Chapter Text
Ilya is skipping pre-game press again- but for the first time, he has a good reason.
He’s been dreaming of meeting him for five years, ever since the man was the first-round draft pick for the Montreal Metros.
Shane Hollander.
Those five miserable years, he’d thought about Hollander every second. Five years of playing in the KHL, living with his father and brother, the two of them owning and controlling every cent Ilya earned, every move he made. He had only been able to see Sveta for a few hours, every new year’s eve.
He’d watched Metros games, over and over, on some terrifying website with constant pop-ups advertising penis enlargement pills. He’d stare at Hollander’s face, the way his eyes curved when he grinned. Ilya would grin too, curled up in his bedroom, the rest of the house asleep. It was the only time he felt safe, when he could try to fill the aching crater in his chest.
Hollander was perfect, like someone had spied on Ilya’s dreams and sculpted the omega just for him. Sweet, brown eyes, freckles that darkened in summer and begged to be kissed. Ilya thought of how that golden skin might feel under his hands, how that black hair might feel like silk.
He’d trace his finger over the screen, pretending Hollander was really there; that the warmth of the screen was skin, that someone - that Hollander - would let Ilya touch him.
From his cage, Ilya watched Hollander win award after award- celebrated by the entire league, sought after by luxury brands, and constantly hugged and kissed by his adoring parents. Every glance to the camera, every smile to the fans was a bullet in Ilya’s lungs.
Freedom. Love. Everything Ilya had given up hope of ever receiving. But he wanted.
It had almost been too much.
Ilya had had a bottle of pills in his hand, that night. A full bottle of vodka ready on his nightstand. He’d spent most of the day holding his mother’s cross close to his chest. He understood her, finally- why she had to leave. He was so tired. He couldn’t spend a lifetime stuck here. He couldn’t make it through one more day.
The call came just before eight.
“Ilya Rozanov?”
“Yes,” Ilya managed, in English. The foreign accent was unmistakable- the man was American, perhaps, or Canadian.
“My name is Brandon Wiebe; I’m calling on behalf of the Ottowa Centaurs.”
He’d given Ilya a plane ticket, a visa, a passport. A place to live, his own bank account. Teammates that became friends, and then pack. Freedom. Safety.
He’d saved Ilya’s life.
And now Ilya is here, trembling with excitement, at his team’s arena- called the Canadian Tire Center, for reasons he can’t fathom- and they’re playing a game tonight. Against the Metros.
Somewhere, in this building, is Shane Hollander.
Ilya isn’t going to have their first meeting be on the ice. He peeks into the guest locker room, the second the Metros arrive- no Shane. He picks up a scent, though- omega, faint and stressed. Pre-game jitters, maybe.
He follows the trail through the halls, past storage rooms and the PT center and the bay where they repair their Zambonis. The scent is faint, but icy and slightly sweet. Ilya loves it.
Then, he hits a stretch of vacant offices, and he smells it- a wisp, barely noticeable through the metal door.
Omega. Anxious. Minty and overwhelming, like Ilya’s poured a whole tin of Altoids into his mouth. He scrunches his nose, throat burning.
He knocks twice. “Hollander?”
He waits, and then opens the door. It’s dark, and silent, and he almost turns away, focused on finding his quarry.
Then the door huffs, the scent inside the room slamming into him, and it’s so thick with fear that Ilya actually gags.
Mama.
The last time he smelled this, she-
“Hollander!”
Ilya shouts it, panic taking hold. He can’t find a light, can’t see- and in the darkness, his mama’s image appears, layered over itself, a repeating pattern. Her arm tumbling, limp and white, from Ilya’s hand. The quilt, crumpled on the floor. The smell, thick and horrible; the smell of fear, despair, death.
His hands scrabble at the wall, blind, until he finds a switch and slams the fluorescents on.
They don’t flicker. The building is too well-maintained for that; they’re simply off one moment, and on the next. There Hollander is, on the concrete floor, curled up on his side. His eyes are closed, his face pale and sweaty- Ilya can’t tell if he’s even alive.
“Hollander.” Ilya falls to his knees in front of the man, hands flying to his neck, fingers pressing hard against his pulse point. Is he breathing? Please-
Even if a pulse is there, Ilya can’t feel it; his fingers are numb, the edges of his vision fuzzy. His mother and Shane Hollander overlap, their faces fading in and out- a VHS that’s been recorded over.
Ilya flinches at a whine filling the air, only to realize it’s coming from him.
“Shane,” he begs. He thinks he can see the boy’s chest moving, but he can’t be sure- the room is twisting around him, like it sometimes does after an intense shift on the ice. Everything is faintly pulsing- the walls, the floor.
God, don’t do this. Please don’t do this again.
Ilya takes a breath, tries to focus. His throat burns as he forces the sound out. “Shane!”
This time, Shane twitches.
Ilya nearly collapses, relief surging through every nerve in his skin. He’s dizzy with it, the room tilting gently around him.
“Shane,” Ilya hears his voice crack, and realizes he’s crying. Stupid, he scolds himself. This isn’t helping him. “Shane, I’m here. I’m-“ he gasps in a breath. “I’m Ilya Rozanov.”
He tries to say something else, but nothing makes any sense.
I play for the Centaurs. Shane already knows that. Ilya’s wearing his jersey, for fuck’s sake. You’re safe. A strange alpha hunted him down by scent, like a serial killer, and then touched his neck. Shane’s probably never felt less safe in his life. Everything will be okay. Hilarious.
He settles for the truth- the most fundamental one. “I promise I won’t hurt you.”
Hollander never even made it into his gear- instead, he’s collapsed in nothing but a t-shirt and sweatpants. He should be shivering, but he isn’t. His lips are pale, his nail-beds white. Ilya’s body remembers these things. It always will.
“Shane, please-“ Ilya tries to breathe deeply, but something is pressing on his lungs, and he can’t let the air out completely. He imagines a boa constrictor wrapped around him.
“Did you-“ another gasp, chest burning. “Did you take anything?”
Silence.
“Pills,” he tries. “Anything.”
Shane is so still, so cold. Not alive, shifting like ice. Stone.
“Answer me,” Ilya begs, and it comes out as a command.
“No,” Shane says, immediate and completely without emotion, and Ilya wants to sob, to beg for forgiveness. It’s what the alpha hates about using commands- he can’t stand turning an omega into a mindless, obedient pet, hates the way his mama’s eyes glazed over whenever his father forced her to kneel.
He hates himself, for treating Shane like that, for letting a command slip out, for ruining any chance he had of this perfect boy actually liking him.
But he can breathe now. Shane isn’t dying. He has time.
“Good,” he rasps, taking a deep breath. He wipes the tears from his cheeks, focuses on his scent, turning it calm and inviting. “That’s good, Shane. You’re doing so well.”
At this, Shane’s eyes fly open.
“Yeah,” Ilya breathes, and he’s crying again- or maybe he never stopped. “Yeah, you’re so good.” “I’m here. I will not hurt you.”
This, even more than understanding and responding to Ilya’s questions, is proof that Shane is alive. These eyes can’t be anything else- bright, warm, reflecting the harsh lights as if they’re the heavens’ favorite stars.
Brown- this exact shade of brown, is Ilya’s favorite color.
The color of soil, the morning the first green shoots appear. The color of firewood when you have none- when you thought you’d freeze to death. A color that says you will survive this, too.
He offers his wrist to Shane, not daring to move too close. He turns his head slightly to the side, and down, like his mama taught him.
Shane’s arm jerks, and his wrist slides toward Ilya, just a few inches.
Ilya brushes his own wrist over the scent gland there, as gently as he possibly can. Shane’s wrist is freezing cold, and Ilya pushes down the sharp worry that threatens to overtake him. He scents calm safe protected, and waits for any reaction from Shane.
He lets his hand hover, close by. “Can I do that again?”
This time, Shane nods, and Ilya smiles. His scent makes a small dent in the overwhelming smell of fear, and for a moment the room smells happy.
He brushes their wrists together again. Calm safe friend. “You’re safe with me,” he promises. “I won’t ever hurt you.”
At that, Shane looks up at him, brown eyes mapping Ilya’s face. He doesn’t smile, but his scent smells less of fear with every exhale. Ilya can’t help but let out a pleased chirp, thrilled at the result.
The noise doesn’t startle Shane. Instead, his cheeks tense minutely, as if he wants to smile but hasn’t remembered how.
“More?” Ilya asks, gesturing with his wrist. At Shane’s nod, he happily scents the omega again. The room is slowly becoming more bearable, as Ilya’s pheromones chase out the icy sting of panic.
“Would you like to move closer? Scent me?” Ilya offers, opening his arms.
Shane tilts his head- not tucking his chin in fear, simply curious.
Ilya tries not to purr, and only succeeds in doing it very quietly, rather than defaulting to his usual volume, which sounds like someone is trying to start a motorcycle inside a studio apartment.
He grins, unable to stop it. “You don’t have to, but you can. I won’t hurt you.”
Shane fidgets, unsure- he’s scared, Ilya knows, but he wants it, wants Ilya’s comfort. “Promise?”
Ilya manages not to cry again, only because he’s about to hug Shane Hollander, and doesn’t want to get the boy wet. “I promise,” Ilya tells him. “Will make you feel better.”
“Okay,” Shane whispers, and his voice is so small. Ilya waits, fighting every instinct that screams protect omega, hold him, hide him, take him to your den where he can’t get hurt! He breathes, projects calm, and waits for Shane to crawl into his lap.
He breathes deeply, refusing to tense when Hollander touches him for the first time- Shane’s fingers are frozen, and maybe it’s this that sends a thrill through Ilya’s nerves.
Before Ilya can process it, Shane’s hands are on his arms, thighs surrounding Ilya’s where they kneel on the floor. His face is inches from Ilya’s, those brown eyes sparkling, a hint of pink back in his cheeks after Ilya’s care. It fills Ilya with a fierce, primal satisfaction- he’s a good alpha, taking care of this lovely omega.
Then, Shane’s arms are around his shoulders, face pressing into Ilya’s neck, nose brushing against Ilya’s scent gland.
Mine.
The thought slams into him, a six-foot defenseman he never saw coming.
Mine, mine, mine. Ilya’s brain is nothing but an alarm, blaring the news endlessly, as if he doesn’t know it already. As if the fact hasn’t already seared itself into his soul. My omega. Mine to respect, mine to hold, to guard. Mine to care for.
Ilya feels his face catch fire. He lets his arms wrap around the boy he’s wanted for so long, and tries to swallow the sticking feeling in his throat.
Without his permission, his face smashes into Hollander’s neck, and he’s pulling air through his nose, desperate. Hollander smells like sherbet, like fresh nectarine and ice, like the leather of well-worn skates. It’s a miracle, or something like one; the last time Ilya felt this good, Sasha had dared him to try cocaine.
This is a much more dangerous addiction. All Ilya can think is I’m not prepared for this.
He forces himself to say something normal; shoves down the urge to propose marriage. “Is there anyone I can call?” He smooths his hands over Shane’s back, his neck, his bare arms, trying to warm him up. “To help you?”
“My mom,” Shane murmurs, and the warmth of his breath on Ilya’s neck, the scent of it- it threatens to knock Ilya unconscious.
Ilya asks Shane to hand over his phone, so he can call the woman. He lifts his hands, preparing to unwrap himself from around Shane, but then-
“No!”
“Not here,” Shane cries, and Ilya flinches as another burst of fear hits his nose, stinging like menthol. “Team will see.”
Ilya rubs his wrist against Shane’s neck, trying to cover him in calming pheromones, and tries not to let his distress creep into his scent. This is more than an upset omega. Shane has all the symptoms of an omega experiencing long-term abuse and neglect. Right now, he doesn’t smell sad- he smells like he’s in danger.
But Ilya isn’t twelve years old anymore. Alphas don’t tower over him. If someone comes into this room and tries to hurt Shane, he will rip them apart with his teeth.
“Shane, I can get help for you, yes?” He tries to pull away, just a little- ready to extract himself from this haven if it means he can be useful. “I can get your coach, or-“
“No.”
“You said-“ Shane clings to Ilya, hard, fingernails digging into his skin. “You said you’d protect me.”
“You’re mine,” he grits out, teeth clenched.
Oh, Ilya thinks. Oh, fuck.
It’s never happened to him before - since he presented, he’s never been around an omega for more than a few minutes - but he knows what it is. Everyone does. They learn it in school, in between fire drills and stranger danger.
An emergency bond.
He’s Shane’s alpha, for now- Shane is under his protection, by tradition and by law. An omega’s choice, in these circumstances, is sacred. And Shane barely knows Ilya- he’s just the first alpha to show him basic decency in months, or maybe years.
It doesn’t matter that it’s temporary, or that Shane’s hindbrain is making the decisions while his frontal lobe is offline, or that Ilya isn’t special- the omega would have attached himself to almost anyone passing by.
None of it stops Ilya’s hormones from overtaking all rational thought.
He chirps, over and over again, purring at top volume, with no way to restrain himself. He squeezes Shane, probably too hard, but the omega seems pleased, nuzzling Ilya’s neck.
“Yours,” Ilya comforts him, rubbing his cheek against every part of Shane he can reach, needing to smell like his omega. “I’ll protect you, I promise. Just relax.”
His, Ilya rejoices, happier than he can remember being.
Shane nestles further into Ilya’s arms, content again, now that his ownership of the alpha has been acknowledged.
Mama, Ilya prays, her cross warm where Shane’s chest presses it against his heart. I won’t let him down.