Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Ilya stood in the kitchen for a long time after the call. 

Unraveling emotions he hadn’t allowed himself to touch before, finally putting words to what had been battering around in his chest all these years. 

When Shane shot him a sideways glare, face tight and fists clenched and somehow still able to steal Ilya’s breath, that was love. When they slammed into each other on the ice, surprised laughs escaping as elbows dug underneath ribs, that was love. When Ilya woke up to freckled shoulders and sleepy giggles and scrunched noses, the morning syrupy and bathed in amber light, that was love.

And when he was suddenly alone on his couch, Shane nothing but a phantom weight in his lap, heart and head smarting from the whiplash of their afternoon. That was love, somehow, too. 

It had been the entire time, even when it hurt. Even when he didn’t want to admit it.

You are like poison, his father had told him once, when his dementia was just starting to creep in. To your mama, now me. Ever since you were a boy. Our little rattlesnake.

He allowed himself to cry that same night, only once. And while the tears were limited, the damage was not. 

His father had said it almost affectionately, like he admired him for it. Nash malen'kiy gremuchnik had rolled off his tongue without hesitation, as if he was discussing the weather and not the fate of the people his son loved.

And then Ilya had fallen for hockey’s golden boy, the one person, save for his mother, most undeserving of his venomous bite. Of course it was Mr. Nice Guy, Mr. Goody Two Shoes, his fated arch rival, the one person he shouldn’t have, that he can’t have.

But that’s not who he had fallen for, not really. If Ilya was honest with himself, he had fallen for the young, bundled-up boy who braved the cold to offer Ilya a smile and a handshake. He was kind, and he was stupid, and he was genuine. 

He had been so beautiful, even then. And not just in appearance, which he was, but his insides, his actions, his essence, every fucking thing -- so frustratingly beautiful. Ilya remembered thinking Shane was a threat, not because he was the best junior hockey player in the league (yes, he could admit that now, but never to Shane), but because he had never wanted to have someone so badly before. 

Ilya chuckled to himself. Christ, even then, he was gone, he was so gone and he hadn’t even consented, he hadn’t even realized what had happened that day. 

The memory made him smile, but there was an undercurrent of sadness that ran through it, making his chest squeeze painfully. Because that had been over eight years ago, eight years, and since then they’d fallen apart and back together over and over again, still needing each other, still wanting. 

They had wasted so much time.

Ilya had to put an end to that, the mindless cycle they had become trapped in. Two spiders spinning a web they both knew would be destroyed tomorrow, but what were they to do besides build it anyway? It was in their nature, just like he knew Shane was in his. 

The way his alpha responded to him, the way he could never quit him no matter how hard he tried. He was sure that when he died, the scientists studying his DNA to create the next hockey prodigy would find Shane’s name woven into the backbone of his double helixes, the need to love him coded into his genetic makeup. Only then would it make sense, why he felt this so strongly, why he was so sure. 

Jesus Christ, he was getting disgustingly poetic. This was so unlike him. 

He really needed to talk to Shane.  

Grabbing two cold water bottles and two protein shakes from the fridge, he slipped Shane’s phone into the pocket of his sweatpants and made his way back to the bedroom. The cloying scent of restless omega only got stronger as he got closer, his mouth watering. How he had gone so long without smelling Shane like this, he had no idea, but he was never going to give it up now. 

His chest rumbled at the thought of bending to meet Shane during their next face-off only to find his scent muted, the edge of a blocker peeking out from his collar. Or, more likely, the edge of two scent blockers, as Shane would probably double up after returning to the rink. The idea made his stomach turn, but it was quickly settled as he took in the sight from the doorway.

Shane was on his side now, twisted in the sheets and facing Ilya, but his eyes were closed, eyebrows scrunched in concentration. One hand was under the pillows, the other clutching at something he had freed from his nest -- it looked like one of Ilya’s workout tank tops. He had it crumpled up under his nose, taking in shallow breaths of Ilya's scent. 

“Oh, krolik, come here,” Ilya soothed, placing his haul of drinks down on the nightstand. He moved a few items from the nest around to sit carefully on the edge of the bed, leaning into his hip.

He slotted his hands under Shane’s armpits and rolled him onto his back easily, then scooted him up to lean against the headboard. The adjustment was a little difficult, with Ilya’s grip slick on Shane’s sweaty skin and the fact that Shane, despite being an omega, was over two-hundred pounds of pure, hard-earned muscle.

As soon as his hands were on Shane he was groaning, the tightness fading from his features. Ilya frowned. Fuck, he really needed to stop leaving Shane like this, he hadn’t been joking about the effect of Ilya’s touch.

Shane let himself be manhandled, letting out soft, disgruntled noises as he slumped against the headboard. The raspiness in his voice went straight to Ilya’s dick, twitching with interest in his sweatpants. He breathed in through his mouth, trying to focus on the matter at hand. Shane needed water, medicine, and food right now. And, pointedly, not his knot.

Not yet, at least. Ilya knew within the hour Shane would be pawing at his waistband with greedy hands. He could wait until then. 

Shane’s head lolled lazily and then dipped to the left. “Woah, hey, Hollander.” Ilya grabbed the side of his face, taking the weight of it in his hand in an attempt to keep him up against the headboard.

As dead of a weight as he was, Shane still managed to nuzzle his cheek into Ilya’s open palm. He mouthed at the hinge of Ilya’s thumb, gentle as he pressed his lips to the skin. 

“Cannot get enough, hm? Even as tired as you are.”

And it was meant to be a jab, but Ilya sounded more incredulous than anything. He petted Shane's cheek lightly, relishing in the feeling of plush lips against his hand. With hooded eyes, he watched Shane kiss along his thumb, the inside of his knuckle, the thin webbing between his fingers. 

Then, he sucked the entire digit into his mouth, enveloping Ilya’s thumb in the wet heat.

Now that definitely made Ilya’s dick jump, tenting the front of his pants. He poorly muffled a groan as Shane tongued at his thumb, bobbing his head a little along the length of it. 

“Fuck, Shane,” Ilya murmured, mesmerized. 

Ilya could get used to this. Dangerously used to this.

Dangerous. Right. Ilya tried to recenter -- there were other dangerous things going on. Like this goddamn heat.

“Very tempting,” he gritted out, resisting the urge to palm at his dick with his other hand. “But you need water first, sweetheart.” And then, with all of the resolve he could muster, he pulled his thumb out of Shane’s mouth with a soft ‘pop’. 

Shane opened his eyes then, dark, sparkling, and… kind of annoyed? While Ilya was trying to keep him hydrated and fed and alive? That couldn’t be right.

“Oh, no, no, no. You do not get to be upset with me. I am doing very noble thing here, Hollander.” 

Shane’s upper lip pulled in annoyance, but it just made him look a level of grumpy-hot that Ilya was not prepared for. His stomach tightened.

“You will get my dick after, okay? But first,” he said, reaching back toward the nightstand.  He uncapped one bottle, hand still sticky with Shane’s spit, and brought it to Shane’s lips.

“Drink,” he instructed.

Shane, despite his attitude, drank. 

Fuck.

Ilya tried not to get too turned on by how Shane did exactly as he asked without hesitation, brows still drawn together. He took long, measured sips of water, the muscles of his throat working in a way that did nothing for Ilya’s hard-on. 

When he was halfway done with the bottle, Ilya pulled it away and gave them both a moment to breathe. Shane was squinting at him in the dull afternoon light, collapsed against the headboard, lips wet and parted. Tempting, so goddamn tempting.

Ilya swore his heart and dick throbbed at the same time, literally at the same fucking time. How did everything Shane do somehow turn him on? It was exhausting, yet Ilya craved it. 

How lucky he was to have this problem. Maybe not so lucky for his dick, but that was besides the point.

He sighed, rubbing Shane’s knee. He could hold it together for five more minutes, just to make sure Shane was fueled up. And he could probably chug his own water and protein shake if he tried for six. That counted as self-care, right?

Shane let out a disgruntled noise, and then his eyes were falling shut again, his nose crinkling. His head fell to his chest, and a hand came up to weakly rub at his temple. 

Oh, Ilya knew what that meant. Had seen it a few times from across the rink during a particularly loud Montreal game or when the lights in the media room were a little too bright. Shane had a headache. 

Could be dehydration, could be the sunlight reflecting on the iced-over snow outside, lighting up the room with an impressive intensity. Either way, he could fix this. 

“Let me get you something, it will help,” Ilya said, getting up from his perch. Shane groaned in response, lifting his hand again. It bumped Ilya’s side and dropped back to the bed almost immediately, fingers twitching. Impatient. 

Ilya huffed out a laugh. “Thirty seconds, I promise.” He intended to keep this one. 

Stepping into the en-suite, Ilya quickly located a washcloth. It was slate gray, plush, very nice quality. Ilya made a mental note of the brand -- he would be purchasing his own set later. It was just that all of Hollander’s linens felt insanely great on his skin, alright? And he was a weak, weak man who appreciated a good bath towel.

He ran it under the bathroom faucet, drenching the fabric in cold water and wringing it out carefully. Then, he grabbed both of Shane’s heat-specific prescriptions and came back to the bedroom. Thankfully, Shane was still in the same position, crumpled in on himself but still technically upright. 

Sitting down, he deposited the pill bottles next to the drinks and placed the cool washcloth over Shane’s eyes. Shane jumped, head hitting the wooden panel behind him in his surprise.

Great, he was probably giving Shane two headaches now instead of relieving him of one. He rubbed the back of his head soothingly, an apology. 

“Did not mean to scare you. You have a headache, yes? This will help, I promise, solnyshko.” His other hand slowly molded the washcloth to the contours of his face to better block out the bright white of a frigid winter afternoon. 

Ilya had never been this delicate with someone before in his life. Usually he and Shane threw each other around in bed, against doors, and onto kitchen tables without a second thought. Once, Ilya had even fucked into Shane so hard in the shower he slipped and banged his head on the towel rod. Ilya grinned at the memory -- Shane had begged him not to slow down, one hand holding his forehead and the other bracing himself against the tiles. A fucking champ. 

They weren’t too mindful because they both could handle it; they were big and strong and no strangers to discomfort. Looking at Shane now, though, he wasn’t sure he could handle much more than the gentle smoothing of Ilya’s thumbs over the bridge of his nose. 

It was a miracle he had never broken it over the course of his career, it was still so straight and strong. But the freckles on his cheeks softened it, so boyishly charming. Ilya brushed the backs of his fingers over them, admiring them. There was a particularly prominent one in the crease where his nose met his face -- that one was Ilya’s favorite, the one he kissed very, very often.

He leaned and pressed his lips to it now, his upper lip cold where it contacted the washcloth. Shane made a noise of surprise, but then relaxed. Rivulets of water ran down his cheeks, but he didn’t seem to mind. He even let out a small sigh.

Ilya hoped that meant it was helping, even if it was only a little bit. 

“Okay, time for medicine. Open.”

Shane’s jaw lowered on command. Ilya busied himself with uncapping the orange bottles so he didn’t think too hard about it. 

Shaking one of each into his hand, he recapped the bottles and dropped the pills onto Shane’s tongue. He brought the water bottle back up to Shane’s mouth and Shane drained it, swallowing down the medicine too. 

His mouth twisted into a grimace, but he was still quiet. So, no talking for a little bit longer. Okay. Ilya had seen Shane get overwhelmed beyond speech sometimes, usually in bed, but sometimes on the ice, too. He had never seen it last thing long, though, which was slightly worrying. But Shane seemed semi-alert and aware of his surroundings, at least, so Ilya had hoped he’d snap out of it soon.

Ilya forced the protein shake into him while he was still pliant and impressionable, taking careful sips from his own inbetween.

“Hollander, what is this flavor?” Ilya asked after the first sip. He rolled the taste around on his tongue, trying to figure out what it was. Because of course Shane meal-prepped his own protein shakes, the clear, labelless bottles lined up like little soldiers in the fridge door.

Shane, as he expected, did not respond. He did exhale loudly of his nose, though, a smile playing at the corners of his lips. 

“It is disgusting, like drinking spicy dirt. Maybe it is tree bark flavor? That sounds like the health food nonsense you buy.” 

He brought Shane’s bottle to his lips and let him finish off the last few swigs before it got too warm and even less palatable. Then he threw his own back, frowning at the aftertaste. God, it was worse than the before-taste. 

Bringing a thumb up to Shane’s bottom lip, he ran it over the soft skin there, thinking. Shane leaned into the touch, settling further into the headboard.

“You are mega-rich hockey player, you can afford protein shakes that taste good. Next time, I go with you. We pick them out together.”

A blush spread across Shane’s freckled cheeks. Ilya realized only then what he said, what it meant. The image was so domestic it made his stomach flip. Them grocery shopping together, fighting over which whey powder to buy and what brand of collagen was the best. 

And Ilya didn’t have a preference, not really, but he would do it just to rile Shane up. Thinking about his angry little pout and furrowed brow was getting him hard already. Christ. 

He did draw the line at whatever earthy crap he was currently buying, but the rest he did not care about. When he was hungry, he ate, when he was thirsty, he drank. He worked out hard enough that it didn’t matter, it all came out in the wash. 

It would be nice if Shane ate that way too, or at least treated his body a little more kindly. Less like a cold, precision tool and more like the soft, living, beautiful thing it was.

They would work on it, he vowed. He would not be letting that one go under the radar.

Shane wiggled out of his hold then and Ilya, lost in thought, let him. Vision still obscured by the washcloth, Shane lifted one hand and felt along the top of his nightstand clumsily. Like he was searching for something. 

Ilya watched him, confused as his thick fingers closed around nothing. His hand flexed, tendons on full display. He patted his palm flat against the wood, once, twice, and then dropped his hand back to the bed.

Shane’s head swung wide back to face Ilya, who was focused in on Shane’s mouth again. 

“Shane, tell me what you need.”

“Mom,” he mouthed. The movement was small, barely there, leaving his lips slightly parted.

And if Ilya wasn’t so fluent in Shane Hollander, he wouldn’t have had a clue as to what he was saying or what he wanted. But he was, so he knew Yuna needed a sign of life or else she’d come charging over and find them-- well, he didn’t want to think about where she’d find them. 

“I will text Yuna,” he said, already picking up Shane’s phone. “Tell her we are good. Sleeping, eating, having wild sex. Do not worry, Hollander.”

Shane smirked and nodded in thanks. He scooted over to be even closer to Ilya, resting a hand on his knee before letting his chin fall to his chest, in search of sleep. Something in Ilya’s warmed at the sight. 

He was not surprised to find a text from Yuna already there in Shane’s messages, ready and waiting. It was like the two had some weird psychic connection, they were so in-tune. 

Yuna: How are you feeling today? 

Ilya bit his lip, looking over at the collapsed heap of Shane. 

Shane: This is Shane’s heat partner. He is the same. Very tired and sore. 

Shane: We think his heat started today, he just had bad pre-heat before. 

The reply came almost instantly, like Yuna had been sitting with her messages open, watching him type. And if he knew anything about her, she probably had been.

Yuna: Oh, from the heat clinic? Or are you a friend of Shane’s?

Yuna: What? His heat only started today? That can’t be right. How is he?

Yuna: Did you call his doctor? I have her direct line, I can give her a call. 

Yuna: Do you need us to come by? Are you taking care of him? We have leftovers from dinner,  I can send Shane’s dad over with them.

So many questions. Ilya did not know where to start. He had never had to text a parent like this, and definitely not one who cared so much. 

Shane: Not from the heat clinic, I am Shane’s friend. We have known each other for many years.

Shane: You do not have to come by, but thank you. We are good, he is good. He is very tough.  

Shane: I called Dr. Marks, she said we are doing all we can. Taking medicine, resting. Listening to his omega. 

His thumbs shook as he typed out a fourth message. 

Shane: I am taking good care of him.

He hoped he wasn’t lying. 

Yuna: You’re sure you two are fine? We don’t mind dropping by. 

Yuna: I’m glad to hear it. Please call if you need anything, we’re only ten minutes down the road. Were you able to shovel the drive? We could help dig you both out.

Ah, no. Was too busy pounding your son into the mattress. Let me rouse him from sex-coma so we can get right to work.

Yuna: Oh, of course you weren’t able to, you were with Shane. Sorry, we’re just over here worrying about him. 

Yuna: Not much else to do when we’re snowed in. 

He smiled. It was nice, her doting on her son. He wished he had someone to dote on him like this. Maybe not all of the time, but sometimes. He wondered what type of man he’d be if he did.

Shane: It is okay. You are right to worry, this is a difficult time. But he is doing well, just sleeping now. 

Shane: You know your son, he is very strong. He will be okay. 

Yuna: Thank you for looking after him. It means the world to us he’s got someone in his life he trusts with this. He’s not one to open up very easily.

Not really, opens up easier than you think. Just needs a few kisses, a few fingers. Is not hard.

Ilya closed his eyes, smirking to himself. He had to stop thinking of sexual innuendos when he was texting Shane’s mom, for Christ’s sake. 

The phone buzzed in his hand, another message coming in.

Yuna: And how are you? How are you holding up, do you need anything? 

Oh. Something in Ilya’s chest squeezed. 

How was he? 

That was a hard question to answer already, and the fact that Shane’s mother had asked it -- someone who so earnestly wanted to know. He knew her interest was genuine, her care. He could feel it through her frenzied messages, coming in seconds after he replied. She cared for her son and, somehow, she cared for Ilya, without even knowing who she was speaking with. 

Shane: I am okay too. Tired, but okay. Pre-heat was hard, heat is harder. But I am trying my best for him.

He typed out the next line and sent it before he could overthink it. 

Shane: For you, too. I just want to keep him safe. He has been through a lot.

Yuna’s reply didn’t come instantaneously like the others. After a few minutes, he lowered the phone, thinking she had probably gotten distracted with something, or was satisfied with the conversation ending. 

After three minutes, the phone buzzed again. 

Yuna: Don’t forget to take care of yourself, too. I’d like to meet you, when this is all over. Anyone who would do this for Shane has more than earned a seat at my dinner table.

He hoped that would still be true once she knew who he was. He imagined his name was often accompanied by a string of curses when it fell from her lips. 

She was a tough woman to win over, just like her son. But Ilya was up for the challenge.

Shane: I would like that very much.

Shane: Thank you. I will call, if anything changes. 

Yuna: Please do. You both should get some rest. Tell Shane to have a good night.

Yuna: And you, too, ‘Shane’s heat partner’. Talk soon.

Ilya found himself smiling down at the phone like an idiot. Ilya, he thought, it’s Ilya. Rozanov. You know, your son’s sworn enemy? But even he didn’t have the nerve to type out the words to Yuna Hollander. He had no doubt she’d be at the door in three minutes flat, bulldozing her way through the snow and ice like it was nothing to tear Ilya a new one. 

Maybe two new ones, if he was so unfortunate.

Instead, he set Shane’s phone down, noting how the afternoon was slowly slipping into evening. Then he leaned over, grabbed the cooling water bottle from the nightstand, and chugged the entire thing in one go. 

***

Ilya was three fingers deep in Shane’s ass when he started speaking again.

“Oh, please,” he rasped, his hands grabbing weakly at Ilya’s shoulders. Ilya jerked his head upward at the words. Shane’s voice was hoarse with disuse; to Ilya he had never sounded better.

Thank fucking god.

He had Shane on his hands and knees, face nearly smashed into the bed, propped up on his elbows with his chest hovering just inches above the  mattress. One of Ilya’s hands was splayed wide over the small of Shane’s back, steadying him from behind where he was knelt. He was rocking back greedily on Ilya’s fingers, slick easing the way and squelching crudely overtop of Shane’s heavy pants. 

“Oh, I have found your ‘on’ button, hm?”

He crooked his fingers, trying to graze against the bundle of nerves again. As long as his fingers were, he knew it was just out of his reach, but if he pushed inside just a little farther--

“Ohh, fuck, please,” he managed, turning his head to the side.

Ilya grinned. “There it is, my favorite sound. Mm, you beg so prettily.”

From his vantage point on the bed, he could see Shane’s knuckles turning white where they twisted in the sheets. He continued pushing back on Ilya, wanting more. Ilya stilled his wrist and watched his boy be greedy, trying to take what he needed.

He looked up the long, languid expanse of Shane’s back, muscles clenched and shining with sweat. Then, because he couldn’t help himself, he licked up the base of Shane’s spine, tongue wide and flat.

“God, Ilya, need you,” Shane whined at the contact, his body rolling. 

Ilya continued his journey upward, bending at the waist so he was draped across Shane’s back. His fingers were still inside of him, but Shane was more focused now on the touch of Ilya’s chest, covering his body almost entirely. He withdrew his hand to prop himself up above Shane better, ignoring Shane’s cries in protest.

“Shh, is okay. I will give you want you want.”

He gave the back of Shane’s neck a small kitten-lick, the tip of his tongue just barely peeking out to slide along the salty expanse. Then he reached a hand under Shane’s torso and grabbed his right pec, squeezing. He jiggled the muscle there in his grip, kneading it roughly. His chest was so full, so strong, and his nipples were so fucking sensitive.

To prove his point, he tweaked it between his fingertips, twisting the nub a little. Shane jerked back against him and whined.

“F-uck, more.”

Ilya’s dick kicked, pressing between Shane’s cheeks. God, he needed to be inside him right fucking now.

Letting go of Shane’s pec, he reached back down and lined himself up. The head of his cock bumped against Shane’s dripping hole. The contact alone had Shane groaning, and then his arms gave out entirely and he faceplanted into the mattress. 

Feeling smug, Ilya leaned down right next to Shane’s ear, his breath hot. “It is that good, huh?”

Shane stuttered out a laugh. “It’s not- bad.”

“Not bad? You are hard to please, Hollander.”

He made a move to pull his hips away, teasing. Shane responded immediately, both hands reaching back to claw at Ilya’s thighs. His triceps bulged with the effort, fingers desperately trying to reach him. 

Okay, he wanted him so bad, then he could have him. Ilya pressed forward, sliding into Shane in one go. Shane keened, letting out a stuttering sigh of relief. 

“Good enough for you, hm?” he asked, struggling to maintain his composure. Shane was so hot and tight around him, it was dizzying. 

“Fuck, yes,” Shane moaned, “Yes, thank you.”

He thanked him. Jesus Christ, Ilya wasn’t going to last very long at all. 

Ilya started rocking into Shane, controlled, taking long drags out and pushing back in slowly. He wanted Shane to feel every inch, to revel in the pressure and the fullness of his cock. 

Shane was wriggling around, trying to get more, trying to entice Ilya into speeding up. But not yet, he was enjoying this. He kept his pace the same, mesmerized by the way Shane swallowed him up. He was so greedy; sucking him immediately inside, his puffy hole puckering around the intrusion and tightening. 

It was like he wanted to keep him there. Idly, Ilya realized he would let him. 

After a few minutes of his patiently slow pace, Shane started to collapse in on himself, his knees buckling and his hips lowering. Ilya moved one arm to hold him up at the bend of his waist, keeping him bent and flush against Ilya’s hips. He kicked a leg out and planted it on the bed, still kneeling with the other, and resumed his pace.

With the new angle, he sped up, pounding into Shane a little faster now. Shane was practically bouncing off of his dick, whimpering and whining and holding onto pieces of his nest for dear life.

The power of Ilya’s thrusts were driving him up the bed, his head dangerously close to knocking into the headboard. He adjusted his arm, pulling Shane backwards. The movement drove him even deeper into Shane, and for a moment he paused, steadying himself. 

The feeling was overwhelming. He could only imagine how Hollander was doing, his face pressed into the meat of his own forearm, shoulders tight.

His other hand snaked around to close around Shane’s cock. It was red-hot, leaking down onto the sheets below him. Ilya gave it a few tight pumps, ignoring how Shane hissed and squirmed at the attention. He had made Shane come twice before this, but he had a third one in him, he knew he did.

“You have one more for me, hm?”

Shane hiccupped out a sob. Shook his head.

“Mm, I think you do,” Ilya pressed.

“Can’t,” he managed, ‘Can’t, Ilya.”

“You will have to, or else.”

“Or else what?” 

Impressive that he could form a coherent sentence right now. Only three words, but still.

“Or else,” Ilya punctuated with a sharp thrust, “I will not fill you up after.”

Shane whined, sounding actually distraught over the idea. Ilya meant it to only tease, but Shane was taking this seriously. He could tell from how his abdomen clenched and rolled at the thought, and then he found a rhythm, alternating between fucking up into Ilya’s hand and fucking himself back onto Ilya’s cock. 

God, he was something else. Ilya felt drunk, he was so enamored by him. 

On his next stroke, he twisted his wrist just a bit and tightened his fist at the head of Shane’s cock. Shane gave a little yelp, so Ilya did it again, and then again, and then Shane was shaking apart in his grip. He tried to slip out of Ilya’s fist, bucking backwards wildly, but Ilya did not let him. He stroked him through his orgasm and pushed him over the edge into the type of oversensitivity Shane craved. 

“It’s too much,” Shane cried, writhing as Ilya pounded into him. 

Ilya smirked, all teeth. “You want me to stop?”

He would, if Shane wanted. But he knew Shane didn't want that.

“Don’t,” Shane warned. “Don’t you dare fucking- ah- stop.”

So Ilya didn’t. He drove into Shane, getting faster and hitting harder, using Shane’s body for his own pleasure while Shane spasmed around him. There was something about how tight Shane was, how loose his muscles were, the wet slap of Ilya’s balls against Shane’s taint. 

“Oh, I’m going to-- fuck, Shane,” Ilya warned, a familiar warmth stirring in his stomach. The knot at the base of his dick was huge, growing and pressing and edging its way inside Shane’s abused hole. He was so close, he could feel it, he just needed to--

The world narrowed to Shane’s empty shoulder. How pretty it would look with his mark, his bite. He wanted that, with Shane. So, so badly. He had never been more sure of it than right fucking now. 

His knot popped and he let his entire body weight fall on top of Shane. The relief was immediate, but he rutted into Shane a few more times, driving himself as deep as he possibly could. Finally, with a groan, he came, painting Shane’s inside with his cum. The release felt good, insanely good, but all Ilya could think about was sinking his teeth into Shane’s skin and biting down hard. Hard enough to draw blood, hard enough to leave a mark. 

Another load left him immediately, his dick twitching at the thought. He wasn’t sure if Shane came again, but by the violent shudders wracking his body, it was safe to say he probably had. And if he hadn’t, he would soon. Ilya would make sure of it. 

Underneath him, Shane moaned, turning his head to the side. He cracked open one eye and looked back at Ilya.

“The protein shakes are ginger and cinnamon, by the way. Anti-inflammatory.” And then he melted back into the sheets, his urgent message seemingly delivered.

Ilya laughed. A real, loud, belly laugh he felt down to his core. He was sure Shane did, too, with how tightly pressed together they were. 

“Wow,” he said finally, a smile still curling in his words. “And people say you are not funny.”

***

“So,” Ilya mumbled into the crook of his neck, “you are back with me, Hollander?”

Shane nodded jerkily. They were laying on the ruined sheets facing each other, cuddled close. Ilya had one arm wrapped around Shane's waist, the other Shane was using as his own personal pillow. Shane was curled up, legs drawn up slightly so his knees touched Ilya’s. 

Up close like this, he could see Shane was clearly embarrassed, eyes dark and focused on a point far on the other side of the room. His lips twitched, then the muscles in his cheeks. Ilya loved it. His grip on Shane’s waist tightened, possessive. 

“Good. You are feeling better?” 

Another nod. And then, a raspy, unused voice. “Yes. Sorry, um.” He coughed. “That hasn’t happened in a while.”

Ilya tutted, shaking his head against Shane’s shoulder. “No sorries, none. I would like to know where you went, but I can wait.”

They were quiet. Ilya nosed gently at Shane’s scent gland, relishing in the sated, sweet omega scent that was emanating from the spot. He pressed a chaste kiss to the sensitive skin under Shane’s ear. Shane shivered.

Eventually, Shane spoke again. “I think the fever… the heat. It made things feel like a lot. Too much.”

“Too much?”

“Yeah. Everything felt wrong, too tight, and my brain was too loud, so I kind of just…” Shane’s voice petered out, giving a half-hearted shrug in Ilya’s grip as he tried to explain. 

Ilya nodded. He knew the feeling, had felt it once or twice before himself, when he was very young. Too young, maybe. 

“And when you get like that you, what, cannot speak?”

Shane huffed out a stiff laugh. “I mean, yeah, not really. My body stops listening to me. Kinda does its own thing, and I’m just along for the ride.”

Okay, that part Ilya could not relate to. The idea turned his stomach, thinking about how scary that must be. How Hollander, the king of control and regimen, would fall victim to emotions so immobilizing and so all-consuming that he couldn’t even speak. 

All he could do was sit and worry and, well, wait. 

“It used to happen a lot when I was a kid,” Shane went on, “before I knew what was going on. I couldn’t explain it, and no one really believed me when I tried.” He chuckled humorlessly. “They all thought I just wanted attention.”

Ilya felt his heart crack. He flattened his mouth into a thin line, trying to hold back his own emotion. 

“It’s better now, it doesn’t happen very often. And when it does, I can feel it coming. So I can, y’know, get somewhere safe.”

Ilya did not know. And what did that mean, safe for who? When had he been unsafe? His alpha stirred, circling. Angry.

And he knew Shane said that to try to put Ilya at ease, to make it seem like it wasn’t a big deal, but it only made him seize up more. His mind wandered -- had he seen these signs before? Every time Ilya thought Shane was playing injured, had he really been playing absent, his mind holding him hostage? Had he been pushing himself to show up for the team when he could barely show up for himself? 

He tried to think back. The draft, rookie season, the awards shows, the fundraiser dinners. Shane’s trembling fingers on his neck, his breathing heavy without Ilya even touching him, his gaze staying glued to the floor after getting dressed. Fuck, had all of the things he chalked up to being boring Hollander quirks were actually warning signs? 

Suddenly, he saw every stolen kiss and midnight hook-up in a new light. 

Panic coursing through him, Ilya tried to probe for more information. “Have I ever…seen you? When you are like this?”

Shane stiffened. “No. Not until today.”

“But I have seen the start before?” Because he knew he had, he knew Hollander.

“I don’t know, maybe.”

“When?”

Shane was quiet. Ilya had an awful feeling he already knew the answer.

“Boston?”

Nothing. And then, a short nod.

It made sense. The sudden shift in atmosphere, the panic and avoidance. He remembered Shane stuttering, barely able to get a full sentence out. He had been shutting down, even then. God, who knows what had happened once he got back to his hotel room. He was sure stupid Hayden Pike had not made things any better.

But then other memories started surfacing, other nights spent together too quickly, leaving a sour taste in Ilya’s mouth. He had to know. 

“Vegas?” 

Shane sighed. “It’s not a big deal, Rozanov.”

Ah, so yes. Vegas.

“It is a big deal. Especially when I might have done something to make you…” He let go of Shane briefly to vaguely gesture around with his hand, as if he could physically pull his words out of thin air.

Shane just shook his head. “It's not you, it's just something that happens. Honestly, I should be able to handle it by now. I should be in better control.”

A dissatisfied noise left Ilya's throat. Those didn't sound like Shane's words, but the words of someone else telling him how to feel. Rehearsed, like he had gone over them a thousand times in his head, trying to make them true.

Ilya’s eyes flitted to Shane's shoulder, then back up to his face. “Some things we cannot help.”

“I should be able to help this, though. It's stupid.”

Ilya shook his head, his curls tickling his cheek where they were flattened against the pillow. “No, not stupid. It is just how you are. Nothing to be ashamed of.”

And then, because he wasn't already smitten enough, he leaned forward and whispered against Shane's freckles. “Just means you are strong for too long, moy lyubov'. It is okay to need break.”

Shane didn't reply, but his eyes were wet when Ilya pulled away. Ilya let the silence grow between them, comfortable despite the conversation. 

His mind drifted; there was so much he wanted to say, now that Shane could say something back. He wanted to ask about the mating bite. He wanted to talk about what that meant, what it could do for Shane, why he had been so against it earlier. He wanted to ask if he was still against it now. 

He wanted to ask if he'd keep it, after. If he'd want to. Ilya did. He wanted one of his own, too, from Shane's teeth. The shape of his lover's canines marring his skin.

But it wasn’t the right time. Shane only just came back to him, he didn't want to overwhelm him again. Going a day without hearing his voice had been torture enough.

Instead, he turned to Russian, where he was free to wax whatever poetic he wanted to about Shane Hollander and he would be none the wiser. It was safer.

“Ya tebya lyublyu,” he whispered into Shane’s shoulder, right where he pictured the mating bite would go. It would look so beautiful there, so gruesomely delicate right above the dip of his collarbone.

And it felt so freeing, to say it out loud. If he said it often enough, into the strong crook of Shane’s neck, he wondered if the words would sink into his skin, like a brand reaching deep underneath the muscle and sinew. A mating bite of his own design. 

At his words, Shane tilted his face up to look at Ilya head-on. His teary eyes were still there, accompanied now by a sharp edge, daring. 

“What was that?” Shane asked. He was quiet and serious, clear. Clearer than he had been all day, honestly. 

Ilya, against all odds, felt a blush creeping into his cheeks. “Nothing, is nothing,” he tried to dismiss the question. “It does not translate well.”

Shane prickled. Ilya felt it, rippling down the length of his body where it was nestled in his arms. His eyes narrowed. 

“Do you think I’m an idiot?” 

What?

“What?”

“I said,” Shane spoke slowly, “do you think I’m a fucking idiot?”

Okay, so he had heard him right. 

Ilya laughed, suddenly nervous. Why was Shane acting like this, he was so soft and sweet a moment ago. “Sometimes, yes. Why do you ask this now?”

Shane stared at him, hard, as if weighing what to say next. Ilya was starting to get uncomfortable under the intensity of it. 

This one, odd moment of clarity, and Shane was using it to speak in riddles and berate him. Usually it would turn him on, but his dick was too tired to do anything about it right now. 

“I told you,” Shane said calmly, “that I learned all of the useful stuff.”

The useful stuff? The useful stuff, when had Shane said that? Why did that sound so familiar?

“Hollander, what are you talk-”

Oh. 

Oh, fuck.

“Hollander.” 

It came as a warning, emotion tightening his throat. Because if he really just said… and Shane really understood…

He understood. And he hadn’t said it back.

His blood chilled.

Ilya couldn't do this. Not right now. He wasn't ready.

“Do not,” Ilya managed, his voice thick and wavering, “do not do this to me. Please.”

Shane let out a small, exasperated noise. “Do this to you? Ilya, you did it to me first.”

Ilya gasped, his chest constricting. What did that mean, he did it to him first? Did he do something to reject his omega? Did he...did Shane see his confession as a burden? Fuck, he should have kept his fucking mouth shut, fuck.

Everything felt too heavy, impossible and confusing and why did Hollander invite him here if he didn’t love him back? Why couldn’t anyone fucking love him back? 

Gentle hands were on his face, cupping his cheeks. He barely felt them. He frowned, tears springing into his eyes as something deep inside him began to shake. All he could do was stare at the perfect, blank space on Shane's neck while he avoided the inevitable -- that Shane didn't want him.

He shifted his gaze down to his own hand, delicate on the dip of Shane's waist. His fingers were numb and trembling, laughably lifeless.

A spiteful, familiar feeling wormed its way into his chest. He didn't deserve this, Shane. His father had been right. 

Nash malen'kiy gremuchnik. That was all he was.

And he was so cold. Maybe that was why he was shaking so badly. Fuck, his body couldn't even grant him the small kindness of feeling Shane's warmth one last time before he broke his heart. 

“Ilya,” Shane said sweetly, too sweet. “Baby.”

Ilya shook his head. “No. Shane, no. Please.”

Please don't call me that if you don't mean it. I know you don't mean it.

Shane called his name again, but Ilya barely heard him over the sound of rushing water in his ears. Maybe it was his heartbeat, he didn’t know. It didn’t really matter, nothing did at this point. He had to get up, he had to leave, he couldn’t break down like this in front of Shane- 

“I love you.”

The thundering in his ears quieted. He blinked at Shane once, twice.

“What?”

Shane let his features soften into something almost sad. “I love you? Sorry, maybe there's a translation error.” He cleared his throat. “Ya tebya lyublyu.”

Jesus fucking Christ.

Shane grinned at him. “Is that better?” 

The bastard fucking grinned. As if Ilya’s entire world hadn’t just burned to the ground and rebuilt itself in a matter of seconds. 

Seconds, yes, but to Ilya, time had stretched. The silence and confusion lasted much longer than that. Years, even. 

Eight years, to be exact.

“You love me?” 

“I do, I love you,” Shane let out a shaky breath, eyes shining and light. “I have for a while, I think.”

Shane Hollander loves me.

Oh.

Now Ilya was shaking for a whole new reason, adrenaline coursing through his veins. Shane, his Shane, the love of his--

“And you love me?”

The question cut through his thoughts, much too hesitant for his liking.

Ilya laughed, a gasping, wet noise. “Yes, Shane. I love you, ya tebya lyublyu. I love you so much, it scares me.”

“Fuck, me too,” Shane sighed, settling back down. "But I can't stop."

His hands were still hot on Ilya's face, and he thanked every god and his mama that he could feel them. That he got to feel them, like this.

"I would never want you to. Never."

Then Ilya leaned forward and pressed his lips to Shane's. They were wet with tears and bitten raw, but it was maybe the best kiss of his life. Raw, deep, with Shane suckling on the tip of his tongue at the end, just a little.

When they pulled away, Shane licked his lips.

“Y'know," he whispered, eyes boring into Ilya's own, open and honest, "I was worried I misheard you, earlier. That would have been really embarrassing.”

Through his tears, Ilya laughed again, and for one blinding beautiful moment, everything felt right. The heat from hell be damned, Shane was here and he was looking at him with the biggest, gooiest eyes Ilya had ever seen, and his heart was so full it was about to burst.

And then it tipped from just right to too much, so Ilya collapsed in Shane’s arms and wept.

He wept for his mother, he wept for how tragically short her life was, and how beautiful it could have been. He wept for his father, for the relationship they could have had, and for the pitiful one that they did. He wept for Alexei, and for the lives he had soiled with his touch, and the amazing daughter he had managed not to taint. He wept for himself, how hard and cold his life had been, how devoid of connection and love and gentleness it was. 

He wept for the little boy who was still inside him somewhere, trying to cobble together a family and a life and a reason to keep going. He wept for the Ilya of today that had tried to drink and smoke and fuck away the loneliness to no avail. He wept for everything he had lost, but also everything he had gained because of it. He would not have this, now, without it. 

But above it all, he wept because he had Shane. He loved Shane, and Shane loved him, and everything else was just noise. 

He had no idea what he had done to deserve this, but he pitied whoever tried to take it from him. He would not go down without a fight, not when he had already dug his claws in so deep.

Shane was all he had in this world, really, and all he could ever want. He pressed a kiss to Shane's chest, right over his heart, and sobbed.

Shane held him. He held him, and held him, and he didn’t complain, didn’t dare move. He just rocked them both gently, kissing at the side of Ilya’s face, the top of his head, right between his eyebrows. 

And he didn’t stop whispering to Ilya, the same sentence, over and over, the one he had wanted to hear for so long. 

Ilya clung to them like a lifeline, his words and Shane both.