Chapter Text
Shane doesn’t know exactly how much he and Ilya have fucked in the past seventy-two hours; he only knows that when he wakes up on hour seventy-three, his entire body is sore and he’s covered in a thick layer of come, sweat, and slick.
He slowly sits up from the soiled bedsheets. The early morning Sun is pouring in through the closed blinds, leaving lines of glowing gold light along the wall. Shane’s eyes slowly adjust to it, squinting.
Neither he or Ilya have left his hotel him in that seventy-three-hour span of time. They’ve spent all of it either fucking, sleeping, or showering, and Shane is only now starting to feel that combination of events stretching out over him.
He slowly swings a leg over the side of the bed, planting his foot down. He wobbles a little as he stands. His hole twitches as he settles both feet onto the floor.
Shut up, he tells himself. Wipes a hand over his chest and grimaces at the sticky feeling against his palm.
The shower is on, so Shane unfortunately can’t go clean himself off yet. He might have thought to just go anyway, slide into the shower right next to Ilya and start washing himself. But that, he knows, would make Ilya chirp at him about being a clean freak who can’t wait until he’s done and that would make Shane mumble a snide name under his breath and then that would have Ilya pressing Shane hard into the shower wall and—
Probably a good idea to just wait. Shane is about 96% sure that his body would stop working if Ilya fucked him even one more time.
So, he gathers some of the dirty bedsheets and walks to one of the chairs near the TV and sits slowly into it, grateful that the hotels always seem to have very softly cushioned chairs. He pours the sheets into his lap, covering his sad, sore dick limp between his thighs, and grabs some of them to hold to his chest. He doesn’t know why he feels so… whatever this is.
He thinks about Ilya in the shower while he waits for it to become available. Stares, just a little, at the open bathroom door. He forces his gaze away when he realizes he’s doing more than a little staring, opting instead, to look around his hotel room.
Nothing quite feels real. Maybe that’s the point of hotel rooms, in a way. A home, but not really. A place to rest, but also a place you eventually have to rush to leave. Shane has been trying not to think about what will happen when he does eventually leave this one. About all of the things that are probably going to change a lot when he goes back out into the real world from this sweet-smelling, fuzzy world he and Ilya have been building for these three days where Shane doesn’t have to think about the implications of it all.
Because there are a lot of implications, most of which (all of which) Shane really doesn’t want to be real.
Fuck.
He drops his chin to his chest. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
Things like this aren’t supposed to happen. Not like this. Not in the middle of a season, not when he’s gone twenty years of his life as a beta, not on a fucking Tuesday. His life isn’t supposed to colossally shift like this on a fucking Tuesday.
Shane has been putting off calling a doctor. And his parents. And definitely his coach. Trying to stay in this fuzzy limbo of his hotel room where he can pretend that all of this just means really good sex. It means so much more than that, and Shane is really trying to not let himself think about it.
Omegas have played in the league before. Rarely, only a few players over the years, but it happens. It works, for the most part. Of course, the dynamics between Alphas and omegas still follows those in the league, still draws in the lingering speculations and stares of judgement directed at those few omega players. Shane has never understood it. Well, sort of. Understands, at least, that the secondary gender roles affect everything and that hockey would be no different—if anything, it’s all the more fucking difficult to be an omega in his world.
The Metros is mostly made up of betas, though there are plenty of Alphas on the team. Enough of a balance that Shane has never felt less than the Alphas and the Alphas on the team don’t gloat their second gender around like a trophy. They know he’s the best plater. He knows he’s the best player. Knows that his biology has nothing to do with it. He’s the best player.
But will that matter anymore?
The question makes Shane drop his chin further, twist the sheets in his hands, shift uncomfortably in the chair.
He’s never held any sort of feelings about omegas, good or bad. It’s always just been what it is; biology. Shane has never thought of it as being something to have so much weight to it.
That was before, though. Before his own body decided, for some fucking reason, that he was going to have to have feelings about it, whether he liked it or not.
The sound of the shower halting has Shane’s head perking up straight. His eyes snap to the bathroom doorway, to Ilya walking out with a towel wrapped loosely around his hips. A part of Shane—maybe his brain, maybe his stomach, maybe his heart, he doesn’t want to decide—soars when Ilya comes into view. He feels some of the anxiety bubbling inside him ease a little with the faint musk Ilya puts out into the air, sweet and spicy against his tongue like he’s just licked a strip along his glands. Even after a shower, Ilya’s scent is strong. Shane wishes it didn’t make him feel less of… whatever he’s feeling. He still refuses to put a name to it.
“If you are trying to hide what naked looks like, is a bit late,” are the first words Ilya says. Casual and relaxed, just like his musk.
Shane fucking hates him.
“Go fuck yourself, Rozanov.” He pulls the sheets closer to him.
Walks over to Shane, reaches out for his hair, and Shane lets him for a moment. “Why do so, when I have you?”
Scoffing, Shane quickly retracts himself from Ilya’s touch. Access denied.
Ilya just cocks his lips up in a crooked smirk, head following the movement and tilting to the side. “Don’t be so sour,” he says.
This, of course, because why wouldn’t it, makes Shane aware of the mild bitterness in his own scent. His own scent; because that’s something he has now.
“I’m not,” he tries, like that will make the faint air of wilted flowers any less obvious.
“Okay,” with a shrug. Ilya then shakes his head at Shane, sprinkles of cold water flinging onto Shane and making him jump slightly. Like a wet dog, he thinks, not a fucking care in the world but getting himself dried off.
“Fuck you.” Puts a hand up in Ilya’s face. “You’re like a dog.”
“Mm, yes. But you like this.”
“You wish. It feels more like I’m a dog sitter.”
Ilya’s smirk spreads out wider, his musk sweetening. Shane really fucking hates him.
Hates that his own musk eases into calm cinnamon when Ilya smiles at him even more than he hates the other man.
A silence settles between them as Ilya walks over to the small kitchen unit, grabbing a ginger ale from the fridge and filling a glass of water. Shane watches him like there’s a set of magnets in his eyes and in Ilya. He’s never been more focused on watching the other man. Never felt this casual draw to him, almost as though his eyes wouldn’t rather be anywhere else. The feeling in his chest when he looks at Ilya stirs, calm. Not a crashing current, like it was when Ilya had shown up at the room those nights ago, but a gentle wave of warmth through him. Comforting. Shane’s anxiety is less intense when he’s looking at Ilya, so he tells himself it’s okay to keep watching even if the view is as mundane as it could possibly be.
“Have you called doctor yet?” Ilya suddenly asks, looking back.
Shane shakes his head. He knows Ilya won’t necessarily be happy about the confession, but he sees no point in denying it.
“Hm,” Ilya makes his way back over to him, sitting in the chair divided from Shane’s by a small table. “You should do this.”
“No shit.”
“Don’t turn into brat,” Ilya says, offering the can of ginger ale to Shane as he takes a sip of his own water.
“Shut up,” but takes the can instantly. Cracks it, chugs it, and exhales a burp when he’s finished. He doesn’t want to look up at Ilya again. “I’ll do it. Just, not yet.”
“As long as you do eventually.”
“I will.”
“Okay.”
Another span of silence. Shane tries his best to not fidget in the chair, partially because he doesn’t want Ilya to know he’s nervous and partially because he’s still sore and the cushion can only do so much to remedy this. Still, he lets himself turn the can over in his hands, pressing down into the thin metal and listening to the crackle of it beneath his fingers.
He knows Ilya is watching him. Can feel the weight of his eyes, burning into him. It’s different now, somehow. Usually when Ilya is staring at him (which is often) Shane feels studied, like he’s being taken apart by the other man’s eyes and everything he does is being stored in Ilya’s mind for later use. Right now, though, he feels observed. Shouldn’t be much of a difference, but it is. Like Ilya is carefully inspecting him for signs of disturbance.
“You are scared?” finally comes, Ilya’s voice soft.
It’s a stupid question. Shane hates that question every time he’s asked it.
Shaking his head much too quickly. “I’m not scared.”
Ilya hums, leaning back in his chair.
“I’m not,” Shane doubles down, not helping.
“You smell scared,” Ilya counters, and Shane thinks it takes every bit of strength in him to not reach over and strangle him.
“Fuck. You. That’s not fucking fair.”
“But is normal.” Ilya leans forward again, resting his elbows on his knees. “Normal for scent to be strong after heat. Will die down in some days.”
Hooray.
Shane hates that Ilya is being so nice. Because he knows that’s what this all is; Ilya being nice. Or at least trying to be. He’s not good at nice.
It makes Shane feel like a wounded animal—not something he really wants to feel right now. Or ever, actually. He wants to go back to being a normal, non-musked person whose feelings aren’t displayed in his air like a neon sign above his head flashing: I’m not happy right now.
And Ilya. Fucking Ilya just can’t seem to help himself.
“You will go back to boring self soon enough. Do not worry so much.”
Couldn’t be further from the truth. Nothing is going to go back to the way it was before. Shane is suddenly back to thinking about the looks he’s going to get, about the reporters probing him about his newfound presentation. He can see the articles now.
Metros Team Captain Shane Hollander; an Omega?
NHL’s Greatest Prospect Shane Hollander Comes Out as an Omega Mid-Season; What Will It Mean for His Career?
He groans, doesn’t even care about Ilya sitting right next to him.
It shouldn’t be anyone’s fucking business. Definitely not something he should have to ‘come out’ for. Fuck, this is a fucking nightmare. He doesn’t want to ‘come out’ about anything. Even the thought of it has Shane planning to bury himself in a hole and never come back to the surface.
It’s bad enough he’s… fucking a guy. Bad enough he’s fucking his rival of all the guys he could possibly he fucking. The idea of that problem being replaced on the top of his list of things to worry about by his sudden presentation of an omega second gender makes him want to die.
He knows his scent is souring by the second. That Ilya is reacting to it, his own musk growing bitter in the air.
“Stop that,” Shane finds he’s snapping to his left.
“You say as if I can help it.” Not a snap. Just a calm fact that Shane thinks is worse than if Ilya had sounded rude.
He huffs, rolling his head back against the chair.
“Hollander.” Again, it’s way too soft for Shane to like. “You are thinking too much.”
“Not really,” Shane bites, looking back. “Rozanov, this is fucking—This will change my whole fucking life. You get that?”
“Yes, I get that. But thinking so much? Doing the…” He trails, looking to the side for a moment, thinking, looking back at Shane calmly. “The spiraling? Will not help.”
And he might be right. Maybe. Maybe the spiraling isn’t helping. But fuck, what else is Shane supposed to do? Sit there and pretend that everything is normal and his life hasn’t taken a 180 in the wrong direction.
He wishes he could suspend time. Just for a little while longer, so that he can figure out how he wants to deal with this. Usually, he has time to figure things out. Usually, things don’t just suddenly go twisted and flip in on themselves and leave Shane to scramble for a solution.
Well, at least not until Ilya Rozanov.
Ever since Ilya Rozanov entered Shane’s life, he’s felt off. Just off. Like there’s something brewing somewhere inside him that he can’t quite figure out. Something he hasn’t decided makes him feel warm and comforted or hairbrained and fragile. Maybe it’s both. All he does know is that since he met Ilya Rozanov, his life has been different. He’s been different. There’s been a change in himself; cosmic and scary and alluring. A change that draws him in and makes him want to shrink away all at once. He doesn’t think he wants to label it, because labeling it would make it all so very real and Shane isn’t ready for it all to be so real.
“Well, I kind of have think about it,” he finally says, crossing his arms over his chest. He feels too open. Too spread out, body and soul.
Ilya nods. “Yes, some.”
“Fuck.” It comes out breathless. Shane wishes it lifted some of the weight, letting out some of his frustration, but it doesn’t.
“Will be okay, Hollander.” Ilya reaches out. Shane wants to reject the touch, but his body won’t let him, so he just sits stilly as Ilya’s hand slides along his knee. It’s warm, calming the chill Shane hadn’t realized was settling in his bones.
Will it be okay though? Shane is completely caught on the question, has been for the past few hours. Since his—well, since his heat calmed and he’s now able to think about something other than sex. He’s still coming to terms with the whole heat thing.
He thinks about the headlines again. Can’t get them out of his mind.
Ilya stiffens, hand stilling. Shane tries to ignore the bitter taste building in his mouth with the souring of Ilya’s musk.
“Stop thinking,” he says, squeezing Shane’s knee. “Not helping.”
And Shane, for some fucking reason, does. He tries to empty his mind and focus on the warmth of Ilya’s hand, tries to force his scent to calm back into the fresh blossoming of lilacs and cinnamon so Ilya can’t tell how upset he is. Ilya’s touch makes it easier, he thinks, so he leans his leg a little into it. Mossy wood and tobacco surges in the air.
“You will figure things out, yes? And your mother will help.”
Fuck, his mom. He’s back to thinking already.
Ilya exhales a heavy sigh, shoulders rolling. His hand squeezes again, ordering, and Shane is trying. He’s trying, but it’s really, really hard. He hates that it’s making Ilya just as stressed out as he is.
And then Ilya is moving towards him. Getting up out of his chair to stand over Shane and look down at him. His hands twitch at his sides. Shane absently tries to urge him to touch him again, warm his chilled bones and send those calm waves through his nerves.
Ilya must know he’s trying. Must, because he’s reaching out and holding Shane’s face in both of his hands a moment later, stroking his cheeks with his thumbs, curling his fingers into Shane’s hair, and Shane releases a sigh as his eyes fall shut. Warm. Safe. Comfort. Makes his thoughts die down into a quiet drone.
“Calm,” he says. “Be calm.”
Shane nods. Leans further into the touch and into the soft mix of their scents. He’s been thinking of that a lot. How well his and Ilya’s musks blend together when they’re both relaxed, like the perfect merging of a cool, wet forest filled with blooming flowers. It’s one of the only graces he’s had since all this began.
“You will okay.” Leans down, presses a kiss to the top of Shane’s head, lingers there. “Everything will be okay. Some time. Adjusting. Will be okay, yes?”
Part of Shane wants to keep arguing, but the rest of him is feeling too warm and fuzzy to try something he knows he’ll fail at. Ilya sounds so sure of himself that Shane might even believe him.
“Okay,” he says despite himself. Ilya wants to hear him say it, so he does. He likes the way Ilya’s shoulders loosen and his musk bursts with vanilla when he does.
“Good.” Another kiss. “Now, go take shower. You smell like club bathroom.”
There he is.
“Fuck you,” Shane scoffs, pulling himself away from Ilya’s hands. “It’s half your fault.”
Tips his head to the side like a confused puppy. “Hm, I do not think so.”
“Most of this is yours,” Shane counters, gesturing to his chest.
Ilya—because of course he does—smirks and goes to lean towards Shane’s chest, tongue first. Shane jumps back, pressing as far as he can into the chair to get away.
“That’s disgusting.” But there’s a laugh tinging his words that makes Ilya’s smile grow.
“You like.” Slaps the side of Shane’s face gently and retreats. “Deep in that boring brain, you like.”
Standing, shoving his shoulder against Ilya’s as he passes, Shane glares at him. All he gets back is that beaming smile.
Shane tries to prolong his shower as long as he can. Stands underneath the hot spray for so much time that when he finally forces himself out, he’s lightheaded. He feels better afterwards, at least, no longer sticky and covered in three days’ worth of sex. The only thing he’s not so happy about is the washing away of Ilya’s scent on him, though he knows that’s for the best. It wouldn’t look great for him to go out smelling like Ilya Rozanov after holing himself up in his hotel room for three days.
When he comes back out into the bedroom, Ilya is back to sitting in one of the chairs again, the one Shane had just been in, now fully dressed. His head is leaned back against the cushion, tipped a little to the side and directed towards Shane. He smiles lazily at him, motioning him closer.
Shane wants to, but he just finished wiping Ilya’s scent from him and he really does need to force himself back into the world, so he shakes his head.
“I have to… sort some things out. Outside.”
Ilya seems to understand, nods, though solemn. “Yes.”
He stands, walks over to Shane. Close enough that Shane can smell Ilya’s musk but not so much so that it could rub off on him. He’s glad Ilya knows just as well as he does how important it is they don’t mix.
“You will do well,” he says, smiling. It might be the softest he’s ever seen the other man’s smile look. “Big, tough hockey player.”
It should be teasing, but it feels more like a consolation. A reminder. Shane feels warm inside with it.
“Yeah, I guess so.”
“I know so.”
Shane has to smile. Has to, even if he doesn’t want to (he does). He wishes he could reach out for Ilya’s wrist, press it to his nose and get one last taste of his musk, but he doesn’t. Can’t. He needs to keep things as neutral as he can.
“I’ll…” He doesn’t know what to say. See you later? Text you tonight? Shane’s mind can’t decide.
“See you at the game,” Ilya provides, again, like a fucking mind reader. Shane finds himself grateful for it.
“Yeah.” He smiles, nervous, calm, and content all at once. “See you there.”
“Do not be too sore of loser,” is tacked on with a tap against Shane’s flank. Then Ilya is moving to grab his jacket from the other chair, sliding it up his arms and shrugging it over his shoulders.
Shane shakes his head as he watches Ilya make his way across the room. “Not happening, Rozanov. We’re wiping the ice with you guys.”
A shrug, a bob of his head, then Ilya is turning the doorknob and slipping out into the hallway, a casual, “We’ll see,” thrown over his shoulder.
Shane stands there for a long time, imagining the path Ilya takes down the hall and towards the back exit of the building, away from him and their little world locked in the walls of the hotel room.
He wishes he could stay here forever.
Wishes he didn’t feel like his whole world is about to crumble in on itself and swallow him whole in the wreckage.