's ever done.

And he only realises that when the haze lifts, when the alpha in his chest finally allows him to stop pacing his apartment in search of the omega he needs. Which, rather inconveniently, is two hours after the delivery guy showed up and took the box from Ilya's doorstep.

Meaning that, at the very least, there are two more hours before Shane orchestrates his murder. 

He scrambles for his phone, dialling the delivery guy's number, thumbs shaking. Straight to voicemail.

“Fuck me,” he hisses, dialling the number again. Voicemail. His heart is about to rocket launch out of his ass and find a new home somewhere in the deep roots of the earth, probably where all the other stupid alphas who had a death wish ended up when they crossed the wrong omega.

Ilya

hollander

hollander do not open the box

i was not thinking clearly ok?

it was mistake 

i was drunk

Ok, that part's a lie, but at this point, Ilya will say whatever he can to smooth over the clusterfuck he's caused. Shane isn't responding, which could mean a number of things, honestly: Shane is sleeping, because it is 10 PM and he is banal about his bedtime. Shane is showering, which is a lovely image, but unlikely. Shane is currently somewhere else, maybe a bar or a bookstore, and he's having a cute-meet with some nice alpha who doesn't piss on clothes and send it to unsuspecting people's doorsteps.

Ilya hopes to God that Shane is asleep and won't hear the knock on his door so that Ilya has a few hours more to like… die or something. Or drive over and sneakily snatch away the stupid box, although if he does do that, he risks trying to see Shane, and that's a terrible idea.

Piss-marking is mate behavior. Strictly. Even Ilya knows that, knew that even as he did it. It's not even a common practice because, well, people aren't exactly completely driven by animal instinct and can discern necessary from overkill. Some couples enjoy it because of how strong a smell it leaves behind, an unmistakable, territorial claim, but the majority consensus is to just wave it off as a garish habit of lesser composed people. It has a bad connotation, too, in some circles.

In this circle for two, Ilya knows Shane will take it for what it is: Ilya, once again, doing something that completely contradicts his sentiment that they stay friends and nothing more. 

The next two hours pass sledging through quicksand, anxiety pulling him under its discomforting embrace. He considers calling Shane, then decides against it when, a second before dialling, Shane reads his messages. Shane is awake and has just read his messages. 

And doesn't respond. 

Not abnormal. He's probably still understandably angry about their last conversation, which Ilya is also angry about, thank you, so expecting a reply right now is rich. But Ilya really wishes Shane would just say something, anything, so Ilya knows he hasn't completely turned away this time.

He has every right to. Ilya is cruel, holding away the part of himself they both need in the open, yet still refusing to let go of Shane entirely. It's unfair to them both, especially to Shane. But how can Ilya live a life without him? If he can't have Shane the way fate intended, then he would have to manufacture their reality into something manageable. Friends. Friends.

More hours slip by. Two? Four? At this point, he doesn't count. Shane has seen his messages. Shane has definitely gotten the package. Shane is never going to speak to him again. Ilya's finger hovers over the call button next to Shane's contact.

Then, because someone in the universe is guffawing at him, that's when his front door opens. For a split second, every inch of his body yearns, blooms, because what if it's Shane, somehow? Maybe Shane's decided to come over, to talk, and he'll forgive him for the stupid box, and they can pretend it never happened?

It's not Shane. 

“I swear, one of these days the cab drivers in this country are going to ask for the lipstick in my purse after they take all my money,” Svetlana rants, strutting into Ilya's Boston home with her small carry-on dragging behind her. She's on her phone, one earphone in, her jacket slinking prettily over one shoulder to expose her bronze skin. 

Ilya carefully ignores the way his heart falls.

“You're early,” he says, numb. Not that he had been planning to take Shane up on his offer to go over, but… god, this is a really bad time.

She shrugs, wheeling her suitcase beside the kitchen counter. She drops her phone there, pink case bright in the dim light, and leans on the marble with a sly grin. “I was getting bored just waiting around. We can watch the whole series final together this way.”

Great. Fantastic. He's never not happy to see Svetlana, but he really kind of wishes she had stuck to their original plan of watching the final together and then leading their depressed duo for Russia. It's their routine every year. 

Come to my cottage.

Ilya presses his palms over his eyes, exhaling hard. God, he's messed everything up. All of it. Any self-respecting omega will dump him on the curb for the kind of behavior he's just shown, and they could not be blamed. 

And can he really say that he hasn't done this to himself? That he hasn't done everything he could to keep Shane at bay since before the playoffs began? At bay, but close. So Shane would not leave when faced with the real repercussions that being together would have brought because he never would have had to experience them.

And even Shane Hollander, the best player in the league and the most beautiful, patient person Ilya has ever known, has his limits.

“Ilyusha?” Svetlana's voice reaches him, and so do her pheromones. An omega, like Shane, so her traits are more complex than Ilya's. Always a comforting freshness in chamomile and peach, like she's a glass of iced tea on a hot beach. But in Ilya's presence, in a safe space, she sweetens into caramel, tempered by burning firewood.

Ilya has always found solace in her, especially when the undertones of her scent reach for him with open arms. But it's not right. It doesn't slot inside him the way it used to. Maybe it hasn't since he was seventeen, and he's just been too guarded to notice how she never invokes in his alpha the same needy compulsion for touch, for proximity, the way Shane does just by existing.

“What's going on?” She asks, warm hands clasping his wrists and pulling, freeing his eyes. Whatever she sees there makes the aristocratic arch of her brow lower. “You look like hell.”

“I fucked up.” 

“What happened?”

“I'm such a fucking knothead.”

Her eyes widen slightly. “Wow. Which omega taught you that word?”

“My omega!” 

His alpha presses its muzzle to the ground, keeling over. He's never said it aloud. Not to anyone but Shane, and even then, he's only ever ground out the words in impassioned Russian while Shane's nails scrabbled over his back, bleeding over him, giving him every bit of his body like he can do nothing else, devotion overcoming. His thirst for Shane is a cancerous growth that will eventually kill him.

Understanding dawns on Svetlana's face.

“Is this about—”

There's knocking at Ilya's front door. Four knocks exactly, in quick succession, firmly made so each sound is deliberate and heard, followed by a patient silence. A sequence that Ilya hears in his sleep. A sequence his heart thrums to. A sequence used for years to unlock hotel rooms and spill a familiar treasure between his hands for a few precious hours.

There is only one person Ilya knows who knocks that politely.

Shane. Goddammit, Shane.

“Are you about to be murdered?” Svetlana asks, appropriately alarmed by how stiff Ilya goes.

Yes, he is. He definitely is. There is no way, no earthly possibility, that Shane could be here right now. He's in Montreal, for God's sake. He can't be here, outside Ilya's home, presumably armed with a machete or a hockey stick and ready to kill him.

The clock on his wall reads four in the morning. So, not only is Shane not asleep as he should be, he left his Montreal apartment at midnight at the latest, drove the four hours to Boston, and is currently stood outside Ilya's door. 

“I'm so fucked,” Ilya mutters, skin tightening. 

“I'll give you guys some privacy.” Svetlana scurries for her carry-on, her footsteps purposefully quiet. Ilya is about to ask her what for, it's not like Shane would— “And do not tell him that there's another omega in your house, Ilyusha.”

Right.

So. Very. Fucked.

She disappears into a darker portion of his house, leaving him standing in his kitchen, bare feet positioned towards the door. Swallowing hard, Ilya musters up the balls to move, trying to brace for whatever he might see. Tears? Fury? Maybe a teasing smile because he's a dumbass and Shane finds him funny instead of ground-breaking levels of stupid?

Ilya's hand trembles as he wraps it around the handle of his door, the other missing the lock a few times before he manages to twist it with a too-loud schlick! 

He opens the door.

A blur of black hair and navy athletic clothes barrels through, carrying the outside air with it: fresh morning dew, car fumes, and the taste of a very pissed-off omega. Counting to three in his head, Ilya closes the door and turns.

“Hollander, I—”

Strong hands grab him by the front of his shirt and slam him up against the wall in the entryway. Breath is knocked from his lungs, whooshing from him in a bewildered wheeze, and his alpha's first instinct is to fight back. He clamps a harsh grip on the wrists against his chest, but then Shane gets all up in his space, and every thread of violence unravels from Ilya's bones. He slumps against the wall, Shane's features coining into clarity.

Oh, fuck. He's so beautiful.

His brows are tightly drawn, the set of his mouth coquettishly set in a slight downward tilt. His freckles are alive above a livid flush, painting his cheeks down to his neck, where anger lives. Right above the hem of his hoodie, a pulse throbs, visible even in the dim light.

Ilya subconsciously pulls him in. Shane allows it, but clearly not for any reason other than to snarl right in Ilya's face.

“Too scared to scent me, but you'll piss-mark me like I'm your territory?” Shane demands, voice flat and yet still teeming with enough emotion to topple the Empire State Building. 

Ilya is trying, honestly trying, to remember that he needs to tell Shane about Svetlana. This isn't the kind of conversation they should have when someone else is listening. But Svetlana's warning rings in his ears; what's worse? Shane knowing another omega is in Ilya's space, or Shane saying things no one else should hear while someone is within earshot?

His open mouth produces nothing. Shane either doesn't notice or is too full of words to care.

“We can't scent each other publicly. Fine. I get it, okay? I fucking get it. And apparently, privately is also a problem unless it's you deciding when and where you get to stake your claim. Am I getting this right?”

“Shane, calm down, please.”

“You pissed on a goddamn jersey and sent it to me.” Shane shucks him higher against the wall, and Ilya's alpha keens. Yes, harder. “Did you think I'd be zen about that? What the hell did you expect, huh?”

“You– You are angry, I understand. I was not thinking, I swear—”

“No? You weren't thinking?” Shane surges close, hot breath ghosting over Ilya's chin, and Ilya's mouth automatically gasps open with a violent tremor at the promise of tasting the air from Shane's heavy lungs. “So you were finally following your instincts? Finally letting yourself take what's yours without your bullshit excuses stopping you?”

Ilya pauses, leaning back to examine Shane's face. The electricity in his eyes, the one Ilya had mistaken for anger, because he assumed that would be any omega's default reaction to a grossly inappropriate display like piss-marking.

It's not fury pouring off of Shane in waves. It's elation. Victory. Ilya had caved, had performed a gesture strictly reserved for mates, so, really, he's only proven Shane right.

Goddammit. He's so fucking fucked. 

Ilya gulps, projects strength he doesn't have into his voice. “They are not bullshit, and they are not excuses. We kept this casual for years for those reasons, Hollander.”

“Casual? You mean easy, right?” Shane pushes off him, carving unwanted distance between their bodies. Ilya loses grip on his wrists, and his hands hover in the empty space left behind. “You loved telling me how easy I am for you. How good I can be for just you. But the second—” he lifts a finger— “the second I start really offering all of me, asking you to have all of me, suddenly it's too much? Suddenly, you're scared?”

“I am trying to protect you!” Ilya throws his arms up, helpless. Of the two of them, Shane should be the logical one here, and yet Ilya is carrying that annoying burden. “I’m not scared to have you. All I want is you. It's always ever been you!”

“Then take me!”

“I can't!”

Shane turns away sharply and musses up his hair with both hands. His shoulders are heaving with his pants, and the sight of them makes Ilya realise he's breathing hard, too. Both of them, magnets suspended in air, one fighting the inevitable attraction while the second stays, vibrating to call the other closer.

“Can't or won't?”

Ilya sinks against the wall with a groan. “What?”

“Can't. Or. Won't.”

“What does it fucking matter?”

Shane tilts his head back, the long line of his throat a liquid, painted temptation. Shadows from the windows dance over his skin. Ilya wants to lick him like a horse with a salt rock.

“I can think of a few alphas who would.”

Ilya's inner alpha goes stock still. Every fibre of his body freezes with it. “Don't.”

But when has this stubborn omega ever listened to him?

“Solonevich, maybe. He's a prick, but maybe he just didn't get along with his ex-wife because he's hungry for something else.” Dark eyes flit towards Ilya. “Or Marleau. Didn't you tell me he was bi, too? JJ isn't an alpha, but we smell so good together, remember?”

“Hollander.”

“Rose wasn't afraid to scent me.”

Ilya jerks back like he's been slapped. In fact, his face burns like he had been. He stares at Shane like he can't believe his eyes, much less his ears. Much less the way Shane is looking back with no small amount of furious knowing.

“What did you say?” Ilya growls.

“Never in public. But she liked to rub her wrist on my thigh.” 

The mere image of that has Ilya's mind spiralling. Rose Landry, with her soft ginger hair and large blue eyes and her hand on Shane's thigh. Rose Landry, rubbing her alpha pheromones on the sensitive glands Shane has offered up to Ilya twice and has gotten twice rejected. 

Shane catches the storm towering over his face and inhales shakily. “Maybe we weren't compatible because she never fucked me. They have toys for that, you know.” He takes a dangerous step closer, filling the air with his scent, challenging and punishing all at once. “Maybe we should try again. Let her strap on a knot and give me what I need since you refuse to.”

Ilya lunges.

His hands grapple with Shane's hoodie, pushing him further into the house, the haze of his inner alpha finding purchase in his chest again. His dominant pheromones secrete so much that they condense into droplets on his neck and wrists. A smirk flashes across Shane's face.

“Getting worked up again, alpha?” He murmurs, leaning into Ilya even as Ilya keeps pushing him backward. His fingers sink into the curls at the nape of Ilya's neck. “But you still won't scent me, will you? Too much for you.” He wrenches Ilya closer, until their noses brush. “Gonna piss in my mouth this time? Leave your mark so Rose tastes you when she kisses me?”

"Я буду трахать тебя у неё на глазах, пока ты не забеременеешь (I'll fuck you in front of her until you’re pregnant),” Ilya snaps, rucking up Shane's hoodie and digging his fingers into the hot flesh of his sides. Shane gasps, throwing an arm around Ilya's shoulders just as he presses him against the kitchen counter.

“Maybe I should—” Shane hitches a small whimper as their clothed erections press hard, delicious friction bursting through, synapses firing— “maybe I should let her fuck me in my jersey so you smell her on my gear next time we play.”

“I will fucking kill her,” Ilya snaps into Shane's open mouth. They aren't kissing, but Shane's eyes are going sweet and gooey.

“You can't.” Fingers tug hard at Ilya's hair. “You're not even alpha enough to claim me from someone else.”

That's it.

Ilya rears back, taking Shane's body with him. Without preamble or fanfare, he spins him around and bends him over the counter. Shane groans, loud and clear, the sound slapping through the kitchen like a gunshot. Ilya pulls his hips back with a bruising grip between his legs, his other hand holding Shane down by his nape.

Fuck him, scent him, breed him, cripple him so he can never leave your side and go back to Rose stupid alpha Landry—

All of a sudden, Shane stiffens. Full body rigidity that stalls the movement of Ilya's hands, shrinking the red-fire vignette in his vision.

“Shane?” Ilya calls, his own voice a concerned waver. Slowly, he pulls back. “Did I hurt you?”

Shane doesn't reply, eyes fixed on something in front of him. Ilya can't see his expression, but the line of Shane's back is straightening, hips hinging back up so he's upright. Ilya peers around him to the counter, wondering what the fuck caught Shane's attention.

Svetlana's phone.

Its conspicuous pink case and the phone model that very obviously isn't Ilya's face up on the marble counter. Its string of heart-shaped beads is hooked through a loop in the case because Svetlana has a habit of dropping her phone if it isn't anchored to her wrist or bag. It's so obviously not Ilya's phone that, of course, it catches Shane off guard.

“Shane,” he says, grabbing Shane's elbow, trying to turn him. Shane angles his head up, away from Ilya, and inhales deeply. Ilya does, too, but he can't find any traces of pheromones other than Shane's and his own.

But apparently, Shane smells something else. Since when was he able to do that? His eyes spring towards Ilya, narrowed.

“You have an omega over right now?”

There's no describing the ice in Shane's voice, because it's unfathomable. Shane has never, ever, spoken to Ilya like that. Like Ilya's done the unthinkable and thrown a game for him.

“It is only Sveta, no one else.”

“Sveta?” Shane echoes. Ilya doesn't like how blank his face has gone. “Svetlana?”

“Yes, Svetlana. I told you she was coming, no?”

“You said she was going to watch the final with you. And that's why you refused to come over.”

“Well… Well, yes, but—”

“The final is at least a week away.”

Ilya glances around, like he might find the correct answer to this in his stupid, unused compost bin. His alpha bares its neck, and he's close to doing it, too. “She wants to stay for a bit longer, watch the whole series.”

Shane's nostrils flare. “Stay?”

“Yes?” Ilya actually squeaks.

Shane stares at him for a long, hard moment. Explanations begin to tumble from Ilya's lips — Svetlana is here because it makes travel easier, she's a close friend, she's not here for anything else — but Shane only pushes past him.

“No, no, no, no.” Ilya follows, his heart suddenly finding a new home in his throat. He can't do this again. He can't watch Shane run from his home because of another stupid thing Ilya did. His hand forms a snare around Shane's wrist. “Wait, no, don't do this.”

“Let go of me.”

“Shane, I promise you, nothing is going to happen between Sveta and me. Nothing has happened for so long, please.”

“Maybe, but she'll share your bed and your space because she's earned it, and I haven't.”

“No,” Ilya cries out, the denial punching through his chest, clamping his other hand down on Shane's arm. How can Shane think that? Is that really what Ilya is making him think? “She won't share my bed, Shane, no one will.”

“You don't have a guest room.”

They always sleep in the same bed. A habit of growing up together, that is true. But Ilya had meant share his bed more in the sense that Shane shares it. The way Shane belongs in it. Naked and sprawled and safe. But the fact that Ilya shares the bed, literally, with Svetlana because that's how they are is clearly written on his face. Shane, who might struggle to read expressions even on his best days, has no trouble parsing that.

He looks away from Ilya, like he can't bear the truth of that. He peels Ilya's hands off his arm. 

“I left the box with your clothes outside.” Shane makes for the door, shaking off Ilya's re-attempts at grabbing him, at stopping him, at begging. “Have fun with Svetlana.”

“Hollander, please don't leave like this.” Again.

“I'm not staying where I'm not wanted.”

And he leaves like that isn't the most blasphemous, untrue thing he has ever said. Not wanted. Not wanted. He's so wrong it's almost laughable.

Ilya stands frozen in his doorway, watching his door close behind the man he loves. The first time Shane had left like this — with the wrongness of a relationship shifted hung between them — Ilya hadn't watched him leave. Hadn't been able to pull himself up from the couch and bear witness to how Shane looked when he was running away. His hand had laid limp on the cushioned surface of his couch, gaze faraway while he stared into space, wondering what he had done this time.

Both his hands are outstretched this time. Like if he pleads better, Shane won't leave again.

I'm not staying where I'm not wanted.

Not I'm not staying with someone sleeping in the same bed as another omega. Not I'm not staying with an idiot who cannot decide what he wants. Not I'm not staying with an asshole who's been treating me like shit for months.

Pulling it all onto himself, taking the worst of the burden. Taking the blame. 

Tires retreat, shrill, outside. Pulling back from the driveway, headlights shearing through the windows and shining on Ilya's statued form like a detective’s flashlight. Then, darkness falls again.

Shane is gone. Again.

Ilya's hand searches for his phone, smacking against his pockets, and he pulls up Shane's contact. Calls. It doesn't even go to voicemail because Shane immediately declines it. Ilya calls again. And again. And again. And—

Svetlana's warm, manicured hand gently covers his screen, blocking his view. Not much of a view, really, with everything blurring. His eyes fill with tears, his throat clogging with years' worth of emotion, all threatening to spill forth.

Svetlana's face is kind, searching. Ilya sobs, sternum cleaving, “He thinks I do not want him.” 

“Oh, Ilyusha.” Her arms wrap around him, pulling him down to lean on her. His head buries into her shoulder. “Tell me what's going on.”

He has to stop for gas. So, he does.

Natural order of things. Gas runs out, so you stop to fill up the tank. Hunger starts gnawing at your intestines, so you head inside the station store and grab a can of ginger ale instead of something to fill your stomach up for the next two hours. Cashier lady talks to you, so you open your mouth to parrot off something nice, polite, maybe even a comment about how fucking early it is.

Nothing comes out.

Shane stands there, facing this young girl — fifteen, probably. Too young to present her secondary gender — and waiting for his brain and vocal cords to connect. He knows the words to say: yes, I'm having a good day. You? Because he's a functioning member of society and he can hold a fucking two second conversation.

Nope. Plug out of socket. His brain supplies very useful words, screams at him to speak, to say something, but his throat, his tongue, his mouth, have all decided to tap out for the morning.

So he nods. Pays. Avoids looking at the poor fifteen-year-old ringing up his ginger ale and then tails it back to his car. Fog settles in the crevices of his mind, tasting a lot like what Svetlana apparently smells like. Herbal, with a fruity caramel undertone and the smoke of a campfire. Elegant, refined, with the perfect hint of sweetness.

Nothing like Shane's. 

He gets back behind his wheel, full tank and ginger ale, and doesn't remember the rest of the drive home.

Chapter End Notes

boywithhollanov, as usual, made wonderful contributions to this chapter using her glorious editing skills. She's the one who put together that delightful jersey/dildo picture, so everyone say thank you, boywithhollanov. ALSO, in case the note Ilya left wasn't clear, boywithhollanov wanted to include a helpful translation.

Thank you for making it all the way down here! And here are the fics I promised :3

Say something, Jane by AlicefromtheNightmareland. This is a breakup/makeup fic where Ilya pulls a stupid and breaks up with Shane instead of going to the cottage and then has the AUDACITY to get engaged to Sveta LMAO I swear this was only 7k but it had my ass SAT. Underrated fic, please go give it some loving.

And, of course, by my baby: stay (cause you're all i need) by blankjournals. Do not be fooled by the opening paragraphs, just read through the bullet hole they leave in your chest because this is a delightful hurt/comfort fic. Blankjournals is just a sadist, but you can trust her to deliver happy endings that hit perfectly. Smoking that shit like a blunt.

Special thanks, as usual, to boywithhollanov , Ranya, and Inga for beta-reading! You guys rock!

Thank you for reading! See you for the next chapter xoxo

Chapter 4: I want you to name it, I do

Chapter Summary

People liked to speculate on mates being fated. Scientifically, mates are chosen on biological compatibility, just like everything in the wild.

Ilya's mind unhelpfully returns to the game in Montreal, the night before he left. Their mating dance on the ice. Shane's vicious glee, his innate strength, his ability to keep up with not only every alpha, but Ilya, too.

God, they're each other's mates, and Ilya's known it all along.

Chapter Notes

Holy fucking shit, I cannot even begin to express how thankful and overwhelmed I am by all the love and support this fic has garnered. I'm genuinely floored by all the lovely comments both here and on X, and I really cannot thank you guys enough for it all 🩷 I'm not a terribly emotional person on the regular but I did cry over this, so thank you all so much.

I hope this and the next chapter keep to expectations 🙏 all of your comments threatening Ilya were absolutely hilarious, they truly made me cackle. I'm sorry that the word count for this chapter is less than usual, I hope this much is enough!

P.S, to anyone whom I told that this chapter was going up Saturday night, it is TECHNICALLY Saturday where I am (literally like 1 AM lol), and boywithhollanov convinced me (too easily) to go ahead and post, so... yeah, blame or thank her for this one.

As always, peep the end of the chapter for fic recs!

(Chapter titles 3 + 4 are from Ariana Grande's Supernatural)

Hot water sprays down the taut, porcelain expanse of Shane's back, burning away the remains of the past few hours. His head hangs, palms pressed flat to the cool tile of the shower wall, staring down at his own bare feet as clear water sloughs over his body and into the drain. There should be blood mingling in, pinkening in the river swirling down his legs and into the sewage systems. His blood. Because it all hurts, every square inch of him.

Why? Why? Why does Ilya have to keep hurting him like this? There's obviously no pleasure in it for him; Shane could smell the stress practically weeping off his glands before he left. But it doesn't matter how hard Shane tries, how much he fights back, how he drips crimson from his teeth and bares his soft belly and shows Ilya how good he can be, because Ilya won't budge.

Ilya has Svetlana. An omega with gorgeous scent traits, which pisses Shane off to no fucking end. An omega who isn't on a rival team, who isn't a man, who loves hockey, who is Russian like Ilya, beautiful like Ilya, and good enough to fuck even though they're only friends.

Shane is apparently a friend, too, just not good enough to fuck like her.

Maybe he's just been wrong about all of this. Maybe the whole “this is becoming too much” excuse was just Ilya trying to find a way out of accepting Shane as a mate. Being rivals who fuck is tantalising, intoxicating, but the seriousness of a mate probably put Ilya off their once-blossoming relationship entirely.

All I want is you. It's always ever been you.

Liar, Shane wants to scream, even if his throat refuses to open, his tongue stubbornly immovable. 

Bracing on the wall, he breathes through a rough series of palpitations, wincing as his sternum twinges with an ache that doesn't subside or get worse even when he presses down; there's no bruise on the surface to torture.

He thinks of Svetlana. Sharing Ilya's bed, snuggled into the golden strength of his chest, elegant thigh thrown over his hips, kept safe in his embrace. Maybe she'll scent him to calm him down, to soothe the distress of his glands, because Ilya will allow her. 

Shane almost regrets torturing Ilya with the image of Rose scenting him, because it hadn't even been slightly true. Seeing how ferocious Ilya had been growing at the mere mention of Shane choosing another, Shane wanted to just shove the knife in deeper, make him snap, and now he wants to throw up.

He scrubs his sides with soapy hands, thumping his temple on the wall as he erases Ilya's touch. His omega shrivels up in his chest, acceptance snaking up from his core. It curls inside him, extruding the edges of its psyche to try and warm what's left of his heart. It knows how hard he tried to win Ilya back for it. It knows it isn't his fault. It's so tired. He's so tired.

It wants one last push before it gives up, suffusing his body with pre-heat uneasiness. One last-ditch effort. He thinks he can hear it pule, even as it attempts to comfort him.

I know, he tells it, closing his eyes. It's okay. I'll die with you.

“Did you have dinner with Stalin in a past life, Ilya Rozanov?!” 

Probably, because Ilya is apparently the spawn of the devil.

After crying in her lap for twenty minutes and then staring at nothing for an hour while she ran her fingers through his hair, Ilya finally regained the ability to speak and mustered up the courage to tell Svetlana everything. Starting that night in Montreal months ago, where Ilya had left his heart in Shane's hands and bolted like his ass was on fire. 

Forebodingly enough, when he mentioned not getting into Shane's nest and refusing his clothes, Svetlana's face had pinched as if she had taken a bite out of a lemon. Her expression got progressively worse as Ilya continued.

She's pacing now. Cursing eight generations of his forefathers in eloquent Russian while she reams into him like a knife on a wet napkin. 

“I have my reasons, Sveta,” Ilya tries, falling mum when she faces him. Her curls are in a bun, and her jacket is off, because apparently his bullshit is making her sweat and she needs the air to cool off.

“What reasons? That you are a knob-headed, stubborn, selfish dumbass?” Ouch, ouch, and fucking ouch. “Or that you are too scared to face yourself in the mirror, so you make it poor Shane Hollander's problem?”

It's easier, somehow, to explain to her than it is to Shane. Mostly because they're currently half-yelling at each other in Russian, and also because, of all people, Svetlana is the second to truly understand the stakes. And she also clocked his affection for Shane months — maybe even years — ago, so the fact that she essentially knows for certain that Hollander is the omega Ilya's been obsessed with for years helps. Or maybe that makes it worse, actually. 

Now, another person knows exactly the calibre of omega that Ilya has willingly given up. An omega cavemen used to kill for. 

Still. Ilya has his reasons

“Are we supposed to spend our whole lives hiding what we are to each other? From everyone who matters? And what if someone finds out?” Ilya gestures wildly. Why won't someone just fucking get it? “I cannot go back to Russia like that. You know I can't!”

“Fuck Russia. Fuck hockey. He is your mate.”

“But I am not his!”

Svetlana stares at him. “Never mind. Stalin would never have dinner with an idiot like you.”

“Sveta,” he whines, flopping helplessly onto his back with a protesting bounce from the couch beneath him. 

“I cannot believe this. What person would go through all that trouble if you were not their mate?”

And that's where the doubt lives. A hive in Ilya's mind, yielding not honey but poison, living in the wax of his ears and the saliva he swallows unconsciously, his body digesting what is a comfortable uncertainty.

“He likes me.” Tampa. Beautiful, life-changing Tampa. He stares up at the ceiling, swallowing down a wave of tears. I think I like you a little too much. “He told me so. But it is him who likes me. Him who wants me.”

“And you think that ‘like’ is separate from his omega?”

Yes. It is easier to like Ilya Rozanov, the hockey player, the lover, the jokester. It is easier to contend with his smoking and his cold moods and his closeted heart. It is another thing entirely to like Ilya Rozanov, the alpha. The animal. The soul.

Who is to say that, years down the line, Shane will still look at him, at Ilya Rozanov and his inner alpha, and his inner omega won't snarl in discontent? To fight against the innate instinct to settle for a mate and no one else — how can Ilya ask Shane to do that?

Svetlana presses her hands together in prayer and looks up at the ceiling, inhaling deeply, before she points both of them at Ilya.

“He built a nest, yes?”

“…Yes.”

“He allowed you in the nest, yes?”

“Yes.”

“The nest had his actual fucking clothes in it, yes? It was covered in his scent?”

“That's what a nest is.”

“Oh, look, he's getting smart with me. Where was all this brain when you rejected an omega's nest offering and then broke up with him?”

Ilya sits up and buries his face in his palms. He's so goddamn tired; crying and spilling his guts after hours of choking on anxiety is not doing any favours for the brain Svetlana is insulting right now.

“I know omega nests are important and sacred, but—”

“There is no but, Ilyusha!” Svetlana cuts in, blowing out a heated breath. “No omega will allow a random alpha into their nest. Never. Even if the first gender is head over fucking heels. The omega would become violent and lash out.”

Slowly, his hands lower from his face.

From anyone else, he might not have believed those words. There is a lot of misinformation on secondary gender behavior, mainly because it's a difficult thing to study when it is so embedded in the soul of a person. Something that animal can only be observed, but how can you unvine a creature so deeply entwined with the human psyche when it also acts as its own entity more than half the time? So, when think pieces on alpha/omega dynamics pop up on his feed or on commercials between TV episodes, Ilya waves them off as a load of hullabaloo.

“Guarding the nest…” His breathing deepens, truth looming over his head. “I thought that was just silly romance movie bullshit. Like running through airports to declare your undying love before they get on the plane.”

“It's not. It really, really isn't. We are too protective to let anyone but our mate or pups in our nests.”

Svetlana is not only his closest friend who has no reason to lie, but she's also an omega and has never allowed Ilya anywhere close to her nest, even when they used to fuck. She's never once invited him to her heats, and neither has any omega Ilya has bedded in the past.

Shane's is the first nest Ilya has ever seen in real life. Shane is the only one who has ever asked for Ilya to share his heat.

Oh.

Oh.

“I am his mate,” he mutters, dumbly, so fucking dumbly, it hurts to even voice it. 

Svetlana makes an exaggerated sobbing sound of relief, but Ilya is in too much of a reeling revelation to even be miffed that she's being theatrical. But is it really a revelation? Deep down, Ilya's alpha had known. Had always known. It's why it reacts so viscerally to Shane's presence, why the appearance of slick, the tinge of maple in his pheromones, excites it like a wolf on a hunt. It knows who its mate is, who it is mated to, and it's never questioned it.

Ilya himself hadn't known it. Because how can Shane's omega like him, too? This animal thing, deeply embedded in Shane's being, who knows better than Shane what he needs to thrive, why would it choose Ilya?

And yet, it has. Shane chose Ilya, and his inner omega chose Ilya's alpha. People like to speculate on mates being fated, like there's some wolf in the moon that smiles down on two when they are born, and from then their very souls can only smile at each other in her stead. 

Scientifically, mates are chosen on biological compatibility, just like everything in the wild. Ilya's mind unhelpfully returns to the game in Montreal, the night before he left. Their mating dance on the ice. Shane's vicious glee, his innate strength, and his ability to keep up with not only every alpha, but Ilya, too.

God, they're each other's mates, and Ilya's known it all along.

“And then you fucking reject him. I can't believe you, Ilyusha, how are you this dumb? I swear, it's only the male alphas that are so useless,” Svetlana says with a hiss, smacking her palm against her forehead as if that will solve anything.

“Even if— Even if we are mates, it doesn't mean my reasons suddenly become invalid,” he insists, because yeah. It might change the fact that Ilya is throwing away the only thing in his life that has ever fit right, but what is the alternative?

“Your ‘reasons’, huh? Okay, let's get into them.” She steps in front of him, leaning down with her hands on her hips. “Do you actually want to go back to Russia?”

He scoffs. “What kind of a question is that?”

“Very simple, knothead. Do you want to go back to Russia?”

“Why would I not want to?”

“There is nothing for you there. Grigori is rotting in hell, and Andrei is also rotting alive because he is useless at everything else.” She points to herself. “I am here. What's Russia for you?”

He opens his mouth, closes it. Opens it again. “Fine. What about our careers?”

She narrows her eyes. “You played like shit against San Jose, and you want to tell me it’s not because of him?”

Her words bristle across his skin. Shane may have been kind in saying Ilya played well, but Ilya knows he did not play his best despite trying his fucking hardest. He was sloppy. Off his timing. The stick felt wrong in his hands, and his alpha was so quiet that it messed with all five of his senses.

Before he can reply, she adds, “And he's clearly still going through Rejection Syndrome, so don't even try and act like this doesn't affect his career too.”

Alarm bells start ringing in his head, obnoxiously pitched. “Rejection Syndrome?”

“Wow, I forgot that you alphas don't know shit about omega biology.” She settles on the couch beside him for the first time in half an hour. She folds her legs beneath herself and grasps her phone, typing quickly, nails clicking across her screen. Ilya glares at the pink, remembering how Shane had frozen beneath him at the sight of it. 

After scrolling for a few minutes, Svetlana hands her phone to him. The screen is open on a medical site with a too-complicated logo strewn at the top of the page and an ugly font that immediately bores him. But the fact that she's even opened a medical site is reason enough for him to be the opposite of bored.

If rejection from a mate is perceived or given:

First Stage: irritability and a strong sense of destabilisation, characterised by constant restlessness…

The playoffs. Montreal vs. Tampa. Shane's aggressive play, the reports of his biting back in chirps, his dark eyes terrifyingly bottomless, which even a camera could pick up. The way blood dripped from his mouth after hard checks, but he hardly seemed to register the pain.

Second Stage: external stimuli outside of mate becomes unbearable at worst and stressful in the least. Omega becomes touch and scent averse… 

… In worst cases, intimate tones begin to shift and grow sour as the omega becomes disgusted by its own scent.

Ilya's throat tightens.

Used too much scent suppressant, made the glands angry. Could've been worse, right?

Third Stage: without the mate's scent, the inner omega will cause internal havoc on bodily functions and organs… 

—concussion and a fractured collarbone, inflamed scent glands and apparently some odd arrhythmia…

Scent-averse symptoms fade as the omega welcomes any attention that will soothe it. Close friends and family are strongly advised to scent the afflicted omega to prevent the destruction from accelerating. 

… This stage takes the longest to pass, depending on the stubbornness of the omega and whether or not the mate is still present.

Shane's relentless pursuit, his constant appeals to Ilya's jealousy and possessiveness. Was he trying to slow it down, the sickness, the rejection? 

Is that why, even when Ilya sent a jersey covered in his own piss, Shane had been more elated at the surrender than offended by the gesture? Because it was soothing his symptoms? 

Final Stage: mate death; complete secondary gender shutdown. Intimate scent traits are deconstructed, leaving behind a beta-like constitution. Reverse rejection is not possible at this stage. 

Oh fuck. Oh fuck.

“Did you see the articles they wrote about him?” Svetlana asks, quieter. Somber. She's watching Ilya, guiding him as he tries to make sense of his entire world, rearranging on its axis. “All that bullshit about omegas being too volatile for hockey?”

He remembers. Full of shit, the lot of them, and he'd thought so even without this new information overwhelming his mind. None of them really held water in the grand scheme of things, because Shane Hollander is the best player in the league, and his secondary gender has nothing to do with it. He's proved every single article wrong before they were even written, but they were written anyway.

Shane had definitely gotten shit from his coach. Ilya himself called him a goddamn hellcat.

And then Marleau—

“The hit,” Ilya whispers. His fingers twitch for a goddamn cigarette. “He went down too hard for a hit like that. He was weaker.”

Because of me.

Shakily, he drops the phone on the coffee table, inhales coming in pin-pricked to his freezing lungs. This is all of his fault, entirely. There is no working around that, no diversion to soften the blow. Shane would not have ended up in the hospital if not for Ilya. He wouldn't be having heart issues if not for Ilya.

Would he have won the Cup, if not for Ilya? Did Ilya, in his ignorance, in his ruthlessness, strip that from him, too?

How can Ilya ever fucking face him? This isn't living an ocean across and sending money home, holding up a foundation he's never present for. This is the plague tightening blood vessels to choke the brain until it yields and slowly loses itself, its memories, its life.

Svetlana sighs softly, snapping him from the spiral his mind is dropping in. “He's probably in the third stage right now. The fact that he could smell me means he's in pre-heat, too.”

“Now?” Ilya's head jerks towards her. “But should his heat not be in the summer if he wants— wanted me to join him for it?”

She gestures to her phone, still open on the nightmarish medical site. “It is a symptom. It's maybe the most painful heat an omega will ever experience. It is like a… kind of like a last effort to win back the mate before the omega accepts the rejection.”

Accepts the rejection. Meaning mate death. Meaning Shane's intimate scent will disappear, and he won't be an omega anymore. He won't be a beta either, not really, but some amalgamation of a beta and whatever someone calls a secondary gender that is nothing at all.

Ilya's mate will die. Shane will live, but never whole again.

Shane will never forgive him for it if it happens.

Ilya will never forgive himself if it happens, either.

He's running the flat end of his toothbrush against his wrist when the knock comes, staring down as oils are stimulated to the surface of his skin and spread over the polished bamboo surface. He isn't even brushing his teeth; his bathroom smells a bit too much like the cleaner he'd used to mop, and it's been bothering him since he came in to pee twenty minutes ago. So, now, every neatly arranged bottle by the shower, his personal grooming products, his toothbrush, and the lifted toilet seat all smell like him. It's a tad uncomfortable. He should clean again.

Another knock. More insistent, this time. Shane lolls his head towards his bathroom door as if that will somehow teleport him to the entryway. God, everything is so fucking tiring.

He knows who's there. Who's waiting for him to open the door. Who will wait until he opens the door.

Lily

shane

i'm very sorry

i'm so stupid

i won't leave you like this i promise

Unexpected as the texts had been, they were disgustingly effective. Almost as soon as Shane registered the words i won't leave you like this, his omega's depressed little ball in his chest unfurled, sensing sunlight. Hope is a fickle thing, which is a terribly cliché sentiment, but it's awfully true. 

For once, both Shane and his omega await, pathetically, for more from Ilya Rozanov. Once, it had been Shane, years ago. Then, months ago, it was his omega. Both times, they'd been at odds. Now, they both hinge on the same electric telephone wire like little birds huddled together in the dawn.

Then,

Lily

i am coming

i will take care of you

no more pain 

not anything you do not want, okay?

i will cook or clean or anything else you need 

i will bring clothes and i will not touch you unless you allow

want to see your beautiful nest again

let me earn it this time

And then, five hours later,

Lily 

im outside. can i come in?

is 1919 still the code? 

nvm, i will not use it without permission to enter 

sweetheart, let me inside, let me make you feel better

i will stay out here for the whole week if i have to

my pretty mate

please

Shane is only a person. A weak one, at that, judging by how quickly his heart turns when he sees those words on his phone screen. Mate. Ilya coming here to seemingly grovel is already enough of an unbelievable turn of events, but for him to use that word, to put it in writing, where it would take deliberation to send rather than spoken by the impulse of the moment…

So, yeah, Shane's spine is made of spun sugar.

Leaving the bathroom, he pads across his Montreal apartment. His footsteps are cushioned to silence by thick socks warming his feet, every rustle of clothing inaudible as he's chosen the softest materials he owns to wear. He's brushed his hair so much that his scalp is still tingling, and he wants to do it again.

He pauses at the front door, staring down at the handle. Inside his chest, his heart wobbles, a stark pain cracking hot lightning on his ribs. He wants Ilya here; he knows he does, but he isn't exactly happy with him, either. 

Shaking his head, he opens the door, and, given everything and all it feels, his omega snarls loud enough to drum his ears.

Ilya stands in the hallway, hand loosely cradled around the handle of a small suitcase, and his phone screen bright in the dim light. It's only been a few hours, but Shane's lungs kick-start like he hasn't seen Ilya in months. 

He looks, quite frankly, exhausted. Curls still slightly damp at his temples like he took a shower before coming, his blue-hazel eyes heavy but hopeful, dressed in a loose tank top, khaki shorts and sandals. As if he's going to vacation in some cabana and sip fruity alcoholic drinks for the summer instead of wither in front of Shane's apartment.

He clearly hasn't slept, just like Shane hasn't. Nevertheless, his swallow complexion brightens when he notices that Shane's opened the door, though it's muted.

“Hi,” he starts, tucking his phone away. He makes no move to enter, but he loosens his stance. Shane narrows his eyes at him, and he has the decency to look awkward about their current circumstances.

“I know you are in pre-heat,” he says, keeping his hands at his sides. Shane realises that he's deliberately exposing himself, and not just in how he stands. All his scent glands are either open to the air or under incredibly loose clothing, so they're easy to get to.

Shane's omega chuffs about that. Bet he still stinks of Svetlana.

He expects some kind of answer from Shane, an acknowledgement, but Shane isn't able to give him anything. There's only so much space in his brain, and none of it is currently allocated for speech, so he examines Ilya and hopes that whatever his eyes say, Ilya can read.

And maybe he can, because he nods and dips his chin. Sniffs and itches at his nose, then looks up again. “I know you are in pre-heat,” he repeats, and Shane almost snorts. No shit, I've been scenting my goddamn toilet. “And I want to help. It is my fault you are like this and— and I cannot let it get worse.”

Shane just stares.

“I did not know about this thing. Rejection Syndrome.” Ilya's eyebrows scrunch when Shane flinches at the mention, elbows hitching like he wants to reach out, but he smartly keeps his hands to himself. “I did not realise that you were going through this, and I'm so sorry, Shane. I was so wrong and cruel.”

Yes, he was. All of those things. Wrong, cruel, and also a dumbass. And now he's standing in front of Shane's apartment with a suitcase, feet planted in the ground like he's not going to leave even if Shane tries to chase him off.

He takes a tentative step closer. “Smell me, любимый (beloved),” he coaxes.

Against his better judgment, Shane allows himself to step up to the threshold of his front door, but no further. He sticks his head out and sniffs, deeply anticipating Svetlana's peach-smoke on Ilya's skin or clothes, or even his luggage. His omega is coiled up, teeth bared, ready to bite.

But there's nothing. Only cashmere and dry leaves, Ilya's usual scent. Faint, because he'd showered, but still there. Shane sniffs again, anyway, multiple times, angling his head this way and that as if he might somehow find an errant trace of another omega somewhere on his mate so Shane could bar him entry.

Ilya offers up his wrist. Shane only hovers close enough to get the strongest whiff of Ilya's scent before he pulls back.

“Smell okay?” 

He nods, and Ilya's expression slackens with relief. It's kind of cute, but Shane is still deciding if he wants to throttle him or not.

“May I come inside? I will only go in the living room and kitchen, yes?” Ilya pushes his suitcase near for Shane to see it. Small, black, and clean. “I will be quiet, I promise. I will be good.”

Maybe the smarter thing would be to close his door and let Ilya stew. After all, Shane has spent months trying to get this very outcome, and it's only now that he's in pre-heat that Ilya comes running. It's borderline suspicious, and if Shane didn't think highly of Ilya, he'd definitely walk away now and let him suffer in the hallway for however long he lasts.

But he does think highly of him, even when he's an asshole. Because Ilya is the type of person who takes care of his shitty ass father in his old age and doesn't even complain. 

Ilya inhales shakily, and god, how dare he look so pitiful? Shane is the one dying, here. “If that is… if it is not okay, I will stay out here. Until you let me inside. But I will not go.”

Shane's omega grunts, and yeah. Fine. Sugar spine and shit.

In lieu of an answer, he strides inside and allows Ilya to help himself. He hears Ilya roll his suitcase in, careful not to make any loud noises as he shuts the door and toes off his sandals. 

Now that he's here, Shane isn't sure what to do about it. His pre-heat symptoms are not exactly making him agreeable, which is not at all aided by the fact that he isn't too keen on being a good host. And he can't speak, offer a glass of water or some tea. 

Plus, he doesn't think Ilya deserves a good Canadian housewarming at the moment. In fact, he might deserve to get a few pillows chucked at his stupid, cute head.

Bare feet slap toward him, the sound of skin on hardwood floors itching at his ears. Whirling around, he glares at Ilya's toes like they're crocodile teeth threatening to chomp his calf. Why are his damn feet so fucking loud?

“Are… I took a shower. My feet are not dirty,” Ilya says, lifting a foot to show Shane the skin underneath. Pristine. No wonder they're so audible.

Shane's nostrils flare. 

“Shane.” Hands reach out for him. Strong hands. Warm hands. Hands he's been dreaming about for months, years, waiting with bated breath for the next moment they touched him like he mattered.

Shane's omega curls away, and he takes a step back.

Pain flashes across Ilya's face, quickly revamped, and he drops his arms. “Sweetheart, will you not talk to me?”

There are many answers to that. Years of answers. Seventeen and cold in Saskatchewan, the urge to speak to an alpha with blond curls and a fascinating skill on the ice. Eighteen and drafted second, but only able to think about blue eyes already looking at him when he'd searched above. Nineteen and realising that talk was not really what was going to happen in hotel room 1410.

Twenty-one and pressing his lips to a forehead that smelled of his own body wash, blood warm and pheromones sticky with maple and cypress. 

Twenty-three and wishing his urge to talk hadn't deprived him of a kiss.

All Shane wants is to talk to Ilya. About everything and nothing at all. About how he wants him, loves him, knows nothing but how to breathe for him. How his first thought the moment he wakes stopped being about hockey since he was seventeen, and it took him eight years to understand what that meant.

And then the first time Ilya asks to talk, Shane is unable to.

He blinks, low and lazy, and looks pointedly down at Ilya's bare feet. Points to his own socks, then walks away.

True to his word, Ilya only occupies the living room and kitchen and uses the downstairs bathroom after asking Shane if it's okay. When Shane comes downstairs after a long nap, Ilya’s suitcase is nestled beside the couch he's sleeping on, out of the way, until Shane wordlessly rolls it to the guest bedroom. 

There are socks on Ilya's feet the next time he walks around. It does nothing to soothe Shane's omega, but his own brain settles when quiet is re-established in his apartment. For some time, anyway.

The first day is an exercise in teaching an alpha how to avoid getting bit. Ilya seems to have read up in advance, but the internet can only be equipped with generalisations about omega pre-heat behavior, and definitely can't prepare Ilya for Shane Hollander's pre-heat behavior.

He does seem to be aware of Shane's need to scent basically everything. He doesn't even blink when Shane stares at his phone, only hands it over and smiles when it receives the same treatment as the toothbrush, the silicone spatula, the TV remote, and the handle of Ilya's suitcase. He takes to leaving shit around, which should piss Shane off, but the moment he sees a piece of clothing inconspicuously hung on the arm of his couch or on the kitchen stool, his hindbrain purrs and he's tucking it under his own shirt to rub on his chest glands.

But there is also a lesson in keeping a distance. More than once, Ilya has drifted too close to Shane, seeking touch. Offering comfort. Each and every time, Shane bares his teeth in a vicious snarl, and Ilya is forced to step back until Shane's hackles relax back into his neutral expression. The annoying thing about that whole debacle is how quickly Ilya's eyes melt from hurt to fond agony when Shane goes back to only staring at him again, like he wants to call him cute and kiss him for it.

Weird, stupid alpha with the survival instincts of a plastic yellow duck in a sewer.

Ilya keeps his distance after Shane genuinely snaps his teeth with the threat to bite on the second day of hovering like a helicopter. Too much distance, at first. 

“I thought you did not want me to be near you,” Ilya points out when Shane drifts into the guest bathroom to watch him brush his teeth on the second night. Close enough to smell him, but at a distance.

Shane says nothing. The flat edge of his mouth hopefully conveys that Ilya is dumb.

Ilya understands. Toothpaste froths around his lips when he spits into the sink. “Ah. No touching, but you want to see me, yes?”

There's no need for an affirmation, because Shane's gaze caresses the line of Ilya's arms. Ilya flexes for him, and maybe the sun should take a vacation since the grin that brightens his face when Shane's lips tip upward is blinding.

“My alpha goes quiet without you.”

Shane pauses mid-motion, staring ahead at the geometric painting on the wall opposite him. The yoga mat is foamy under his soles, and his spine tingles with the knowledge of eyes fixed on him. Exhaling, he settles into a high lunges like he'd intended, but tilts his head slightly to show he's listening.

“It is very annoying. I did not feel it for many weeks unless I was texting you.” Ilya is sprawled on the couch behind him, and he's been watching Shane go through his yoga routine mostly silently until now.

Grimly, “I did not know it was dying, like yours. Stupid, huh?”

Shane nods. Ilya chuckles, though the sound lacks his usual biting humor.

“But yours was much worse than whatever I felt, and I did not notice until it was almost too late.” There's the sound of rustling, and as Shane rises from his lunge to switch sides, Ilya appears in his peripheral with a throw blanket in tow. He fluffs it on the floor, then plops down onto his stomach, chin resting on his arms.

His high brow and remorseful eyes settle in Shane's vaulted heart, needling at the hinge. Thief. Maybe it's alpha confidence that makes Ilya aware that he can always just steal Shane's heart for a second time now that he knows he can.

Ilya rubs his chin on his hand, back and forth. “It is loud now, my alpha, because of you. Because you are healing him just because you let me breathe near you.”

Shane's gut cinches tight, his gaze sliding towards the alpha sprawled on his floor. Ilya's face crumples at the unforgiving bitterness Shane knows he can see in his eyes, but fuck him, he smiles softly anyway, as if he's happy Shane is even looking at him.

“Sorry, I won't speak.”

No… talk, please…

Shane nods and resolutely focuses on his yoga, only allowing himself glances at Ilya through the corner of his eye.

Ilya has sat through quiet before. Plenty of times. 

Planted on the floral carpet of his home in Moscow at ten, cross-legged and shrimp-postured over the coffee table while he did his homework, keeping even the scratch of his pencil slow. Mama always sat there with her coffee, and if Ilya wanted to sit with her, he had to be quiet, or his father would lock him in his room with a scarf tied over his mouth.

After bad games, or after losing the playoffs, the Raiders’ locker room is eerie quiet. Hope dashed down to whatever happens to unreachable concepts when burned to ash. Ilya needs that quiet, stomach rocking with disappointment.

His Boston home when Shane left the first time, and then again when Ilya had driven home when he left. That damn place has seen too much of their walking away, so much so that the silence is almost unbearable if he thinks too long about homes and where they really are if not the physical walls holding everything he owns.

The silence of Shane's apartment is different. All-consuming, stretching from every corner like yawning shadows crawling over his limbs. Shane handles the chaos of the rink on the regular, the ruckus of the press, the bright flash of lights, cameras, action. He handles it all with his polite smile and Canadian charm, more of a superstar than Ilya can ever aspire to be.

And yet, here, he glares when the TV volume edges on too high. Flinches if Ilya dares to walk around without socks. Shrinks away if Ilya speaks too loud. It makes Ilya's heart ache something awful to see, to witness how Shane won't speak, won't exist, in what Ilya has always prided his image on. Loud, rowdy, no-good assholery. Arrogance that gets him decked regularly. Sexual appeal that wins him favor and pleasure.

None of that works here, in Shane's enclosure. For what he needs to recover from what Ilya has done to him. He doesn't need Ilya's brash laughter or sensual touch or  cocky banter. He needs Ilya in his most raw form, filed down, edges sanded away to the mineral core.

His core is so fucking sensitive that exposing it hurts almost as much as almost losing Shane forever did.

It's late, but Ilya can't sleep. With Shane so close, yet too far, he can barely breathe right. But he hasn't yet earned the right to reach for Shane during the day, let alone when he needs the most privacy in slumber. His chest and stomach both riot at him, cramping so terribly that he has to curl into a ball and grit his teeth.

If he hadn't been such a dick, where would he be? Upstairs, safe in Shane's nest, exchanging languid kisses with his mate? Scenting him? Adoring him?

He almost killed Shane's secondary gender. Almost killed his own. It sickens him to think about it, but he refuses to distract himself with anything but that reality, otherwise he worries he'll forget. He's lucky Shane's granted him a chance to mend things. More than lucky. God, he should kiss the ground Shane walks on, shouldn't he?

So much of his time is now filled with his own soft words, trying and failing to bring Shane back to him. 

“That was terrible slapshot. Do you think it is because he is used to using his right hand exclusively? What? There is no way anyone is sleeping with that guy.”

“The rain is nice, why not open the windows? Let fresh air in? Ok, ok, no need to shoot lasers at me.”

“I miss you. I always miss you. Do you miss me? Walking away is still an answer, Hollander.”

“Talk to me. Please, sweetheart. I need your voice, why aren't you talking? Don't you want to yell at me?”

At the very least, Shane doesn't always glare daggers at him, now. Sometimes, he smiles. Sometimes, he rolls his eyes. To know Ilya can still be forgiven is nothing short of a miracle.

He turns over, blanket rustling, wishing for the familiar, muscular frame of his beloved to cuddle against and having to contend with emptiness. He won't catch many hours of rest tonight, he knows, but at least he can picture Shane's lovely face, even if it glowers at him for using the wrong cleaner for the bathroom floor.

Ilya blends in seamlessly with Shane's environment by the third day.

He moves quietly, with socked feet and only a pair of joggers most of the time. He always stays within periphery, but if he's in another room, he will occasionally make a deliberate noise, as if reminding Shane he is still there. Two animals co-existing in an enclosure, one pacing the perimeter, the other waiting on a sun-warmed rock for company. Shane's omega is pleased by Ilya's persistence, by his ability to adapt.

The TV is on for the final series, and the volume is turned as low as possible. Shane's mom is absolutely convinced that the Admirals will win this year, and Shane politely couldn't give less of a shit, but he pretends he does.

Mostly, he's trying to handle his sanity. There are periods where he can only shut himself in his bedroom, strip off his clothes, and stay under the blankets until his lungs remember their function. Stealing blips of time where nothing matters but soaking vulnerability alone, remembering his limbs where yoga and exercise don't help.

And then his omega whines, his heart hurts, and he goes searching for Ilya again.

Notably, his arrhythmia is in remission. So, hopefully, that sweet blood crap is gone, too. The gradual convalescing of his body softens his own behavior towards Ilya when the Admirals score their second win of the finals series.

Amongst the plethora of roadblocks co-existing in the apartment, there is a significant issue that might be driving them both insane.

He doesn't cook when he's like this; non-speaking and overwhelmed. The most he can manage are easy-to-access fruits or vegetables, a granola bar, something that doesn't require changing pots and boiling water and decision paralysis on what he should eat. But the pre-heat immobilises even these simple things because it isn't what his omega wants. Like a bear preparing for hibernation, it craves shit that Shane has no energy to make, much less the actual resources to do so.

So, to put it mildly, Shane is not eating. 

He's drinking fine — water and tea, mostly — but he outright refuses to even deign to look at his own fridge because the thing disgusts him in its uselessness.

“Shane, you have to eat something,” Ilya urges, a curl of frustration edging in his voice as he pushes a bowl of steaming food close to Shane on the kitchen counter.

This is definitely not the first time Ilya has cooked something, and if Shane were in a better state of mind, he'd feel guilty about refusing food. It's a waste, and Ilya has gone through the effort of making something that fits Shane's usual bird food diet for like the fifth time now.

This bowl is still warm with brown rice, butternut squash cubed and distributed over a bed of kale, and there's even a dressing that Shane ordinarily wouldn't have bothered with. It looks good, all things considered. And he would rather stick a chainsaw down his throat than eat it.

The first few times Shane denied food, Ilya had looked hurt, but didn't push, probably thinking that Shane's aversion was because Ilya cooked, not because of any other reason. But he figures out pretty quickly that Shane just isn't eating at all.

“Sweetheart, please.” Ilya follows Shane out of the kitchen, leaving the bowl on the counter “This is not healthy. You are killing me, doing this. Just have a bite.”

If Shane could, he would explain that his omega is refusing the food, that if he tries to eat, he will vomit it up, and that is way worse than dealing with the hunger squeezing his stomach. He can't explain, so he just walks towards the staircase, shaking his head.

A curse in sharp Russian is the only warning Shane gets before a warm hand curls around his wrist. The shock of touch thrums through his entire nervous system, confusing flashes of heat and cold irritation rippling through him. It scuttles up his arm, thousands of tiny legs pinching sensitive flesh.

Oh, this motherfucker—

He isn't sure which side of him is responding; Shane or the omega within, maybe one and the same. His head rears towards Ilya, glaring daggers. He lifts the wrist caught in Ilya's hand up to his face and sinks his teeth into the vulnerable flesh of Ilya's forearm. Hard, until they almost break through skin.

“Fucking—!” Ilya hisses, eyes flashing as he stiffens, but then he stops. His expression melts. 

“So vicious,” he murmurs, pupils dilating until the glassy blue of his eyes is swarmed by the same black Shane is sure his own gaze is consumed with. “You look like an angry puppy. I did bad, hm? Should not touch you without permission.”

Shane digs his incisors in, a rumble in his throat.

“Sorry, sweetheart, I know, I was bad.” Ilya says, coaxing, cocking his head and exposing the long arch of his throat. “You want my blood? Will you eat this instead of boring brown rice?”

The omega in Shane's core wriggles, intrigued, and isn't that a revelation and a half? To taste Ilya by the flesh, not surface-level, but to claw into the vulnerable curve of his belly the way no other alpha or beta or omega ever has and consume his innards, bloody and steaming.

They remain locked in this position for several minutes, Ilya crooning apologies, keeping his neck open. The display of submission is more impactful than his words. 

Slowly, Shane unhinges his jaw, bones creaking in his head. Before he parts, he laves an apologetic lick across the indents his teeth have left behind on Ilya's forearm, heat tingling at his cheeks at Ilya's soft coo.

“Still so sweet.” He makes a show of kissing the indents, lips glistening with Shane's saliva.

Shane slow-blinks at him. 

Ilya's brow re-furrows. “Shane, please, come and eat. I will make whatever you want, but I need you to eat something. I will put my blood in soup or something and you can drink it up like a mosquito.” Shane rolls his eyes. “Hey, being stubborn is not good now.”

And there is something to be said about how speaking should never feel like trying to fish your own words from your gullet. Like you've swallowed a hook and desperately need to pull out the line while the sharp tip scores you on the way out. Coughing, hacking, fighting hot tears as if there's acid in your eyes.

“Can't.” It comes out so garbled that it can't possibly be understood, but Ilya's face goes crestfallen anyway, so Shane hauls ass up the stairs so he doesn't have a meltdown in front of him. 

That single word bounces around in his head like some discordant ping-pong ball. Cantcantcantcantcantcantcant—

Can't speak, can't eat, can't think, can't breathe.

But he can find solace under his blankets. 

Ilya

sveta I am losing my fucking mind

he will not eat (((

i can't breathe like this

Svetlana

What have you been making him?

Ilya

shit from his ridiculous monk diet

brown rice and dog tears 

Svetlana

 lol you're so stupid

 Here, dumbass

 [link attachment]

Ilya

FUCKING WAFFLES?? I WASTED MY LIFE ON UGLY GREENS AND HE NEEDS WAFFLES?????

Svetlana

He's in pre-heat, not in playoffs season

Ilya

i'm so fucking stupid

thank god he lives near stores

Bacon.

It rouses him from beneath his cocoon of blankets in an elegant siren’s call. Meaty, greasy, drifting in from outside his bedroom door and finding him with gentle fingertips to his lips. He pops his head out from beneath the covers, eyes scrunched to adjust to the dim light, and sniffs the air just to be certain.

Yeah. Bacon.

His inner omega stirs. For the first time in days, his mouth waters.

The clock reads late in the evening, close to the next game. Shane climbs out of bed and dresses himself before he heads downstairs to investigate the smell. It should bother him, because everything is bothering him, but his inner omega is drooling and slobbering like a ravenous beast, so who is he to protest?

There's music playing, which only picks up when he's at the foot of the staircase because of how low the volume is kept. A classical piece, but not one he recognises because music is not something he has a particular interest in. EDM beats or whatever song that keeps his limbs moving will work for his training, but otherwise, he doesn't really care.

This one is piano only, climbing and lowering in rhythm that is predictable, easy to follow. It instantly nestles in the back of his mind and stretches over his cranium, relaxing the muscle, the fluid, until he views the world through a calm haze.

Ilya is in the kitchen again, back to Shane, clad only in a pair of grey sweatpants and fuzzy black socks. His curls are wispy around his ears and nape, acting out from the heat and frenzied movements of cooking. His head sways minutely to the piano while his hands move unhurriedly over Shane's stove. There are stronger smells here. Not just bacon, but batter, thick and creamy and heavy with flour, guarded by sizzling that is somehow just as quiet as the music, like Ilya's kept the heat as low as he can.

Pain smarts in Shane's chest at the domestic picture in front of him. Ilya is in his home, his space, in this little love nest Shane had bought several years ago to be theirs alone. Cooking for him, listening to music and taking sips from a mug of coffee as if it isn't five in the evening. Shane has bitten back pleas for months prior for this very scene, days where, even in his teasing Ilya by inciting his jealousy, all he had been able to think was: just please let me be yours. Let us be together. Please don't make me keep doing this, Ilya. I'm tired. I need you.

And now, he has it. 

Curiosity outweighs the bitter anger harboured inside him, encouraging him to approach this golden scene. It must be difficult for Ilya to see properly; the lights are switched to their lowest setting. The only comparable feeling to walking into this moment is when he first had Ilya in his nest. Before everything.

God, it hurts. It hurts so good, now. This pain of getting what he’s always needed.

Ilya senses his hovering and glances over his shoulder, twirling a spatula in his hand.

“Hungry?” 

How can a simple, everyday question sound so uncertain? Blue eyes flit, quick as a racing pulse, over Shane's face. Shane peers at the stove with a duck of his head.

Bacon delightfully browned and glistening in a pan. Beside it on the counter and plugged in is a waffle-maker. Which Shane has never owned, so it's either brand new or Ilya lugged a fucking waffle-maker from his place in Boston on the off chance Shane would be open to it. A measuring cup emptied halfway of batter, the mixture globbing onto the sides and pooling onto the plate kept mindfully beneath it to contain the mess.

His eyes grow heavy. God, the carbs and empty sugars in consuming any of this would genuinely be an affront to his body on any other day.

Right now, it sounds and smells better than sex.

“I'll plate it for you,” Ilya supplies, gesturing for Shane to take a seat on one of the stools. He piles on two waffles already done, scoops up the bacon from the pan and spreads them on top, setting the plate down with a generous drowning of maple syrup on top. Shane blinks, and then there's also a small splash of cinnamon sugar.

It's decadent. Two perfectly square waffles with golden crusts bathed in ribbons of crispy bacon and liquid sugar. This is so bad for him.

And the plate carries the faintest whiff of Ilya's scent.

Cutlery slides over to him, shiny and clean, cool in his hands. With Ilya watching him like a hawk, he picks up the knife and fork, spinning them in his grip for a second before he cuts into the first waffle.

His first bite of food in almost four days hits his tongue like a nuclear explosion. Salty, sweet, buttery. The waffle is fluffy inside, puffy as a cloud, but the bacon gives a pleasant crunch. It tastes so goddamn good that Shane's eyes flutter closed and a whimper escapes his throat

“Shh, дорогой (darling),” Ilya soothes, shoulders dropping. “Eat slowly.”

Another whine.

“I know, but slow. Your stomach is delicate because you are a stubborn idiot, and you may get sick if you eat too fast.”

Shane chews every bite until it's properly broken down before swallowing, which does extend the meal from a quick ten minutes to a half-hour affair. Ilya finishes up the rest of the batter and leaves the waffles out to cool, then washes the dirty dishes dutifully. Shane slices small pieces, chews, and counts every mole on Ilya's back.

The plate is cleared by the time the dishes are washed, but Shane does pick up a third waffle to mop up the leftover syrup and bacon grease. His stomach settles, filled and warming him up like a mini campfire, his mouth pleasantly sticky and sweet.

Ilya wipes down the counter with a damp cloth, humming along to the music, his brow more relaxed than it has been in days. He notices Shane's nose scrunching after the first clean, so he rinses the cloth and does another sweep without complaint.

He night be enjoying this a little too much. Shane snags a fourth waffle and doesn't think about that too much.

Ilya slips a mug of tea towards him after he's done cleaning, then braces his palms on the counter.

Uh oh.

“You look like scared rabbit,” he says when he sees Shane's wary expression, exhaling a laugh through his nose. “Relax, Hollander. I only want to say something, okay?”

Oh, so ply him with sugar and then spring an emotional conversation on him. Oldest trick in the fucking book. If Ilya didn't look so earnest, Shane would have called it sneaky.

Thin ice, Rozanov.

But god, the food is good.

Shane dabbles up some syrup and pops waffle in his mouth. The sight of him eating clearly brings Ilya pleasure, if the satisfied grin on his face is anything to go by. It's endearing to watch him like this, proud that he's managed to get Shane to eat when they've both been struggling with it for days. There's stubble forming on Ilya's jaw and upper lip, and Shane is surprised to find that his first thought is that he hopes he can feel the drag against his thighs soon. He hasn't thought about sex or anything of the sort since his pre-heat began; even the mention of it probably would have irritated him.

But the emergence of that tiny thread of desire is welcome. He likes feeling good. Maybe it's the very sexy bacon. Or maybe it's Ilya's disarming gaze tracing over Shane's face and free hand as it curls around the mug.

Ilya looks away, focusing on the counter while he speaks. “I… I did not…” he stops, grinding knuckles on marble, either trying to find the words or the courage to say what he needs to. “I did not realise that your omega saw me as a mate.”

Shane freezes with the mug halfway to his mouth. What.

“You liking me does not mean that your omega does, too,” Ilya points out, because the incredulity on Shane's face is obvious. “And my experience with omegas is very… small. Okay, not small, but limited. I never saw any omega nest before. Yours was the first.”

The mention of his nest brings an uncomfortable redness to his face, which he tries to bury by taking a sip of tea. Ilya catches it, anyway.

“Shane, your nest was beautiful.”

His inner omega perks up, and that's just fucking embarrassing, so he turns his face away. Not that it deters Ilya in the slightest.

“I mean it, котик (kitten). I was stupid and did not appreciate it properly, but I remember it. Every night, I think about it.” Folding his arms, he leans on the counter, dropping his weight. Shane unconsciously lists towards him, flower for the sun. “You had system, yes? Outside clothes on the bottom, home clothes on the top, softer clothes in the middle because they soak up more pheromones.”

Fuck, he noticed the system. Shane swallows hard and nods.

“It is smart system, and it was so lovely. Warm and safe, and it smelled like the prettiest omega I know.” 

His omega purrs, the sound tentative, so only he is aware of it, but his lashes flutter anyhow.

“I did not know what it really meant that night, I promise. Omegas only build nests for their mates, I know this now, and I'm so sorry for leaving you like that.” His voice has lowered, following the calming notes of the piano still humming in the background. Shane closes his eyes, both to enjoy the cadence and the repetition of the music, and also to fight the burning threatening to overcome the barrier of his lashes.

“I was so scared of– I…” Ilya inhales, the sound shaky. Brick walls shuddering under the weight of an earthquake. “I left you because I thought I cared about Russia, and because of the fucking NHL, and then you suffered for months because I did not realise what leaving did to you. Those stupid articles, Shane. I didn't… it was my fault they wrote about you like that.”

Shane shakes his head. He doesn't know whether it's because he wants Ilya to stop talking or to stop sounding like he might cry, too.

“And I know being friends was never going to be enough, but it was better than nothing at the time.”

At the time. So, he must have realised that, had this gone on any longer, Shane would have been too irreparably changed for there to ever be a semblance of a relationship between them.

“I will never do this to you again.” 

After a small beat: “I swear on it, Shane.”

And despite everything, that is what allows the wad of tension between his scapula to ease by increments, reverberating over the knobs of his spine to unlock hidden points where uncertainty lived. Ilya came here to make up for his mistake, but there hadn't been a real, tangible promise for him to stay afterwards. Ilya could very well heal Shane enough and then skeddadle off into the sunset because God knows what excuses he would invent, and Shane would have nothing left to stop him.

But now, he has a promise. He can work with that.

Ilya is watching him so closely, he might as well be looking for the secrets of the universe on Shane's face. A pulse throbs between them, live with what still remains unspoken even after the acknowledgement of their bond, but it isn't urgent or overcoming. 

Shane's mind yields, just so. His vocal cords finally vibrate enough to release a soft, hoarse, “Okay.”

Ilya's jaw drops. “Holy shit, Hollander, you have a horse in your throat.”

Shane chucks the last morsel of waffle at his face, biting back a smile.

Chapter End Notes

Of course, as always, thank you to boywithhollanov and Inga for beta-reading this chapter!

Here are the fic recs for this chapter:

By my baby, I recommend two of her lovely fics this time, so suck it up babes: all the things he did and beyond redemption by boywithhollanov/blankjournals. Beyond Redemption is one of my favorite fics ever written in any fandom, and I think about her daily. It's short but still hits me in the solar plexus. And all the things he did is just a wonderful treasure by the queen of humor herself.

you saved me from myself (and i didn't even realize) by xarahinthedark. Holy shit, ya'll. This fic was not nearly long enough. Hanahaki disease + attempted breakup? And only 7k? So deeply underrated, the pain hits from like the first line and the payoff is delicious. Go read and drool in author's comments please. Do heed tags, of course!

And, again, thank you. All of you, really. I don't know what to do with all this love and positive energy, but please know that it makes my little writer heart soar. I give every single one of you a kiss.

See you for the final chapter xoxo

Chapter 5: Want you to make it yours (entiende, corazón)

Chapter Summary

Scott Hunter is kissing a man. On the ice. After winning the Cup. He clutches the man close, grinning so bright that it almost seems like that kiss meant more to him than winning the Stanley Cup did.

Shane and Ilya both find each other's gaze at the same time, and Shane thinks, softly: it would for me, too.

Chapter Notes

And here we are! I'm so, so happy to be sharing this fic with this fandom, and I'm honestly still in disbelief about all the love it's gotten. I hope you've all enjoyed reading this as much as I've enjoyed writing it.

Final chapter! Sorry to keep you all waiting, I just wanted it to be as good as I can make it. As usual, peep the end of the chapter for recs!

(Chapter title Spanish translation: understand, heart).

It's raining in Montreal when Shane finally allows Ilya to touch him.

The Cup Final's extended to the fifth game, and the downpour outside his apartment drowns out most of the commentary on the TV through sheer, attention-seeking gusto. Blips of bold tears from the sky that cling to the windows for a glimpse of what transpires inside, the little love nest that has only ever known one love. Perhaps the heavens needs closer eyes on them, and this is its way of watching it all unfold. Waiting for Shane's omega to finally yield, monitoring Ilya's redemption.

Maybe there really is a wolf in the moon, and she bestows her favor enough for Shane's omega to seek Ilya's touch rather than withdraw from even the sensation of proximity.

It happens, as most things have for more than a week now, at the kitchen counter. Ever since Shane ate the waffles, Ilya has made it a personal mission to cook the most decadent, indulgent dishes he can find on the Internet. He makes frequent trips to stores close by, stocking up Shane's fridge with shit that would normally never even cross the threshold, like a can of whipped vanilla cream.

Ilya's licking wisps of whorled white sweetness from his fingers while he slides a cup of hot chocolate over the counter. Shane watched him make it from scratch, hypnotised by the movement of his hands as they whipped melted Belgian dark chocolate into heavy cream and milk over a stove. Ilya accidentally used up all of the cream for the chocolate, so resorted to using the stored can in the fridge he'd apparently bought for the ice cream in the freezer.

“Croissants are freshly baked this morning,” he says, plucking a golden, crusty crescent from a little pink box and plopping it onto a plate. “Lady in the bakery told me so.”

When was the last time Shane even tasted a croissant? Years, probably. And Ilya had gone down at the ass crack of dawn to a bakery several blocks down just to pick up a fresh batch of pastries for Shane.

It's so bad for his diet, but Shane now craves the food Ilya cooks. Not just sweet delicacies like hot chocolate or zefir, but the chicken curries, the noodle bowls, the soups. Ilya's one plate away from dropping the NHL and enrolling in culinary school.

And every time, he invites Shane to sit with him while he cooks. Talks softly, or works in silence, depending on how Shane feels that day or hour. More often than not, he extends a spoon for taste-testing, prioritising Shane's palette over whatever the recipe calls for.

“More salt, любимый (beloved)?”

Nod. 

“Tsk, you're drinking more water then, too. Too much sodium.”

Today's creamy chocolate warms him from the teeth down to his gut, balanced in deep cocoa flavors on his tongue. It's so thick that it could probably count as a meal, but Ilya's nudging the croissant towards him, so Shane obediently dips its rounded corner in the chocolate and eats.

He's turned into a fucking heathen, but his heart has been steady, and he's able to talk in small increments again. It feels, less and less, like Ilya will bolt if Shane proves difficult enough.

“Good?” Ilya asks, rounding around to lean close, hovering. He watches him eat every time. Like he knows Shane needs the weight of his gaze to continue making the effort to chew, chew, swallow. 

Sometimes, he will walk his fingers across the counter with experimental slowness, following Shane's eyes as they track the movement. He will chuckle when he gets close enough to entice a warning growl from low in Shane's throat. It's been more than a week, but he never stops trying, backing up as soon as he's warned off.

Shane hums in reply. This time, he doesn't growl when Ilya starts inching a hand close.

This time, Ilya's fingers reach far enough to brush the cusp of Shane's wrist, and Shane rolls it so their skins press together. Ilya's hand spasms, a minute shudder, following an exhale that is as trembly as Shane's heart suddenly feels.

Silence settles between them just so, edged only by the pitter-patter of near-summer rain on tinted windows and the low rumble of the TV. Shane's inner omega is quiet, too. Settling.

Ilya traces his pointer finger over the arch of Shane's wrist, finding the softer give of the inside curve, tracing feather-light circles on the gland. Not enough to scent, but that doesn't stop Shane's pheromones from blossoming.

Ilya's own notes drift into the air in response. Maybe, if their scents had colors, little notes dipped in food coloring, it would be easier to see just how they mingle together. Two ribbons of their traits tangling, dancing and wriggling around one another until they merge. Blue and yellow to green.

“Good?” Ilya asks again, quavering.

“So good,” Shane whispers. 

The hushed air between them splits at the sound of both their hard, audible swallows. Neither push past this, only staring down at their hands as if, at any moment, either of them will burst into flames and this will all be for naught. Would it be so bad to die like this? Chocolate on his tongue, heart in his ears, his mate's finger drawing little infinities on his scent gland; what is death now but only an extension of the peace Shane feels?

“I will go clean.” Ilya pulls back. “Eat.”

Shane wonders if he should warn Ilya that he will feast soon enough.

It's still raining, and Ilya is folding laundry.

He's taken to washing conservative loads, clothes that are only dirty in the literal sense rather than anything either of then have been wearing for a few days that Shane would normally have washed by now. Anything thick with their scents is kept safety tucked somewhere in the apartment for Shane's comfort. But a shirt stained with sesame oil and flour is definitely getting thrown in the machine.

His reach is expanding, slowly, when he notices that Shane isn't snapping his teeth the moment his foot brushes the edge of the living room, so he's able to clean more ground, follow Shane about more. Upstairs is still very off limits, but Ilya hasn't even mentioned it. 

“I think we need to start tagging things,” Ilya mutters as Shane pads into the laundry room. “I'm starting to confuse our socks together. Is this yours or mine?”

He holds up a pair of plain black ankle socks, dangling them over his shoulder as he rifles through the laundry basket set on the ironing board in front of him. Shane examines the pair, superficially, before he tucks his thumbs into the pockets of his shorts.

“Does it matter?” He asks. 

Ilya pauses, turning his head. His eyes soften. “No, I guess not.”

He scrunches up the socks into a neat ball and moves on. The frosted glass of the window above his head vibrates as rain dribbles against it, muted grey billowing behind its surface as clouds roil. There's no overhead light, so the entire laundry room is bathed in peaceful gloom and teardrop shadows that swamp in size. 

Ilya's only in sweats. Shane is so tired of only counting his moles with his eyes.

Omega unfurling inside, Shane follows its lead and approaches. Watches the muscle of Ilya's back bunch and undulate as he folds up a plain tee and sets it down on the designated pile. Moles contracting and expanding on golden skin, connecting invisible lines down to the sinful taper of his waist. He's so big, broad and masculine, and he always fit perfect against Shane's own large frame. It's been a while since Shane's felt that.

Inhales suspended in his lungs, Shane gets close enough to feel the heat radiating off of Ilya's body, to catch him realising the proximity and slow every movement to a snails crawl. Hardly breathing, too.

Carefully, Shane leans in. Presses his forehead to the warm give of Ilya's nape, hands finding purchase on Ilya's sides. Smooth skin erupts in goosebumps beneath his palms, the hairs where his exhales ghost over rising on their ends. Shane traces fingers upward, counting each rib he passes, following the curve of bone around, touch so feather-light it almost doesn't count. 

Ilya's pheromones thicken, sweeten, a hint of lilies peeking behind his usual mouth-watering musk. His entire torso quivers, arms braced on the ironing board for balance.

“I don't… know how long I can stay mad,” Shane whispers, lips smooshing into the knobs of Ilya's spine.

“As long as you need.” A pregnant pause, and then, “I really want to hold you.”

The sentiment flows like water, trickling over Shane's ears and neck. He drops his hands and leans back. “Okay.”

Ilya spins slow, his profile morphing into Shane's view. Blue eyes spring from behind long lashes, thick brows scrunched low and a pouty mouth pursed up like something in Ilya is aching. His heavy chest is satuesque, the golden crucifix poised above the split between his pectorals where the chain thumps to the beat of his heart.

He waits. 

Shane expects him to pull him in, but he doesn't. He stands still, arms at his sides, gaze roving over every inch of Shane's face. Waiting. Because this is Shane's choice more than anything else.

So, Shane falls into him. Tucks the slope of his nose into the crook of Ilya's neck, sinking into him like a drifting piece of coral slinking down to the sea bed. His mouth drags on the tendon there as Ilya tentatively wraps an arm around his waist. For a second, both their bodies are too stiff to remember how an embrace works. But then, Ilya nudges against the side of Shane's face and cups the back of his head, and it all clicks together.

Shane's omega rumbles, its endless pacing grinding to a gradual halt. He breathes out, almost dreamily, into the quiet, open air, and almost smiles when he hears Ilya do the same.

“I’m sorry,” Ilya says, voice like shattered glass, “for almost killing you.”

Brushing his mouth against the golden chain, Shane closes his eyes. “I know.”

They say nothing more. His hands rediscover their place on Ilya's sides, and they stand there until one of them breaks away. To be honest, Shane isn't sure which of them will.

“Ok, bathroom smells like lemons. Have I earned a kiss or will Hollander pretend like my mouth visa isn't good enough?”

Shane glances up from his book, sprawled comfortably on the couch where he can easily hear Ilya move about his allowed space. “Your mouth visa?”

“Yes. I knock on Hollander's door, I say ‘yes, please, one week to kiss my pretty mate until he forgives me’, and when I am let in, my pretty mate keeps his mouth hostage from me.” Ilya marches to the foot of the couch, hands propped on his hips. “They will deport me. I will kick and scream and cry, of course, but nobody will believe me because I am Russian spy with a fake visa.”

“You're not going to get deported.”

“Because you will kiss me?”

“I don't need to kiss you to stop you from getting deported.”

“But you will kiss me, anyway, because you are a sweet mate and I just cleaned the bathroom with my whole heart, yes?”

This fresh confidence in needling Shane for a kiss has only arisen because of how well things have progressed. Especially after the hug in the laundry room. Shane is eating every meal, he's allowing touches that grow from uncertain to heavy-handed, and when he retreats to his bed to slip beneath the covers, he only does so for an hour or so before he's ready to come back out.

Not to mention that his ability and energy to talk have returned for the most part. Every time he answers, even with one word, Ilya's eyes glitter like he's won something.

So, now, Ilya is bolder in his ribbing. And when Shane's reactions are positive, he only gets worse. Demanding a kiss for every little thing, and only playfully sulking when Shane refuses him. He doesn't push past the first ‘no’ or a shaking head, which is painfully adorable of him. 

But maybe a kiss wouldn't be remiss right now. As the days passed and Shane's omega slowly recovers, the pre-heat symptoms start taking a backseat, yielding control to a deeper, primal core that had previously sat cold and hidden. Leaves uncurling where they were wound protectively around some nameless, wild soul now no longer at the risk of rotting away. These are symptoms Shane can recognise, but only barely. This isn't the normal onslaught of a heat, where everything is hazy and drowning out the importance of the world.

His vision is clarity itself, as if his omega's desire temporarily fused a prescription to his eyes so he can read without glasses and admire the precise texture of Ilya's skin. 

Although he hasn't tried to nest yet, the thought no longer daunts him like some kind of spectre hanging over his throbbing head. He will create one again, probably soon, but he's in no rush. As long as Ilya is here.

So, well. He would quite like to be kissed by Ilya, now.

“Fine,” Shane sighs, magnanimous, as he sets his book down on his chest, palms folded. A virgin awaiting her wedding night – the very picture of calm chastity. “One kiss.”

Ilya stares at him. Then, “Really?”

“Mhm.”

God, you'd think Shane promised to buy him some neon-colored Jaguar for his birthday, the way those blue eyes light up. It's endearing; after all they've done over the years, the places their mouths and hands and cocks have been on each other, that Ilya given permission to give Shane a kiss would be taken as some kind of miracle or a gift from God.

“Let me go brush my teeth.”

Shane blinks, watching Ilya sprint for the bathroom. “What the hell for?”

“Need to make sure my visa is clean!”

“For fuck's sake…” he buries an exasperated laugh against his hand. Ilya has stuck his tongue down Shane's throat after eating him out vigorously enough to have him crying, and yet he's brushing his teeth as if Shane cares about that right now.

God, he's so fucking cute.

Just before Ilya saunters back into the room with a swagger in his step, however, a dull soreness festers in the lower strip of muscle right above Shane's hips. His first thought – very rationally – is that his omega has decided to give him appendicitis because, apparently, sweet blood wasn't enough, but then the pain deepens, tendrils of blunt throbbing spilling over his sides and down to his lower back, pulsing high then dipping low. And it occurs to him, lightning quick.

Heat cramps.

“Fuck me…” He groans, turning to smush his face into the couch.

“Do not tell me you suddenly find my tongue repulsive because it does not taste like a Tim Hortons.” 

Instead of retorting, he only shakes his head and twists his arms over his middle, knees curling into himself until he's assumed the fetal position in a familiarly miserable manner. Fuck, he hates this part of heats. The cramping, the overheating, the feverish decay on his tongue. It's stronger than usual, which he supposes can only be blamed on the fact that this is no regular heat.

“Shane? Are you hurt?” Ilya's teasing voice drops to a concerned hush as he rushes over, bringing his scent and warmth with him.

Normally, omegas quarantine themselves during heat cycles not just for their own sakes, but for the sake of people around them. Other pheromones quickly become offensive, practically threatening, especially when they belong to an alpha. If this were anyone else, Shane would claw their fucking eyes out.

But Ilya's cashmere notes caress the insides of Shane's veins like a feather to bare skin, so his plopping down on the couch by Shane's hip is nothing. What does make Shane's hackles rise, however, is how quick Ilya is to grab the hem of his shirt to ruck it up.

A warning snarl, effortless and sure, vibrates in Shane's throat as he immediately grabs Ilya's wrists to stall his movement. To his surprise, though, Ilya doesn't immediately back off. In fact, his immediate reaction is to growl back.

Shane is so shocked by the sound that his omega goes slack-jawed. Ilya's brows have lowered, his eyes — which have been soft for an entire goddamn week — igniting with a forest fire of intensity. His mouth is set tight. Is he glaring?

Hell no. Who does this alpha think he is?

Recovering, Shane returns the glower ten-fold. “You just growled at me.”

“You are trying to hide your pain from me.”

“No, I'm not. You didn't ask permission.”

Ilya pushes a gust of air from his nose. “Okay, Hollander, do I have permission to check what is hurting, or should I force you to sit still and be quiet like a good boy?”

The alpha voice? There's no way Ilya would use it. Absolutely no way. Shane would fucking castrate him.

“You won't do it,” he snips.

An amused smile appears on those naturally pouted lips, the bastard. “No, I won't. Sit still.”

Another wave of pain bursts hot across Shane's gut, but he stubbornly maintains his stare-down with Ilya. Neither of them back down, though Ilya still doesn't move even when Shane reluctantly releases his wrists. He watches Shane closely, eyes narrowed, until Shane huffs and nods for him to go ahead.

Rucking up his shirt, Ilya frowns when he sees nothing but smooth, unblemished skin. Shane grunts, shifting uncomfortably as pain ricochets off his sides, tensing as Ilya moves his hands down. 

Ilya is quick to soothe, his demeanor softened now that Shane has allowed him to help. “Let me see, котик (kitten), let me feel what is hurting,” comes the rumbling croon, before large, warm hands are pressing down onto Shane's stomach, and oh.

A truly pornographic sigh escapes his lips as the cramps immediately ease, almost every speckle of pain crawling up to lick like panting dogs at Ilya's touch, relieving Shane's poor body the duty of housing it.

Any and all stubbornness leeches from his omega as if it never even existed. “Fuck, yes.” He writhes, pushing Ilya's hands down to exert more pressure, and the relief is stark enough to leave him light-headed. “Where have you been all my life...”

“Boston, mostly. Shane, why are you meowing like a cat right now?”

The comparison doesn't even bother him, because he would meow if he could. “Cramps. Your hands just made the worst of it go away, holy shit.”

There's a long pause as Ilya digests the information, allowing Shane to push his shirt up further and expose more of his too-hot flesh to the cool air of his apartment. His low-lidded gaze watches Ilya devour the sight of his bare chest before he glances down to his abdomen.

“Is this normal for pre-heat?” Ilya asks, and Shane avoids commenting on how softly he's speaking. 

“Yeah. Never this bad, but yeah. Fuck, Ilya, your hands.” 

They're huge, calloused. Shane isn't small by any means, years of training having honed his body into a healthy bulk that squares his torso and lends him the strength he happily uses against alphas with superiority complexes. Ilya's hands don't make him feel small, necessarily, but they encompass him so easily, so effortlessly, like he doesn't need Shane to squeeze himself into a conventional size so he can hold him how he needs it.

It's one of the things that is so intoxicating about Ilya, about how he is with Shane. Shane can take him in a fight, and Ilya has no trouble tossing him around like a rag doll.

So fucking compatible. Ilya was made for him. Fashioned for him, of clay and skin and bone. Even if he is a goddamn dunce and Shane still wakes up scared that he'll up and leave again.

“Massage is okay?” 

“No funny business.”

“I leave all the funny to you.”

Ilya shifts his fingers as soon as Shane nods, knuckles finding meaty curves of flesh and digging in deep. His thumbs score circles along Shane's lower abdomen, swiping leisurely arches that burrow into muscle. God, it feels so fucking good. If Shane had known all along that it just takes Ilya Rozanov's hands to get rid of these cramps, he'd have invited Ilya to the cottage back in Saskatchewan eight years ago. He could bring his cigarettes; Shane wouldn't care.

“Kisses okay?” The question prompts him to open his eyes, which he hadn't even realised had fluttered closed.

“Kisses?”

“Mm, kisses. I have a nice, clean visa.” 

He snorts and knocks his head back, settling in for a really good nap. “Whatever you want, just keep touching me.”

“I won't ever stop.”

Ilya's mouth is cool, leaving little paint dots of kisses everywhere his hands aren't already massaging. Shane's breath deepens, honey-thick and mindless, while his inner omega purrs up a storm in his chest. Just for his own comfort, he lazily laces a hand in Ilya's lovely curls, following every direction of Ilya's head. He falls asleep like this, too easily, too vulnerably; with his alpha's hands and reverent mouth leeching the pain from him, body and soul-deep.

It becomes routine. Shane gets cramps, Ilya will massage and kiss his hips, stomach, and lower back until they subside. And if Shane pretends the cramps go on longer than they actually do, that's his business, thank you. 

He knows the real wave of his heat is oncoming. Reasoning?

He's building his nest again.

Over the course of two days, between meals where he's reminded of the alpha caring for him. Whereas before it was an irritating gnat in his ear reminding him of his inadequacy, his inability to perform one of the most basic omega rituals practiced since the dawn of the secondary gender phenom, now the sensations have evolved. When he reaches for a folded sweater to place on the very center of his bed like some sacrificial offering on an altar, his inner omega that used to balk at even the thought now only yearns to add more. To have his sacred space again. To invite Ilya into it again.

There is, of course, the underlying fear that another invitation will send Ilya running again, so Shane tempers any desires to voice his desire, his need.

It is just… really hard to do so when Ilya walks around his permitted space saying things that have Shane’s stomach clinching tight and prickling red crawling up his neck.

“I brought this thing? Throw? Small blanket. I use it for couch napping after I shower. Would look very nice in the middle of your nest, no?”

“You’re extra warm now. From your nest, right? Yes, I remember it was very warm. Very cozy and pretty.”

“Is that for your nest? Can I scent it too?”

If Shane has to hear the words ‘pretty nest’ or some other complimentary adjective attached to the word ‘nest’ in relation to his efforts for any longer, he’s might end up chaining Ilya to said nest and have a hockey team of pups with him, whether he likes it or not.

Hence. He knows his heat is about to hit, but his omega seems to be awaiting an actual trigger that isn’t food or stomach massages or a nest that is slowly overtaking his bed until it is buried in Shane’s entire closet and most of Ilya’s suitcase. Even the cursed jersey is there, which Ilya had washed and re-scented with only his pheromones. Shane is only slightly miffed at the lack of piss-marking, which he does not convey; he’s not entirely without shame, even in this state.

They're watching the Cup Final, and, as his mother predicted, Scott Hunter raises the Cup above his head, his hair matted with sweat and his smile a moonbeam. Good for him, Shane thinks, hitching his leg a little higher up Ilya's thigh. This evening's cramps faded maybe fifteen minutes ago, but Ilya's thumbs are rubbing soothing circles into the forgiving cradle of Shane's hips, so Shane keeps his mouth extremely shut about it.

“His knees will give out if he is not careful carrying that thing so high,” Ilya mutters, echoing the little nugget of envy both of them are harbouring in their chests.

“He played well,” Shane says, trying to be the level-headed one here. His smile gives him away. “If it wasn't one of us, it would have to go to him.”

“Mm.” Ilya leans down, nuzzling Shane's belly button and planting a kiss beneath it, smiling at the purr he gets as a reward. “Bar drops to hell when we are out of the game.”

Families spill like a can of beans onto the ice to celebrate with the Admirals. Hunter stands apart from the crowd on steady skates, and Shane feels a low pang of sympathy for him. It can't be easy, not having someone to share that victory with. For both his Cups, Shane had his parents there, and they both nearly gave themselves concussions in their haste to tackle him on the ice. 

Both times, and when Boston won the Cup, Shane had also wished for a certain blond Russian to share the ice with, too.

Ilya digs his nose into the curve of Shane's stomach, his self-titled ‘womb kiss’, and a shiver of contentment hugs Shane's spine. He twirls a lock of Ilya's hair around his thumb.

“Scott Hunter is calling someone down on the ice—”

Both of them turn sharply to the TV, Ilya thumbs pausing mid-motion. Hunter is, indeed, gesturing to someone in the crowd, to a man shuffling between seats to make his way down to the rink. Not a celebrity or someone from another team, and not one of Hunter's well-known friends. Definitely not someone Shane recognises.

“Who is that?” He asks, and Ilya's silence is enough of an indication that he doesn't know, either. Shane props up onto his elbows to focus better.

Whoever this man is, he's important enough for Hunter to drag onto center ice. Important enough to pull in close. Important enough to kiss in front of the entire world.

Scott Hunter is kissing a man. On the ice. After winning the Cup.

“Holy shit…” Shane's breath rushes from his chest in a gust. He never suspected, never thought, never dreamt that anyone would be so bold. That Scott Hunter, of all hockey players, would be the one changing the game like this.

The moment bakes, the crowd's roaring audible even over the commentator's ecstatic and bewildered yammering. Hunter clutches the man close, grinning so bright that it almost seems like that kiss meant more to him than winning the Stanley Cup did. 

Shane and Ilya both find each other's gaze at the same time, and Shane thinks, softly: it would for me, too.

Then, at last, the trigger:

“I'm coming to the cottage,” Ilya says, eyes burning, his expression set so firm he looks almost angry.

Shane's breathing hitches, jaw going slack. His inner omega freezes, a predator finding the traces of prey in a snow trail, before the final pin, standing tall and holding back the rush of his heat, goes tumbling down, and he pounces.

It's been months since Ilya tasted Shane's lips, and his honest imagining of earning back the privilege was that it would be soft, given after Ilya has truly won Shane and his omega back. Exactly like all the other touches have been so far. After he's wormed his way back into his good graces like some unworthy sinner repented enough to merely smell the gardens of Eden from his pit in hell. He pictured something gentle, swaying, as he relearns the sensation of perfection.

Nope. He gets accosted instead.

His mind is still reeling from the spectacle on the TV, so he promptly forgets how to breathe when he gets a lapful of Shane Hollander. 

“What—” 

A rush of dizziness rocks his brain as Shane kisses him, open-mouthed, hungry. His tongue is a demanding wet warmth against Ilya's, his fingers finding home in Ilya's hair and neck in rapid, sweeping movements like he can't decide where to touch. The sinuous line of his body burrows as close as it can, pressing them both back against the couch arm.

Pheromones bleed from his every pore, thickening in his saliva where it pools in the mouth Shane's fucking his tongue into. Maple and cypress so potent it's almost enough to choke on, interspersed with strong notes of ice and bergamot. All of his scent traits muddling Ilya's mind, consuming him, immolating the last of his senses.

Stark relief rips from Ilya in a groan, his cock filling up with all the blood that used to be in his brain. He gets hard so fast it hurts, but what else can he do with Shane kissing him to death like this?

He seizes Shane with trembling hands, taking advantage of his rolled-up shirt to caress every inch of feverish skin he can reach. Hips cant down onto his thickening erection, the delicious friction of fabric against fabric stoking heat in his gut.

Yes, yes, god, thank you, thank you, thank you…

“Take me to our nest,” Shane grunts against his mouth. Ilya pulls back, lips tingling.

Ourourourourourour—

“Are you sure?”

The fingers in his hair tighten, delicious pain bursting across his scalp as his head is jerked back. Shane hovers above him, cheeks flushed heavy, eyes dark. “Take me, or I'll make you.”

And although Ilya knew, subconsciously, what this all means, it's only after hearing Shane's husky promise that it all clicks in his head. That Shane's heat has finally,  actually, started. Not only that, but he wants to share it with Ilya, which Ilya had honestly been prepared for the opposite. He didn't come here thinking Shane would want him anywhere near him once his heat started proper, and now Ilya's head is spinning. He has to do good.

“Whatever you need,” Ilya breathes, pushing up onto his feet. Shane refuses to be put down, winding arms and legs around him like an overzealous octopus, pressing kiss after kiss on Ilya's throat. It's easy to carry him like he's something precious, even easier to make the trek up the stairs like they're ascending to his throne, where Ilya can worship on his knees.

Deja vu strikes like lightning — it all started like this, too. Shane clinging to him, Ilya getting them both up the stairs, having memorised the route to Shane's bedroom like he knows the walk from his father's apartment to his mother's grave.

To experience this again, to earn it again, Ilya can't possibly deserve it.

Just like then, Shane's scent is heavy once Ilya crosses into the room. But mingled in with dulcet omega pheromones are his own, something that had been starkly missing the first time. Ilya wishes they hadn't, because then he really wouldn't have been stupid enough to leave.

Shane is worrying the skin behind Ilya's ear with his teeth when Ilya releases him into the nest. The bed is piled high with an entire closet's worth of clothes, and then some, all neatly arranged in folded piles and a ring of twisted blankets in the center where the softest clothes fit. Shane seeps into it, easy as breathing.

His cheeks are flushed with arousal and fever, the boiling honey of his skin already beginning to shine with sweat. He's so strong, so vicious when he can be, and yet his brown eyes are looking up at Ilya with butter-cinnamon sweetness.

Ilya doesn't climb in with him yet. He stands at the edge, arms extended, admiring what he almost lost by his own folly.

How can Shane allow this for him again? 

Emotion clogs in Ilya's throat, releasing in a whispered, “Shane…”

More words arise; permission needed. It's a force of fucking habit, maybe out of compulsion to always know that Shane still wants him, still needs him, even years after they do this. Ilya will always ask, because he wants Shane to say it. To say he is okay, to say he still wants, to say please, more, don't ever stop. 

Awe-struck, still working out the words, Ilya's heart drops as a flash of panic crosses Shane's red face. Quickly, he scrambles off the nest and grabs Ilya's wrist, dragging him—

Away?

“Shane?” Ilya digs his heels in, stopping them both. “What's wrong?”

“You don't like it.”

“What?”

“The smell. The nest. You don't like it.” His voice is trembling terribly, the scent of his arousal slowly putrefying into stress. “It- It's fine. It's okay. We can use the guest bedroom.”

He isn't looking at Ilya, but he's still pulling him along, the tendons in his neck near to bursting. Ilya shakes his head maniacally, his inner alpha howling, because no, don't take him away, don't do this—

Before they can leave the room, Ilya surges, using his momentum to trip Shane off his feet. They both tumble forward, giving Ilya the chance to grab hold of the bedroom door and slam it shut, barricading them in. He locks it, just for good measure. Shane collides, full-force, into the wood, and Ilya crowds into his back. Winds an arm around his collarbone, holds him.

“No, please,” he begs, shaking his head into Shane's neck. “Nowhere else. I want it here. I love it here, Shane, please.”

“Stop lying,” Shane whines. Ilya makes a similarly broken sound against his skin. “You hated it last time, and you hate it now. S'why you won't scent me. You hate it.”

Oh god, Ilya should just fucking die. How the fuck did they get here?

“Not true. Not true at all. Sweetheart, любимый (beloved), жизнь моя (my life), your scent drives me fucking crazy.”

“Liar.”

Shane thrashes, pheromones decaying further. He fumbles for the doorknob with the hand not fused around Ilya's arm, clearly set on getting through his heat away from his nest, even though that can't be good for him. Ilya holds him fast, tight, teeth gritted.

“We are not leaving,” he snaps. He clamps a hand over Shane's jaw and cants his head back, exposing the sensual arch of his throat. Shane immediately goes slack, but Ilya isn't done with only this. Just this, alone, won't convince Shane of how serious he is, so Ilya leans for the scent gland on Shane's neck with purpose, the way he should have months ago.

He never realised scenting someone could feel like this. 

His mild stubble is rough, no doubt, but thick with pheromones as he rubs the edge against the gland, coaxing it open.

“Oh, fuck.” An unbelievably loud whimper tears from Shane's mouth as his knees buckle from beneath him. 

Thank god no one else lives in this apartment building.

Ilya catches him before he can tumble, curling around him, pulling back to suckle on the gland before he scents it again. Cashmere, dry leaves, and the hidden undertone of lilies permeate the air, sinking deep into the already-present cloud of omega pheromones. His mind fractures around itself, mirror shards that cut deep into his skull, and then rearrange. Sort into an amalgamation of need, of a bond long forged and finally acknowledged, and certainty so solid it petrifies his doubts like they stared into a medusa.

“Scent me.” He doesn't recognise his own voice. It isn't him, whatever this is. Or it is, but it's the primal edge of his soul with him. “Want to smell like you. Only you.”

Shane's reply is small, breathless. “You don't hate it?” 

“Never.” Ilya releases Shane's jaw just to run his hands over his chest, his thighs, between his legs, while he coasts his cheek over his neck. “Love it. Love it so much.” Love you. So fucking much.

Finally, his omega relaxes fully, and their shared arousal returns tenfold. They fumble together back to the bed, blindly, kissing and rubbing wrists on any stretch of skin they can reach. Ilya licks over Shane's tongue and asks, “Want me in your nest, Hollander?”

“Obviously.”

“Tell me.”

Shane whines into his mouth, but Ilya refuses to budge any closer to their intended destination until he hears it from him. “Invite me to your nest properly, Shane.”

Invite me so I can mend the wounds I have caused. Invite me so I can repent.

Doe eyes search his own, then fixate onto his mouth. Shane drags a finger over Ilya's stubble, exhaling at the kiss it gets in reply. His skin is febrile, but the haze of omega heat clears from his gaze long enough for him to truly mean what he says.

“Please come to my nest and have me. Please. I give up, Ilya,” he whispers, every word shaky, like he expects Ilya to refuse now that the words are spoken. He adds, even softer: “I have nothing left to keep you here. If this– if this isn't enough…”

And there is the wound. Open, gaping, flesh sluicing off to expose perfect, ivory bone. Ilya can fix this. He will fix it, even if he dies trying.

“Take off your clothes,” Ilya compels, after he steals the fear from the web beneath Shane's tongue in a languid lick, “and show me your glands. All of them.”

“All of them?” Shane echoes, lips glistening. He's so fucking lovely.

Ilya nods, bumps their noses. “Every.” Kiss. “Single.” Kiss. “One.” Kiss.

And oh, the image he's given. Even with a mind buried under desire, Shane still undresses and neatly folds his clothes along the bed, hair rumpled from having fingers tousling the locks, and his face flushed down to his clavicle. Sweat pools along his temple, at the base of his throat, and when he turns to crawl onto the bed, the dimples on his lower back are deliciously damp.

Ilya inhales deeply, an attempt at centring himself, but all he gets is a gorgeous lungful of their combined scents, and he almost blows in his sweatpants.

Shane flops down in the center of his nest, loose and vulnerable. His hands are splayed on either side of his head, broad chest presented in a subtle arch, and his thick legs spread to expose every inch of him to Ilya's hungry gaze, both feet planted on the bed. His cock is a bruised, furious thing against his stomach, leaking profusely, but not nearly as much as the slick caking his thighs and ass. He always gets so wet, but never like this. Never so much that teardrops are dripping from his hole onto the sweater beneath him, like his body can't help but weep in its need.

Every pheromone hot-spot is eagerly exposed to Ilya. Ripe for the taking.

He nearly rips off his own sweatpants, careless, but he climbs onto the nest with the reverence such a thing deserves. And he starts low. Dips to mouth first at the triangle of raised flesh on Shane's ankle.

“You are Shane Hollander,” he murmurs, listening to the musical tones of Shane's sigh. Switches to the other ankle, lapping at the oils dappled there.

A snort. “Just realising that?”

“Second draft pick, won Rookie of the Year, captain of the best team in sports history.” Ilya lifts Shane's leg by the calf and looms over him, rubbing his jaw against his ankle. Their scents mingle, and Shane's dark eyes widen as the feeling covers them both. “Gave his team two cups one year after the next. This is Shane Hollander, yes?”

Shane swallows hard. “Yes.”

Ilya does the same to his other ankle, then drops both to the bed. Follows the trajectory to the secret glands on Shane's inner thighs. These are larger and darker than the others, hyperpigmentation caused by sweat and the density of the oils secreted. More sensitive. Ilya wraps an arm around Shane's quad to spread him open and latches onto a gland with teeth bared.

Shane's back snaps into a curve. So sensitive. “Ilya, oh fuck—!”

Sucking a bruise into the skin, Ilya rubs his wrist on the opposite gland, eyes rolling back at the scent of Shane's arousal deepening. Not sweet, like it usually is when he's this turned on, but muskier. Cashmere.

Ilya's notes.

Pulling back with a pop! and licking his lips clean, he gives Shane's other thigh the same treatment. Jerks Shane's ankles closer so he can rub his wrists there in unhurried circles.

Eventually, Ilya moves on. Drinks up the precum streaming over Shane's abs but ignoring his throbbing cock in favor of pouring attention into the glands of his chest.

“And you are Shane Hollander?” He continues, grinning when Shane opens bleary eyes to glare at him.

“Yes, I'm Shane fucking Hollander.”

Ilya nods sagely. Kisses a pretty, dusky nipple. “Mm. And Shane Hollander never gives up, yes?”

Warmth dissolves onto Shane's face, eyebrows crunching, but he doesn't answer. Ilya settles between his legs, cocks slotting beside each other, but makes no other movements. Shane whines, bucking, but Ilya holds him down. He needs to make him listen. He needs him to understand.

“Ilya, please…”

“In a minute. First, you will answer, and then I will reward you.”

“Answer what?”

“You never give up, hm?”

Shane sniffles. “No, I don't.”

“No.” Ilya smiles. “You do not. You never give up. You are a stubborn cow.”

A breathless snort escapes Shane's nose. “Mule, not cow.”

“Yes, you are a stubborn ass.”

“Fuck you!” With a heartier laugh, he grabs a pillow and whacks Ilya across the head, then quickly gets a scrunch in his nose about the displacement. Ilya is patient in letting Shane move up and adjust the pillow back to its rightful place, though he can't help but leave a healthy smattering of kisses over his shoulders.

Shane shimmies into the movement, settling down on his back after he's satisfied with the loving his shoulders have received. His overheated palm hooks over Ilya's nape, dragging him in, but Ilya isn't done making his point.

“You are stubborn,” he drops a kiss to Shane's mouth, “and annoying, and impossible to ignore or forget.”

“Ilya, I swear to God—”

“You always refuse to give up. So never give up on me.”

A moment's breath. Ilya feels the way Shane's heart thumps hard just from the vibration of his ribs under his fingers.

“If I am ever this stupid again, you drag me here, and you fuck me until I remember who you are. Scent me, use me, remind me that my mate is Shane Hollander and I do not belong anywhere else.”

The chest in his hold expands with a shaky inhale, the air rattling around in place, before a gust of a groan follows the exhale. 

“Fuck,” Shane whines, and God, he might look like a fussy kitten when he's angry, but the face he makes now is just like if Ilya refused to feed him his needed milk. His eyes are glazing over again, gooey and perfect.

“You won, Hollander,” Ilya whispers, nudging down to kiss the glands beneath Shane's pecs. “You made me come crawling back to you, so you make sure I can never run away again, okay?”

Shane sways into Ilya's touch, legs spreading. Ilya indulges him, petting down his sides and finding home on his inner thighs. “You were such a knothead.”

“Mm.”

“You pissed on a fucking jersey and sent it to me.”

With a sheepish chuckle, “Mm, yes. Very stupid.”

“I should have kicked your ass.” Breathless, now, as Ilya's fingers test the give of his hole. Shane is so wet it's dizzying, so wet that Ilya can barely feel the opening, let alone the texture of his skin. He swipes his tongue over a pebbled nipple and sinks a finger in to the first knuckle. Shane barely twitches.

“Can't even feel this, can you? Need something bigger to fill you up.” He runs his jaw over the glands, leaving behind his traces, and moves up. Shane wraps around him, accepting his tongue like a rite of passage and finally hitching a harsh breath when Ilya slips two more fingers in effortlessly.

“I only need you.” Shane clutches his face, his neck, dragging his wrist over Ilya's throat. Ilya's legs tremble with the effort of holding his body up when his bones are turning to liquid. “All I've ever needed was you.”

“You have me," Ilya promises. “Can you taste me now, Hollander? All the way here…” He presses a thumb to Shane's belly, where his pheromones probably sunk in. Just like he, too, feels full with Shane's.

Urgency is sinking its claws into the omega beneath him, because he's barely pumped his fingers for a minute before Shane's whacking him. “Get inside, in, in.”

“Demanding.”

He gets a snarl for that one, but Shane is mulled when Ilya adjusts his hips and taps the head of his dick against the slick opening presented to him. Fingers laces in his hair, a sigh on his mouth when he finally, finally, sinks home. His cock slides into Shane's body with no resistance, none of the usual reluctant constriction that remains no matter how much Shane wants him. The heat has made him looser, pliant, and so goddamn perfect that Ilya's brain is melting out of his ears.

“Don't you ever do this to me again,” Shane pants heavily, thighs wrapping around Ilya's waist. “You were such a fucking asshole, Ilya.”

“I will always be this.” He pushes in to the hilt, and the relief makes his alpha release every last inch of tension held within. His lashes flutter, but closing his eyes is not an option when he can drink in the view beneath him. “But I contain multitudes.”

A brilliant, radiant smile helplessly usurps Shane's face. Ilya settles into him, bodies pressed together, only their hips gyrating, moving in twin, sensual waves. Ilya pushes, Shane pushes back, never allowing their skins to separate for even a moment. 

It can't be called fucking, but the sensation is too intense to be called love-making. Mating, maybe. Assimilating. Idolizing.

“I am a layered person.”

“Shit, Ilya, you're so hard—”

“I'm an asshole, and a knothead, and very fucking stupid.”

Shane's hips swivel, arms wringing the strength from Ilya's shoulders. “A…And?”

“And I am also yours.” Ilya braces his knees and lifts Shane off the bed, holding him up with an arm across his back and jerking his ass onto his cock with a tight grip. “I will never hurt you like this again.”

Working for forgiveness has never tasted so sweet on Ilya's tongue, possibly because he's never wanted anyone's forgiveness as much as this. Shane moans, propping a hand on the bed and fisting Ilya's hair with the other, stealing the breath from his lungs.

“Fuck me, c'mon.” 

After that, words dissolve like sugar in tea. They rut like animals with no end goal, no prize to win, no crowd to appease. Reaching orgasm is far from Ilya's mind. He only breathes Shane's scent, tastes his tongue and his sweet pleas, fucks his cock in and out of the softest place Shane can physically offer, where all his strengths, his stubbornness, his ferocity mingle to their collective melting point.

Ilya is loving a king in his bed, chasing after his pleasure with mindless abandon, his own body a mere tool for whatever Shane wants, whatever he needs.

“Mine.”

It doesn't matter who says it; the answer is always—

“Yours.”

Tears gather in Shane's eyes, his whines and whimpers deepening to angry grunts, sounds of ecstasy unable to be constrained even behind gritted teeth. That's how Ilya knows he's close. Knows what he needs if he's to cum hands-free.

He sets Shane down on the nest and blankets his body over him, a steady weight. Finds Shane's mouth with his own and fucks him hard, deep, in bullet-quick thrusts. Suffocating humidity makes spots dot his vision, but Ilya would rather die than leave Shane for a moment, even to breathe.

“Oh God, Ilya,” Shane pants into his mouth, nails digging into Ilya's ass as he pushes him further in, like he wants Ilya's cock to reach his throat. “Fuck, fuck—”

“Cum on my cock, Shane.” Ilya gasps as the warmth around his dick tightens to the point of pain, thrusts growing arrhythmic. “Let me feel you, my pretty mate, my perfect boy, cum for me.”

“Ilya!”

Shane's back snaps into a sinful arch, but Ilya's mass keeps him anchored to the bed as he feels Shane writhe as though sparked by an electric current against him. Warmth splashes between their stomachs, smudging against sweat and skin, and god, Shane's orgasm lasts so long that Ilya's own vision whites out and refocuses while his omega is still twitching.

His knot inflates, plugging up the space deep within where Shane needs it most. Shane hums, wriggling until he's fully locked in place, contentment blossoming over him as his shoulders relax back into the mattress.

Droplets of sweat plop from Ilya's forehead to Shane's chest when Ilya finds the strength to lift his head. Shane's freckles are so vibrant above his fiery red cheeks that Ilya's heart throbs.

“Mine,” Shane says, even as he catches his breath, pulling Ilya closer so their faces smush together. And what can Ilya do but kiss whatever inch of skin he can find?

“Yours. Your mate.”

The muscles of his thighs and lower back are absolutely killing him, vessels bursting with fire, but Ilya wouldn't stop even if something broke. Shane is clawing at the nest under him, canting up to meet every thrust Ilya hammers into him. Ilya is torn between watching the hypnotising ripple of those back muscles and his own cock pistoning in and out of Shane's hungry hole. Strings of slick connect his hips to Shane's ass, staining both their thighs, his fingers. Fuck, some of it is probably in his hair, too.

“Is okay?” He asks with a snap of his hips. He has Shane's prostate nailed and angles for it, anchoring his weight on the planes of Shane's back.

“Yes! Yes, fuck, harder, more.”

Ilya's alpha croons, eager to please. He needs to pace himself, not let himself cum too soon, so he can stay hard as long as possible, but sooner or later, Shane will plead for his knot, and Ilya won't be able to deny him.

Ilya ducks his head to watch himself swivel his cock in a circle inside, crucifix dangling over the picture of Shane grinding his ass back in a mirrored dance. Unholy. So fucking blasphemous. There's nothing else Ilya cares about more than this — being the slaking of Shane's bottomless appetite.

He lowers, open mouth pressing to the sweat-damp locks on the top of Shane's head. “Спасибо, спасибо, спасибоспасибоспасибо (Thank you, thank you, thankyouthankyouthankyou)—

Shane mewls and props up on his elbows, knees spreading further apart, fucking himself back. Ilya licks along the helix of his ear, down to the lobe and then in, feeling the honeydew heat around his cock tighten to a bristling clench. 

“Knot, knot, gimme, want it,” Shane babbles. There goes Ilya's plan to pace himself.

Ilya has often pondered after his own death, in the quiet hours when sex, cigarettes, hockey and vodka are no longer numbing the cloud of dread always heady in his mind. Not necessarily death in the same vein as his mother, but how his life can still so easily mean something for a second, then nothing the next. A car crash, maybe. A bad hit on the ice. A mug in Russia.      

None of his musings has ever led him to contemplate death by ass eating. Just as well, because he might have driven to Montreal just to experience it if he had thought it possible.

He’s been eating Shane out for the better part of an hour. First, zealous, fucking his tongue and fingers in and out of that glorious, slick hole until Shane was too incoherent to do anything but sob into another orgasm. He'd wrung two more out of his body before he flopped onto his back, fingers pruned, jaw aching something bitchy, and lips and chin smeared with the delicious taste haunting his every waking moment.

That lasted for maybe two minutes before Shane threw his legs over Ilya and straddled his face. 

His cock is heavy and wet on Ilya's cheek, leaking precum in a steady stream, like tears down Ilya's temple. He has one hand curled into Ilya's hair at his forehead, the other braced on the frame of the bed, rocking his hole on Ilya's tongue.

“Mmf, fuck,” he whines, neck craning as he cries out to the ceiling. “So fuckin’ good…”

Ilya closes his eyes, lapping and lazing, drinking down the essence of Shane's heat like it's vodka burning his throat. God, his stomach feels full, and his jaw is so goddamn tired.

He fucking loves it. Loves this. Loves that Shane is taking his pleasure regardless of Ilya's ability to keep up. Because Ilya isn't in a rut. This isn't a normal heat, so his useless alpha can't trigger its own cycle in response, which is horrible enough. Not to mention the terrible, wounded noises Shane emits if left untouched for too long, courtesy of a heat brought on by fucking Rejection Syndrome.

So, Ilya goes lax and lets Shane fuck himself on his tongue, petting on his thighs, his ass, his back and stomach. Arousal thrums low and constant in his belly, and he wishes his stupid dick would get with the program.

“You enjoying this, Rozanov?” Shane husks, biting his kiss-swollen lip. His dark eyes are lidded, a siren glare. “Can't even breathe. Found where you belong and never wanna fucking leave.”

Ilya nods, finding some energy to fuck his tongue in and reveling in the hoarse whimper he gets for his work. Love it, love it, love you.

“You almost gave this up. Almost let someone else take me.”

He shakes his head, even though it's true. He almost did; he almost lost this forever. This sweet bliss, this burning under his skin.

Sweat from Shane's chest makes a slow river down his torso, dripping down his thighs and into Ilya's open mouth. Salty, masculine, mingling with the sweet smokiness of his slick. Ilya's cock fills, heels fidgeting as he tries to assuage the dizziness of getting hard so fast, just from the taste.

“Are you hard yet?” Shane whines, looking over his shoulder to check. His face lights up when he finds what he needs, and he practically scrambles off of Ilya's face.

Fuck, the rush of cool air on his overheated face is nothing short of divine. Ilya takes huge, greedy gulps of air, clarity returning as proper oxygen bursts through his veins. Shane hunkers down, pressing butterflies of kisses all over Ilya's cheeks and forehead, lapping up the slick his own hole left behind.

“Good boy, so good, being a useful alpha again.”

Ilya's stomach flutters madly. “Не могу поверить, что ты снова позволяешь мне это делать (I can't believe you're letting me do this),” he says, throat scratchy with the effort of speech.

“‘m going to assume that means ‘thank you for fucking me’,” Shane mumbles, lining himself up with Ilya's livid cock and sinking down in one swell motion. “Because — oh, shit, you're so good— you should be thanking me.”

Cocky, smart-mouthed Shane Hollander. Not too rare around Ilya, but rare enough that it still steals the breath from his lungs.

Desperate to be useful, to bring Shane pleasure, Ilya flexes his hips up as Shane begins a rocking, hard pace. Shane plants hands on his chest and rides, thighs and knees working along the rustled fabrics of the nest, his hole tight and wet and perfect around Ilya's cock. His obliques clench with every forward grind as he drags his thumbs over Ilya’s chest glands.

“Just like that, fuck, Shane,” Ilya groans, reaching for Shane's weeping cock, but he's smacked away. Pouting, he tries again, but is once more denied. “Let me give you what you need, котик (kitten).”

“All I– ah, fuck, all I need you to do is lay back and take it.” Shane hikes up, then drops down, building a pace of grinding and bouncing to whatever rhythm suits him best. “My omega knows what it needs.”

The sounds of their fucking are vulgar, filthy and sloppy, every slickened movement punctuated by a pleased groan or a heavy gasp. Shane's cock bobs with every cant of his hips up and down, still leaking even now. Fucking soaked. Ilya's soaked in Shane. His scent, his slick and cum, his sweat and arousal.

Russian obscenities pour from Ilya's mouth like worship, and never let him set foot in a church again because he's forgotten how to exalt anything that isn't Shane. 

A hand seizes his jaw, shoving his head to the side. Ilya growls, alpha instincts momentarily flaring before Shane angles his ass down, and the clench of his hole around Ilya's cock has him going slack again. His alpha remembers his place, painstakingly earned back after having lost it too easily; here, under his omega's thumb, at his omega's behest.

His nose is buried into a pair of sweatpants, unfolded and rumpled from their movements. Musky, teeming with Shane's pheromones. Ilya pants, drool edging at the corner of his mouth.

“This is what you should smell like,” Shane purrs, grinding down hard. “Nothing else. Nobody else. Only this.”

He keeps Ilya's nose pinned there, against the worn fabric of the pants, and rides him until his knot finally inflates and plugs him up. It's suffocating, and it's glorious. Ilya's vision takes a backseat while his entire body convulses for what feels like the hundredth time, ecstasy wrung from him to the last drop.

A full-body shiver rucks up Shane's spine before he collapses onto Ilya's chest, squirming until he finds the best position to keep the knot comfortable inside himself and indolently hump Ilya's stomach. He kisses at Ilya's throat glands.

“Stupid alpha,” he says, under his breath. Ilya snickers and wraps his arms around his purring omega.

“Your stupid alpha.” 

He nuzzles the sweatpants and licks along the seam to taste the flavor like he didn't have his tongue up Shane's ass a few minutes ago.

“Are you making out with the crotch of my sweats, Rozanov?”

Ironically, the hardest part of dealing with an omega's heat while not being in rut is not the complete breakdown of erectile function or the — albeit pleasant — bone-deep exhaustion of having a body used as nothing more than a mechanism for getting off. It's getting your horny omega mate to let you leave long enough to use the goddamn bathroom.

“Shane, sweetheart, my bladder is going to explode,” Ilya says, methodically unlatching the clawed grip Shane has around his wrist, then again when he re-latches onto his arm, then again on his leg.

“No-o,” Shane whines, giving up on grabby hands and instead throwing his arms around Ilya's shoulders to cling to him like a sweaty, adorably horny barnacle. “Don't go…”

“Do you want me to ruin this pretty nest by shitting in it?”

The straight bridge of his nose scrunches up adorably. “Ew.”

“No? You don't want shit in your nest?”

“Obviously not. Quit being gross.”

Ilya grins at his petulant tone, but tries to stay stern, shifting away. “Then let me—”

“No!”

They eventually compromise by allowing Shane to stand close to the bathroom door with one of Ilya's shirts hanging from his mouth. Ilya can hear Shane shifting at the door like a needy puppy seconds after he's closed it, but he's not going to compromise on his bowel functions, thank you, even if he giggles about it into his palms.

A peek in the mirror gives him an overlook of the past two days. Bite marks seasoned across his skin, particularly around moles as if Shane's fever-addled mind clung to the dark constellations and decided to forge a path of most fucking resistance and confusion. Nobody would be able to follow this map, littered with hickeys and teeth indents that are poor road markers.

Ilya's face is permanently flushed with arousal and exhaustion, his pupils only now constricting under the harsh bathroom light after spending hours swallowing the blues of his irises. 

His lips are swollen, puffy at the edges and dyed a deep red. Shane's allowed him to catch some sleep for a few hours here and there, but not nearly enough to be fully rested before he's awoken by whining and nudging. 

God, if this is what Rejection Syndrome heat is like, Ilya is grateful he won't have to experience a true Shane Hollander heat without being in rut himself, because then he'll be even more useless and Shane will toss his ass to the curb.

Outside the door, a muffled grouse reaches his ears. “Get out already.”

“I'm wiping!”

Food is also another affair. Unfortunately, human bodies need sustenance, much to Shane's chagrin. He seems incredibly irritated that Ilya is unable to survive solely off his slick and spunk. Which, delicious as they are, are entirely void of nutritional value. Ilya doesn't say this; he values his life.

Instead, he says, “My stomach will kill us both if I have to go another hour without food, Hollander.”

Hollander, very obviously not listening, grinds his cock against Ilya's chest, humping the muscle with eager abandon. He's been doing this for some time now, using whatever soft, muscular part of Ilya's body he likes to hump on and cover in his arousal because Ilya's dick is in a perpetual state of softness after countless orgasms.

He reaches over and flicks Ilya’s nipples just to watch his breath hitch, rubbing the glistening head of his cock on the scent glands beneath. “Mmm, fuck…”

Yep. Not listening.

With a sigh, Ilya reaches up and scruffs Shane by the neck, pushing himself to pin Shane on his back. A sock flicks into the air from the impact and lands on Shane's flushed face, though he's far too busy gasping in delight to really care, so Ilya gingerly removes it for him.

“We both have to eat,” he coos, nodding very sympathetically when Shane grumbles and bucks his hips pointedly. “Yes, very annoying, I know. Sad that we are human, hm?”

“Don't go,” comes the familiar sweet mantra, and oh, Ilya adores his needy ass. Leaning down, Ilya takes his cock in hand, marvelling at just how wet he is, and sucks his tongue while he jerks him off. 

“I will make you cum, and then I will get some fucking food. If you complain, I will sit in the bathroom for twenty minutes.”

Not only does the threat work, even while Shane glares at him seconds before his orgasm strikes, but it also works well enough that Shane is a perfect angel while Ilya lumbers about collecting things they need to survive like he's preparing for the apocalypse.

Which just means that he follows Ilya everywhere, one of Ilya's shirts hanging loose around his neck, and grumbles about it. Still, he lets Ilya ply him with leftover soup, drinks the cool water Ilya puts in front of him, and even smiles because he knows he should be grateful Ilya isn't letting him starve to death just because he wants dick.

While he eats, Ilya answers texts for him since he apparently can't be arsed, chewing on toasted stale bread. Realistically, no one knows that Shane owns a sex condo in Montreal, so it's not like anyone would come knocking. But it's good to stop people from worrying.

Unless it's Boiziau. He can grow a white head of hair.

“Should I tell him you are busy with very hot alpha?” Ilya suggests, sneering at the easy tone Boiziau has adopted with his omega. Need more jackets, Capitaine? Ilya should shove a puck up his scrotum.

“Just send back a ‘no thanks’ with a thumbs up.” Shane gulps down more water. His bleary eyes are completely fixated on Ilya, and it's more than a little flattering that, in such a primal state, Shane is so focused on him.

“Mm, I will send middle finger.”

“Please don't.”

“I will. Do you have Nikolai Son of a Bitch's number? I will send him one too.”

Shane squints at him. “Solonevich.”

Ilya stares at him flatly. “I know what I said.”

Disconcerting as it is to be unable to give Shane everything he needs right now, Ilya does know, logically, that no other alpha, beta or omega would be able to come close to the comfort he offers. If it were Nikolai Son of a Bitch here instead of Ilya, Shane wouldn't have even allowed him in the apartment, let alone close to his nest. This is obvious. This is known.

Doesn't make Ilya's alpha any less irritable about it all. Ilya still vividly remembers Shane's terrorising. All those pictures of him comfortably snuggled in another man's clothes, drenched in someone else's scent, his taunting words about Rose Landry. 

Ilya's inner alpha gnashes its jaw, eager to prove itself better. More worthy. More compatible than any other.

Shane finishes his food with a happy little hum. Breed him, fuck him, make him cry for you. He doesn't even have to ask to head back to the nest, because Ilya's dragging him there, cock slowly filling with hot, possessive blood. Shane peers over Ilya's shoulder as they climb the stairs and gasps.

“Oh!” There's unmistakable delight in his voice, and he practically skips up the last few steps in his eagerness to get knotted. Never let it be said that Ilya isn't an indulgent mate.

Hissing and squelching noises rouse Ilya from the deepest edges of slumber, awareness prickling over his body where cool air brushes over it. At first, the room is too dark for him to make out the shapes within, which is enough of an indication that it's deep twilight in Montreal. Only a single lamp illuminates what is the actual picture of Ilya's most salacious dreams.

Shane is sprawled on his belly, hugging a whole mountain of clothes close to his torso, pants punching out of him in staccato bursts. One hand is craned back, fucking something into his hole, and his face is buried in the hair surrounding Ilya's cock. 

“Sweetheart,” Ilya croaks, raising a hand to thread lazily through Shane's hair. Shane mewls in response, shoving the toy deeper and harder into himself, as if Ilya's voice is enough to drive him mad with need. 

Plaintive, he drags his tongue and lips over the soft curve of Ilya's cock, nudging it with his nose with puppy-like affection. He kisses it, laps at it, inhaling the scent deeply. Ilya stares, enraptured, heart swelling in his chest with a mixture of trepidation and awe. And mild envy at how Shane is lavishing his dick with so much tenderness it borders on romantic.

“Why didn't you wake me up, hm? Let me help you.”

“Didn’ wanna disturb you,” Shane slurs, and god, Ilya wants to harden so terribly. Wants to fill and plug up Shans's gorgeous ass, but after three nights of fucking, his recovery periods have taken longer and longer. He isn't sure he'll be able to get it up again for the last stretch of Shane's heat.

Luckily, he has other useful body parts.

Slouching closer, Ilya uses his grip on Shane's hair to coax him up, gliding their mouths together in a truly disgusting but invigorating kiss. Rubbing his wrist over Shane's throat, he swallows his keen like he would vodka, separating their lips with a filthy string of spit connecting them.

Shane sits up, giving Ilya a view of the toy as it's propped up on the mattress. The dildo, in all its purple glory, sopping with slick all the way down to the suction cup at the bottom, darker in this light than it was in the picture Shane had sent. The dildo Shane had fucked on top of Ilya's jersey.

“Remember him?” Shane whispers, sinking down with a groan. His lashes spasm wildly. As if Ilya could forget.

“Feel good?” Ilya trails a path of kisses down, yearning for the coil of muscle beneath his mouth.

Shane nods, tipping his head back as Ilya nibbles at the dusky perk of his nipples. “Miss your knot so much.”

God, fuck his useless dick. “I know, sweetheart. I'm sorry.”

“Always want it. Need it.” 

“I know.”

“Hu-Hurts, Ilya, please.”

Heaving a shaky sigh, Ilya drops down to his stomach and props himself on his elbows until he's at comfortable eye-level with Shane's incensed erection. Heat is truly a magnificent phenomenon — by all accounts, Shane should be coming dry after countless orgasms. But he still drips, still leaks, and it's so fucking divine.

Ilya suckles on the glistening tip, digging his tongue into the slit. Shane's taste settles on his gums, chasing away the lingering dryness of sleep, reminding him of his own desire. It burns, still, under his veins, a constant ache for his own. For what belongs to him. His alpha is not nearly as domineering as it probably could be, content to lower itself to please whatever whims its omega bids. It's a rumble in his chest as he opens his throat and takes Shane's delicious cock down to the root.

“Oh my fucking god,” Shane moans, wanton. He requires no instruction; his omega knows what it needs.

“Fuck, Ilya, you look so m’fucking pretty like this.” He sways his hips, fucking the dildo into his ass, then pushing forward to slide his cock back down Ilya's throat. Using him. 

Ilya relaxes his jaw, tongue swirling where it can, rubbing soothing circles onto Shane's thighs with his thumbs. 

“So good, so goddamn good.” Fingers lace into Ilya's hair and bind, until Shane is fucking himself from both ends completely hands-free— the dildo stays propped up, the tip never unlodged from inside Shane, and his cock never strays too far from Ilya's mouth.

Ilya moans, watching. Holding his gaze to Shane's face, enjoying the masculine flavor of him. Inhales steadily through his mouth while Shane deep-throats him, faster, harder, jaw clenching with the strength of the lava in his gut.

Spit dribbles down Ilya's chin, Shane's thrusts slowly eroding the regular hymn of his breathing until the glorious pressure has tears springing to his eyes. Shane fucks himself, scent sticky and mouth open to the ceiling, choppy bangs plastered to his sweaty forehead.

“ ‘m gonna cum, ‘m gonna cum, gonna fucking cum,” he chants, grip tightening painfully in Ilya's curls. Ilya whines, the vibrations jerking up the length in his mouth, and lunges forward so Shane sinks all the way down on the dildo as Ilya's nose presses to his pelvis.

This orgasm is silent, but no less strong as the others. Shane's cock pulses inside Ilya's throat before the familiar, bitter tang of him fills his mouth. His thighs quiver violently under Ilya's palms, hips making aborted movements, chasing the pleasure to the meandering heights it takes him.

Slowly, when Shane's shivering subsides, Ilya pulls off. Cum and spit follow him up, trickling onto the clothes underneath in a gross line, but Shane's looking at him like he's a deity, so gross is definitely worth it.

“Don't worry about waking me,” Ilya tells him through his hoarse voice, flopping down with his thighs spread. He closes his eyes, working his tongue in his mouth to taste the flavor Shane left behind, sleep already reaching for him. “Just take what you need.”

There's no verbal reply, only a warm, wet mouth smearing over his soft cock and enveloping it entirely just as he falls under. 

There's nothing left, and so there's more than enough to give. Ilya is spent, dehydrated like a slice of fruit left out in the sun, with leather hide and mellow flavor. Still, he wraps throbbing arms around Shane and holds him while he uses Ilya's soft, useless dick to get off. It isn't enough for him, it's not exactly what Shane needs, and he sobs about it into the pillow while he rocks his ass back on the length anyway.

“I'm sorry, I'm so sorry.” Ilya keeps them both on their sides and uses the rest of his body to bring whatever pleasure he can. Dots wet and dry kisses over freckled shoulders, stroking over a hitching chest. Shane's pained moans, his need for Ilya's knot, is gut-wrenching. Ilya wishes he could carve himself out, vacuum his blood-red guts and feed it to Shane's starving omega, the omega whose starvation he induced.

“How could you—” Shane hiccups, nails digging into the back of Ilya's thigh hard enough to draw blood— “do this to me?”

Tears springing to his eyes, Ilya cuddles around Shane harder, balling them both up like miserable wads of wet paper. His dick hurts, overused and definitely needing respite, but he'd sooner cut out his own tongue than take any part of him away again.

“It is almost over, sweetheart,” he says, using the barest inklings of his strength to scent Shane's throat glands. Shane arches back, demanding more. His face is stained with salt lines. “I'm here, I'm here, I won't leave again.”

He reaches down, slipping in two trembling fingers alongside his flaccid cock into Shane's weeping hole. It offers some relief, as Shane sags into him, but not nearly enough. Ilya whispers more apologies, throat closing, using his other hand to stroke Shane as best he can.

Fingers gnash in his hair, wrenching him close as Shane turns enough for their cheeks to wedge together, his teeth tightly gritted. His eyes are blazing, furious and devastated at once, and when his voice emerges, every last molecule of Ilya's body attunes to it. 

“If you ever do this to me again, Ilya,” come the words doused in the voice he's never heard, “I will carve out this fucking omega and give it to someone else. I will forget you. I fucking mean it.”

Shane's omega voice is nothing like Ilya imagined, dark and deeply animal. He wonders, distantly, if Shane felt the same cataclysmic shift in his soul when he heard Ilya's alpha voice on the ice that day of his injury.

“Won't do it again, won't ever, I swear, I swear,” Ilya chants, over and over, until Shane bruises his lips with a kiss and cums over his near-broken fingers, spurting hot and mean. Ilya wonders if he's hallucinating the way Shane's cock begins to soften.

Light dapples into the bedroom through the blackout curtains, aimed right at Shane's closed eyes as if to personally deny him sleep. He's a little surprised; he can't remember falling asleep, and has no bearings as to how long it's been since he did. Time took a very far backseat since this all started.

He's warm. Not heat-warm in its sweating and mind-melting intensity. Just a cozy, sleep-induced warmth, aided by strong arms cradling him to a broad chest and a slow breath fanning across his shoulders.

Languid, he stretches his legs out, grunting at the crack of his bones loosening. His hips and lower back are shrill with a used ache, and there's a mild sensation of fullness inside him still. Ilya's cock hadn't gotten hard again, but that didn't stop Shane from hankering down and slipping it inside, just to feel it. He remembers using that feeling to jerk off as his heat finally began to ebb and fade while Ilya passed out properly.

No one has ever felt Ilya's dick like this. Soft, malleable, utterly useless. It's probably so sore now, the poor thing, so he gently dislodges himself and scrunches his nose when he feels just how gross his hole feels.

Blegh. Heats fucking suck, before and after. The during is what decides whether the journey was worth it. 

“Shane?” A sleepy mumble presses to his nape, a kiss following. His bones liquify instantly. “What do you need?”

“A really, really good shower.”

Silence, for a bit, before Ilya's hands catalogue the normal state of his body temperature.

“Ah.”

After another beat, he adds, “So, can I finally go pee without getting a murder threat?”

Laughter bubbles from deep in Shane’s core, delirious, and he turns around in Ilya's arms, eager to see him. The lamp is still on, but it's the golden hues of the small sliver of sun that shine brightest on Ilya's face. The little bump on the bridge of his nose, the exaggerated pout of his mouth, the strength of his stubble dark along his jaw and upper lip. His crystal blue eyes, velvety and devoted to cataloguing Shane's every feature the same way Shane is doing to him. His curls are loose and disheveled, pressed down, giving his face a boyish charm.

“Hi,” Shane murmurs.

“Hello, sweetheart,” Ilya murmurs back.

For a moment, Shane forgets how gross he feels. Forgets the hunger in his gut, the soreness of his muscles, the colossal amount of laundry he's going to have to do. All he remembers is Ilya letting him do whatever he wanted to his body, letting him use every limb, tooth, finger, to feed the fire that had scalded him. Putting himself at risk, really, given how many times he'd orgasmed and how sensitive his dick must now be. His body is a record of scratches, bruises, and bite marks. He looks mauled.

Will he leave now? Does he know he's forgiven, and will that send him running back to Boston with his conscience clear?

 Will he go back to Svetlana?

Ilya shuffles closer, pulling Shane into his chest. “No. Whatever you are thinking, do not think it.”

“I'm not thinking anything.”

“You are.”

“I'm not.”

Snorting, Ilya pecks the tip of his nose, then rubs his own against the same spot. His palm strokes up and down Shane's back, soothing the invisible porcupine spikes bristling along the line of his spine. Gently, he probes, “Tell me.”

What is it about Ilya that manages this? It's so easy for Shane to lie these days, to stuff the deepest secrets of himself into a trunk and hide it under his bed from everyone. And then Ilya comes along and pops the thing open without needing to look. Without having to really ask. Always like this, with Ilya. From the showers after the CCM commercial to here, in Shane's nest, watching him carefully. Knowingly.

There's something about Ilya Rozanov that makes it impossible for Shane to hide. From himself, from them both.

“Is this what you came for? To help with my heat?” Shane licks his lips, looking away. “Will you leave?”

He expects Ilya to hesitate a little before answering, but he doesn't. “I'm not going anywhere, Hollander.” And then, after a small chuckle, “I did not even think you would give me this. Your heat.”

Rearing back to see his face properly, Shane stares, incredulous. “Seriously?”

Ilya shrugs, adorably scruffy and exhausted. “I did not think you would allow it, after everything.”

“... Yeah.”

Thumb brushing Shane's cheek, Ilya has a small, happy curve to the edge of his mouth. It almost looks smug. “I feel very honored by this. Shane Hollander nearly fucked me to death.”

Shane rolls his eyes. “You deserved it.”

“Yes, yes, I did. I will tell them this, when they come to arrest me and send me back.”

“I thought your visa was clean.”

“Did you see how much cum is on me? Not clean anymore, that is for sure.”

He's such a fucking idiot, and yet Shane is fighting a laugh, burying his face in Ilya's bicep while the asshole grins like a cat who got the cream.

“I basically broke your dick, Rozanov.”

His grin somehow grows even more smug. “If it will help you start to forgive me, I will rip it off, and you can use it whenever.”

Diabolical imagery aside, Shane has to take a pause. He reaches up, drawn by the angelic curve of Ilya's face, tracing the lines of his mouth. Ilya kisses his fingers.

“I already forgave you. Before my heat.” Shane watches Ilya's grin die down, replaced by a blank disbelief. As if he doesn't think he should be forgiven, even now, when the time has not equated to as long as Shane suffered. But grudges are exhausting, and with Ilya, forgiveness is easy to find. It always has been. How can Shane not, when loving Ilya comes to him as easily as breathing?

“I forgave you, it's just…” He glances away. “Forgiving was always the easy part. I just… You say you won't leave, but I need to see that to be sure.”

Ilya digests this quietly and then relaxes. Shane understands, in some way. Being forgiven completely after everything would also not sit right with him, but just absolution isn't enough. Shane knows Ilya is sorry, but to trust that he won't do this again is another story. That won't return after less than two weeks of sticking around. After a heat shared or scenting done.

But the chance is there for Ilya to rebuild that trust. And he seems comforted by that, if his determined expression is anything to go by.

“You will see it, I promise.” Then, clearly remembering something, Ilya winces. “And I am sorry about Svetlana. She is not there anymore. At my place.”

Shane wonders if Ilya's bringing her up because he feels secure enough that he won't get his ass kicked for it. He won't, but that's mostly because Shane's body is limp noodles and tired. Ilya plants a kiss on Shane's souring face.

“She told me about omegas and nests. Helped me see how really stupid I was.” Shane closes his eyes as Ilya presses peck after peck to his face and neck. “She is not for me. You are. Only you.”

And. Yeah. Okay. Shane supposes he can be grateful to her for knocking some sense into Ilya, although he's still annoyed about Ilya's ignorance on the whole thing. He'll have to get him a few books, because this ‘accidentally almost killing your mate’ shit cannot happen again.

“Does she know it's me?” At Ilya's nod, Shane briefly considers that his lack of anxiety over that fact is born by the knowledge that she now knows she holds no candle to him. Shane's omega is happy about it, but Shane himself is probably going to freak out later. When he has the energy.

Eyes fluttering, he meets Ilya's gaze again. Stricken, for a second, about how he's never seen those blues so feathery soft. Water over a brook, swishing down to a lake where serenity lives.

I love you.

“Come to my cottage,” he says, tracing the outline of Ilya's lips with a finger. Come to my cottage, and I'll tell you I love you.

And even though Ilya already said he would, had already promised, he nods. “I will go wherever you want me to go, Shane Hollander.”

They share twin smiles, unfettered, morning-syrupy. Alpha and omega finding the same harmony, at last.

“Scent me?” 

Ilya leans in. “Always.”

Chapter End Notes

Thank you to boywithhollanov and Inga for beta-reading this chapter! I love you guys MUAH.

And, for the last time this fic, here are the recs!

you stole my show, so I chase you to the pavement by Anonymous. Shane doesn't get injured, and Ilya breaks up with him because he's a fucking idiot. I loved the execution of this one, super painful breakup, but unlike my dramatic ass, these two take less than 8k to get back together, so huzzah! Also, delicious writing, highly recommend.

i don't like the way he's looking at you (i'm starting to think you want him too) by my baby, blankjournals. Hilarious , and also a lovely flavoring of co-dependant ass hollanov. Which is how we all like them! Also, just to piss her off, I also recommend love and lust (wanna be yours) because apparently she has the audacity to think she should be embarrassed by this fic, so please go love on her in the comments of that one specifically so she feels even more embarrassed.