Chapter Text
The heat was a living thing, a fire crawling under his skin, burning away years of suppressants until nothing was left but raw, agonizing need. He felt like he was drowning in it all, the sheets twisted and damp around his legs. He hadn’t realized he was tossing around so much.
“What do you want?” Shane asks. “Not what you think you’re supposed to want. What do you actually want?”
Ilya’s breath shudders. His voice comes out small and wrecked. “You.”
Shane was on him in an instant, but his movements were gentle, like he was making sure not to spook Ilya. Gentle. He was always so gentle. He carefully turned Ilya onto his back, his hands stroking sweat-slicked skin, his touch a grounding point. A buoy to his drowning. Shane lowered his head, his lips brushing against Ilya's temple. "I've got you," he whispered. "Just let go. Let me take care of you. Please?"
No one had ever asked. Not that anyone really knew anyway.
But Ilya’s idea of what alpha was supposed to mean only involved taking. Not asking. It felt like a punch breaking through the walls in his chest. Ilya closed his eyes, a tear leaking from the corner and tracing a path through the flush on his cheek. Shane's hands were everywhere, mapping his body, learning the curves and feeling of him.He kneaded the tense muscles of Ilya's thighs, his thumbs stroking the sensitive skin of his inner thighs, dipping his head down to leave kisses up them, making Ilya gasp.
Shane was turned on by this, knew that Ilya could see it, feel it. His dick straining against the fabric of his pants, but he ignored it for now. This was for Ilya; that was his focus. He leaned down, pausing for a moment so he could capture Ilya's lips in a kiss that was surprisingly tender. It wasn't a kiss of pure lust like Ilya thought it would be, but it was full of comfort, of a promise to protect and soothe. That’s all Shane wanted to provide. Thats all Ilya ever really wanted to be given.
Can you blame Ilya for whining when Shane pulled away from the kiss? For how his head instinctively dipped up, trying to find Shane’s lips again? For how it was so tender, tears were leaking from his eyes, even though they were closed?
When Shane's fingers finally, finally, brushed against him, it sent electric shocks through his entire body, and Ilya made noises he never heard himself make before. His back arching off the bed with the touch. He was soaking wet, and he was too far gone to feel embarrassed about it.
His body was more than ready, the heat making him loose and pliant and nearly delirious. Shane worked him open with careful, deliberate strokes anyway, scissoring his fingers, stretching him until Ilya was a writhing, whimpering mess beneath him. Shane was being so careful with him, and in that moment, his shame was forgotten in the relief of how good it all felt. Head fuzzy and swimming. Nothing in his mind but “Shane, Shane, Shane, Alpha”
"Shane, please," Ilya begged, his voice hoarse and thin and whiny even to his own ears. "Please, please, please”.
Shane shushed him with another kiss, finally shifting to he was able to position himself between Ilya's spread thighs. He guided the head of his cock to Ilya's slick hole, pausing for just a moment to look down at him. Ilya ignored the admiration he saw in his eyes before Shane asked him. "You’re okay? You’re sure?”
Ilya didn’t have any more words. He didn’t live in a space where there were any. Just frantic nods and whines, he would later deny making until Shane finally pushed inside.
The sensation was overwhelming in the best way possible. Ilya's body, already primed for this, welcomed him with a wet heat that made Shane's eyes roll back in his head. He sank in slowly, inch by thick inch, giving Ilya time to adjust until he was fully seated, until he was nearly all the way in and his balls pressed against Ilya's ass. Ilya was panting, his hands clutching at Shane's shoulders, his nails digging into the skin. Frantic and scratching.
The relief was immediate. The hollow ache tearing him up inside began to subside, replaced by a fullness that was both mildly terrifying and intensely satisfying. Beyond all that, though, was pure relief. He could feel his body relaxing around it.
Shane began to move, his strokes slow and deep at first, a steady rhythm that rocked the bed. He watched Ilya's face, checking in often but Ilya had stopped giving coherent verbal responses, so he relied on nodding and the way Ilya was scrambling to get Shane impossibly deeper inside. Shane angled his hips, searching for that one spot that would make everything else fall away.
He found it.
Ilya cried out, a sharp, shocked sound of pure ecstasy as Shane's cock brushed against his prostate.
Shane grinned, a feral pride in his chest , and began to thrust in earnest. The room filled with the sounds of them, the slap of skin on skin, Ilya's breathless moans, Shane's low grunts of exertion. The scent of their combined arousal. Ilya could smell the smell of his own omega heat and alpha’s winter scent.
Ilya was lost. The shame had burned away, incinerated by the fire of his heat and the sheer, relief and pleasure Shane was giving him. He met Shane's thrusts, lifting his hips, his body moving instinctively, chasing the release he so desperately needed. He could feel the pressure building at the base of Shane's cock, the tell-tale sign of his knot beginning to swell.
"Shane," he gasped, his eyes wide.
"Almost there, sweet boy," Shane panted, his rhythm becoming erratic, his thrusts harder, more demanding. "Just a little more. Come with me, Ilya. Let go, it’s okay."
"Such a good omega," Shane groaned, his voice thick with praise. "You're so good for me, Ilya. So perfect." Shane drove into him one last time, his knot swelling, locking them together. It stretched Ilya's rim, a burning full pressure that sent him over the edge. Ilya’s voice was foreign to his own ears as his orgasm tore through him, his body convulsing, his cock spurting hot streams of cum across his own stomach.
Shane bit into Ilya’s shoulder, his own orgasm ripping through him as his knot locked them in place. He pulsed deep inside Ilya, filling his the omega, biology desperately trying to soothe his heat. He collapsed on top of Ilya, careful to keep most of his weight on his elbows, his face buried in the crook of Ilya's neck, trailing kisses down to his collarbone and back up to his jaw.
They lay there for a long time, locked together, their breathing slowly returning to normal. The desperate need had been replaced by a sated, peaceful calm. Ilya felt boneless, his body heavy and replete. The drowning desperation in him was gone, replaced by a profound sense of safety and belonging.
He turned his head, his lips brushing against Shane's sweat-dampened hair. "Thank you," he whispered, his voice barely audible.
Shane lifted his head, his eyes soft, and it made Ilya's chest ache. He kissed him gently, a soft, lingering press of lips. "Always," he murmured against his mouth. "I’ll take care of you."
===================
Ilya wakes up warm.
That’s the first problem.
The second is that he wakes up being held.
His face is pressed against a solid chest, his leg thrown over Shane’s hip, their bodies tangled in a way that feels instinctive and deeply, horribly right. Shane’s arm is around him, heavy and protective, his hand splayed across Ilya’s back like it belongs there.
For one perfect, dangerous second, Ilya lets himself stay there, in that moment.
Lets himself breathe in winter-cold steadiness threaded with sleep and heat-soft warmth. Lets himself exist without thinking.
Then his brain catches up.
And panic detonates, chest seizing. What did you do?
Ilya freezes, every muscle locking as awareness floods back in: the hotel room, the heat, the way he let Shane see him at his absolute worst when he was desperate and needy and omega in a way no one ever has.
He remembers the sound he made when Shane touched him.
He remembers the way he clung, and scratched, and kissed back.
The worst part is that he remembers choosing to do it.
Shame hits him like ice water. This wasn’t supposed to happen. He let himself believe something else. That is unforgivable.
Slowly—painfully slowly—he extricates himself from Shane’s grip. Shane murmurs something in his sleep, fingers tightening reflexively for half a second before loosening again.
The sound goes straight through Ilya. He slips out of bed.
The room feels colder without Shane’s body anchoring him. Too big. Too quiet. Too real.
You were weak, his father’s voice says, automatic and cruel.
You let him find out.
Ilya presses his palms to the bathroom sink and stares at himself in the mirror. He looks wrecked.
Flushed. Eyes too bright. Throat marked faintly where Shane kissed him. His scent—still warm, still open, still unmistakably omega. He is disgusted with himself, grips the sink and stares at himself like he’s looking at a stranger. His face is flushed, eyes glassy, mouth faintly swollen. There are marks on his skin, evidence of being touched, kissed, wanted.
Of wanting.
He turns the shower on too hot and steps under it as if it's hot enough it can be a punishment, and punishment might scrub the night and the shame out of him.
It doesn’t.
Nothing does.
The part of him that felt warm and safe an hour ago goes quiet.
‘Good’, he tells himself viciously. ‘This is good. It’s what you deserve. ’
—----------
When he comes back into the room, towel slung low around his hips, Shane is sitting up in bed.
Awake and calm (always so fucking calm) but he looks…concerned.
“Ilya,” Shane says softly. “Hey.”
The way he says it — like it actually matters that it’s him — sends panic flaring again.
Ilya turns away immediately and starts pulling on his clothes, movements sharp, angry.
Shane watches him for a moment, then speaks carefully. “You okay?”
Ilya laughs, brittle. “Fine.”
Shane’s brows knit. “You don’t sound—”
“I said I’m fine,” Ilya snaps, too fast, too loud.
Silence.
Shane doesn’t snap back. Doesn’t bristle or get angry. He just… absorbs it, like he always does. Ilya almost wants him to get mad. To break. To prove that Ilya is right, his father is right.
“I wanted to check in, before I have to go,” Shane says evenly. “About last night.”
“There is nothing to check,” Ilya says, yanking his shirt over his head. He avoids Shane’s eyes like they might burn him. “It was heat. Biology. You helped. Thank you. End.”
That finally gets a reaction.
Shane’s expression stills.
“Ilya,” he says, slow and deliberate, “that wasn’t just—”
“Don’t,” Ilya snaps, spinning on him. “Don’t make it something it wasn’t.”
Shane meets his gaze, steady. “I’m not.”
“You will,” Ilya says, venom creeping in because all of this fear needs somewhere to go and the only place left is out. “You all do. You’ll think you know me now. You’ll expect something.”
Shane’s jaw tightens slightly. “I’m not ‘all.’”
Ilya scoffs. “You’re an alpha. Same shit.”
The words hang there, ugly and cold and Ilya can feel a spark of guilt flare in his chest. He shoves it down, needs to go back to before he ever met Shane fucking Hollander.
Shane takes a breath, lets it out slowly.
“Okay,” he says.
It’s that fucking calm that almost breaks Ilya. He wants Shane to get angry. He wants him to leave in a way that justifies this.
Shane swings his legs out of bed and stands, keeping distance. “I’m not here to corner you,” he says. “I just want to make sure you’re safe. And that you’re not—” He pauses. “Regretting anything because you think you didn’t have a choice.”
Ilya’s throat tightens painfully.
He did have a choice.
That’s what makes this so fucking unbearable. Doesn’t he get it?
“I regret,” Ilya says coldly, “letting you think this was anything more than a mistake. You should go.”
Shane flinches.
It’s subtle. But Ilya sees it.
‘Good’, the cruel part of him thinks. ‘Hurt him first. Push him away before’—
Before he stays.
Before he expects something.
Before he leaves anyway.
Shane nods once. “Okay.”
He walks to the dresser, pulls on his shirt without fully turning his back. He moves like someone who is deliberately not escalating, which only serves to make Ilya more irrationally upset.
“I’m going to go,” Shane says. “But I’m not…I’m still here for you, Ilya..”
Ilya scoffs. “You already said—”
Shane steps closer, holding out Ilya’s phone.
“I put my number in,” Shane says quietly. “You don’t have to use it. But if you spiral, or you need help, or you just want to talk or—” He hesitates. “I don’t want you to feel like you’re alone with this.”
Ilya doesn’t take the phone.
Shane sets it on the dresser between them instead.
“We play again in three weeks,” Shane continues. “If you want to talk before that, or after, or never—” He takes a big breath before he exhales. “I hope you check in.”
Ilya’s hands are fists at his sides.
“Get out, Hollander,” he says flatly.
Shane looks at him for a long second. Looks sad.
“Yeah, okay,” Shane says.
And then he leaves. Ilya waits until the door closes.
And then Ilya breaks.
It’s immediate and humiliating. His knees give out, and he sinks down against the dresser, breath coming in sharp, uneven gasps that turn into sobs before he can stop them. He presses his face into his hands and cries like a child, something in his chest finally rupturing.
These were ugly cries..
The kind he hasn’t let himself have since he was a child.
He cries because he let himself want something and He cries because he ruined it. He cries because Shane didn’t fight him harder and because he knows Shane's fighting would have been easier to hate and would have made it all so much worse.
Most of all, he cries because some part of him already misses the weight of Shane’s arm wrapped around him. How safe he was just for a moment.
When the tears finally stop, he feels hollowed. He sits there for a long time, staring at nothing.
Then he gets up.
He always gets up.
He showers again, colder this time. Dresses. Gets a text that his supressents are going to be available at a local pharmacy and feels a little bit of control again. He knows this. He can do this part. He’s always been such a wonderful actor after all.
By the time he leaves the hotel room, he is back in armor. The mask is perfect. Just like always.
—---------
The next three weeks are hell.
lya stops sleeping properly altogether. When he does sleep, he wakes up sweating and disoriented, heart racing like he’s been running. Stuck in a permanent nightmare of his own making.
His body feels wrong, everything is too sensitive, too empty, like his skin doesn’t quite fit.
His appetite disappears. His muscles ache. His scent is muted from suppressants, but underneath it, there’s something brittle and sour that makes him feel exposed anyway.
As if the heat has left him raw and unbalanced. He’s read enough, seen movies, read books, he knows what it would be. Omega drop, his doctor would call it clinically, and that’s if Ilya ever admitted to it. Ever asked for help.
He doesn’t.
He just grinds through it. It’s what he’s best at. He takes more suppressants instead, and they help just enough to keep him functioning.
They do nothing for the emptiness.
On the ice, he’s so fucking off.
Not catastrophically, of course not, not enough for coaches to bench him, but enough that he notices. He’s slower to react. His timing is off. He misses a pass he would normally nail blindfolded and slams his stick against the boards hard enough that it splinters.
His temper is short. His patience is nonexistent. He’s not doing well. He knows it’s showing. The mask is slipping, and underneath all that anger, even if he won't say so, is fear.
His teammates give him space, and it makes Ilya feel dirty in a way that doesn’t wash off at the end of the day.
At night, he watches Shane’s games. Every single one.
But he knows every expression on Shane’s face now. The slight crease between his brows when he’s thinking. The way his shoulders settle when he’s calm. He watches Shane’s interviews on mute sometimes, just to look at him without hearing his voice.
Other times, he listens. Shane is a golden boy. He talks about hockey. About teamwork. About accountability.
About choices.
Ilya hates him for it.
He wants to scream at the screen, stop being decent, stop being like this, stop making me want you.
Ilya scrolls through Shane’s stats at three in the morning and hates himself more for memorizing them.
What the fuck is happening to him?
Shane texts him. Not even just once. Three times.
Hollander: You okay?
Hollander: Thinking of you. No pressure.
And then, after a particularly bad game:
Hollander: You don’t have to respond. I just wanted you to know I’m here.
Ilya stares at the message for a long time and lets his thumb hover over the screen. He hadn’t responded to any of them but….maybe…No.
He locks the phone and throws it across the room.
He cries a bit into his pillow and hates himself for it.
—--------
His father calls. Once. Then again. Ilya knows he can’t ignore it, but isn’t at all prepared mentally or emotionally for dealing with this right now, when he’s already at his worst. The only person who can bring him down in a second is his father. He wonders if that will ever end, if he will always suffer this way so long as he is living.
The first time they talk on the phone, his father criticizes his play.
“You are distracted,” his father says. “This is not how an alpha leads.You know better. Stop being lazy.”
The second time he calls a few days later, his father’s voice sharpens. “Are you hiding something from me?”
Ilya’s hands shake.
“Fuck off,” he snaps, and hangs up before his father can say shameful again.
He sits on the edge of the bed afterward, shaking, and realizes with a sick twist of fear that if Shane were here, he would let himself fall apart.
That thought terrifies him more than his father ever did.
—----------------------
By the time they play each other again, Ilya is barely holding himself together. He looks like shit and he feels like shit and he knows its beyond hiding anymore.
Shane sees it immediately. Or maybe he already knew. Does he watch Ilya the way Ilya watches him? Does he look at his face during interviews? Does he count down the days until their game? Does he want the way that Ilya does?
On the ice, Ilya’s aggression is desperate, and he knows it, but he just can’t stop. Can’t seem to help himself, and he hits harder than necessary. Shane being there is throwing him off more than he would like to admit.
When they collide at the boards in the second period, Shane feels it, Ilya knows he does, the tension vibrating under Ilya’s skin like he’s wound too tight.
“You’re not okay,” Shane says under the roar of the crowd.
“Focus on your own game, beta” Ilya snarls.
“You’re burning yourself out.”
“Fuck off.”
Shane lets him go, but he doesn’t stop watching.
Between periods, they have a break and Ilya practically runs trying to catch his breath, panic in his chest making his heart pound and his head dizzy and everything is wrong wrong wrong. Shane catches him alone in a quiet hallway near the locker rooms, must have followed him and luckily it's discreet. No audience. They both know better.
“Ilya,” Shane says quietly.
Ilya spins on him. “What? What the fuck do you want?”
“You don’t look well. It doesn’t look like you’re sleeping” Shane says, and it’s not a question. How the fuck would he know anyway? “Something's wrong, your scent’s wrong.”
Panic flares.
Shane’s eyes widen in understanding, something clicking together in his mind, he lowers his voice. “You’re dropping.” and again, it’s not a question.
Ilya’s control cracks.
“Don’t,” he hisses. “Don’t say that like you know fucking anything”
Shane’s gaze softens. “I do know you. At least a little.”
“Fuck off.” Ilya laughs, sharp and broken. “Then you know I don’t need you.”
Shane steps closer. “Maybe,” Shane says. “But I think you want someone.”
The words hit a little too hard. Ilya’s breath stutters.
“You don’t get to decide that,” he whispers.
“No,” Shane agrees. “You do.”
There's a pause. A tension while they just look at each other.
Shane’s voice drops, rougher now. “I just don’t want you hurting yourself because you’re scared to need help. Drops are serious; you should have someone. This isn’t healthy. You’re smart and I know you know better.”
Ilya looks at him. Really, truly, looks. Scanning his face for any sign of fake, but he only finds sincerity and concern in Shane’s eyes, and it makes his heart stutter, scared and hopeful and terrified and ashamed all at once.
“Why the fuck do you care, Hollander?”
“I just….I just do. I care. I care a lot, okay?”
So for the first time in three weeks, he doesn’t push Shane away.
“I don’t know how to be… this, I don’t–” Ilya whispers, shaking his head.
Shane’s answer is immediate.
“Stay. Let me stay. I want to help. No one has to know. I would never say anything. Just…let me be here with you. I really do care, I just…I want–”
The buzzer sounds.
They’re called back to the ice.
Ilya turns away before Shane can see the tears in his eyes.
But this time
This time, he doesn’t tell Shane to leave.
“My room number is 3401.”