Chapter Text
February, 2016
It’s a Saturday and Shane sleeps through his alarm clock.
He feels groggy too. He knows, that he overslept, but when he reaches out his arm to check the time on his phone, it shows only nine in the morning, which is just an hour later than he would normally wake up.
He scrolls past his mom’s two texts, reminding him of their plans to meet for brunch, and then skim reads the messages from his team’s group chat. Shane’s thumb wavers over the screen, but he decides against going into his texts to see, if perhaps there were some messages he missed, when he put his phone in ‘do not disturb’ mode last night.
Yesterday, he went to bed early. He barely had any appetite, but he forced himself to finish dinner, even though the smell of chicken that he had cooked, made bile rise at the back of his throat.
Shane wanted to blame it on the stomach bug. He was doing fine in the morning, but by nighttime, his health worsened and, he was even considering cancelling the plans he had made with his mum, he knew she was going to freak out if he told her he was feeling sick. She would make him go to the hospital and get checked out and Shane, well, he did not really want her to worry over nothing.
He rolls over to his other side, hoping it will relieve the sense of nausea building slowly in his gut.
He should probably drink some water, but he does not want to get up from the comfort of his bed. He built a small nest last night, hoping the familiar scents would calm his mind, and it worked surprisingly well. Shane even snuck a couple of shirts and a sweater (which were not his) inside, and it made something warm and fuzzy spread in his stomach, when he nuzzled into the pillow surrounded by the familiar scents of bonfire and sandalwood.
Now, as he slowly moved around, his muscles felt lax and slow. He slept fine, but the moment he woke up, his body started to act out again.
Shane tries to bring himself into the kitchen to drink a glass of water, but it does not help. Instead, it somehow makes everything ten times worse.
He holds a palm to his mouth and stares at his kitchen sink.
Oh, he thinks, blankly.
Oh, fuck-
Shane bends over the kitchen counter and throws up.
It is surprisingly easy for his dinner, to rise up from his stomach, and become puke at the bottom of the kitchen sink.
*
It takes about an hour to clean his sink. After the morning incident, Shane throws up two more times, each time causing a painful tugging in his stomach and an ache in his throat. Once, down the sink again from the smell, and another down the toilet, where he hunched over the bowl, in search of some relief.
He feels both scared and incredibly exhausted.
He checks his temperature, but he does not have a fever.
Shane nearly texts his mom to tell her he is not going to make it, but by noon his nausea disappears almost entirely. He does not feel like he is going to throw up every twenty minutes, which is great, and he even manages to make himself a smoothie and some tea to calm his stomach.
Shane does not have time to think about the morning incident.
He blames it on the chicken that went bad.
(He ignores the part, where he woke up feeling nauseous for almost ten days in a row, because if he does, he might actually go insane.)
Instead, he irons his shirt and his pants, spends over thirty minutes trying to decide if he wants to wear the black jacket or the brown, and then, for almost twice as long, he tries to convince himself that wearing sneakers in snow is not a bad idea, since he is going to drive anyway (he ends up wearing snow boots last minute) and heads out of the door.
By the time Shane sits before his mother, he is feeling flustered and his knee twitches, forcing his leg to bump up and down. His hair is messy from the hat, and now, outgrown, it falls over his eyes and Shane is getting frustrated, trying to push it away from his forehead.
“Is everything alright?” Yuna asks, her eyes fixed on him over the menu. Shane hums, his attention on the buttermilk pancakes option from the ‘something sweet’ section.
He shouldn’t.
He has already put on a lot of weight (just a couple of pounds) over the winter break, and, he told himself he is going on a proper diet towards the end of the month, but, his cravings have been controlling his life as of late.
And he really wants the pancakes. They sound so good and Shane practically salivates at his mouth. He is starving, his stomach hollow after throwing up this morning, and he feels that if he doesn’t eat the pancakes now, he might actually die.
He can practically taste them on his tongue, the sweetness of the syrup and the fluffy texture. Shane is staring at the menu, when his mother’s voice brings him out of his head.
“Shane? Shane,” he looks up. She is fully glaring at him now. “Is everything alright?”
Shane wants to crumble under his chair, but instead, he clears his throat and shrugs. “Yeah. Of course. I am fine, why wouldn’t I be?”
Yuna stiffens. Her scent is muted by the blockers and the crowd around them, but Shane still notices the traces of citrus in his mother’s scent and cringes.
“You look pale,” she says, her voice low, as she leans over the table, to put a hand over his forehead. “And you smell ripe. Is it your cycle? You must be getting close, but you don’t feel hot.”
Shane’s cheeks are bright and red. He blinks at his mother, who takes away her hand only to brush Shane’s hair from his eyes. “You don’t have to tell me of course, but you really smell different, darling. It is not bad, just- strong. Is something off with your medication? You know we can always go for another check-up together.”
Shane wants the ground to open and swallow him whole.
“I am fine, Mom. Seriously. Just a little tried, but I am not,” Shane blushes furiously, and finishes in barely audible whisper, “in heat.”
Yuna’s frown does not disappear, and Shane suddenly wants to talk about anything but his body or his scent. He turns his full attention to the waitress, who arrives just in time to take their order.
His mother’s question lingers in his mind when he looks back at the menu.
“And what would you like?” the girl smiles politely at him.
Shane’s nausea comes back for the second time that day, but he does everything he can to push it away.
“I will get the salmon and poached eggs, please. With salad on the side. Thank you.”
He slaps the menu shut and tries to meet his mother’s small, but comforting smile.
*
Yuna is an alpha, so of course her senses are sharper than normal, Shane reasons on his way home. His drive home is taking ages, and the roads are slow with the traffic going into the city, but he does not mind.
It leaves him with enough time to think.
His mother has every right to be worried about him. She knows well how hard it was for him to get to the top, his second gender was always a reminder of his shortcomings.
Omega males were rare, and there were even fewer in professional sports.
But Shane never let it get to him. His achievements were his own, and he had great teammates who respected him, and parents who supported him throughout his teenage and childhood years.
He was loved. He was cared for.
Shane’s grip tightens over the steering wheel. His phone is dead silent, and Shane curses under his nose for caring.
He is starving.
He ate half of the salmon, and he asked for a takeaway box, because he could not bear his mother’s judging look when he saw him dragging the food all over the plate with a fork. Shane has not eaten anything since the smoothie he had in the morning but that was nearly three hours ago.
Shane had the best time with his mother, talking about the upcoming season and the goals he set, his personal ones and the ones he wished for his team to complete. His mother also asked him about Rozanov, in a very off-handed way, something, that Shane was not expecting to talk about. He and Ilya have hardly spoken since January and talking about the alpha during brunch with his mom was not Shane’s ideal topic of conversation.
The last time they saw each other was still fresh in his memory. So fresh, in fact, Shane could not think about it without blushing. His body was a tight raw of nerves, and Ilya, well, he did little to calm the fire in his body.
Instead, he added to it, like gasoline, and Shane was terrified of how much he craved the feeling of being engulfed by it.
His phone rings. Shane, stuck in traffic, reaches out to check it.
‘Text me when you get home xoxox’
‘And let me know if you want me to book that doctor’s appointment.’
‘Nothing serious, just a regular check-up.’
Shane’s lips tighten when he reads his mother’s message.
It is nothing however, in comparison to the dread that settles in his gut when he shoots him the final:
‘You do use protection when you are with someone, right?’
Shane looks at the traffic.
He then checks how far it would take to drive home. In a span of two minutes, he decides to reroute and instead drive to the closest supermarket.
He gives all of his mum’s messages a ‘thumbs up’ and to the last one he sends an overly enthusiastic ‘yes!!!’.
*
For a Saturday afternoon, the grocery store is surprisingly empty.
Shane really does not need to be here. He orders most of his groceries through the app, but this is strangely comforting. He wanders through the aisles, without much goal in mind, but he does have a cart with him if he decides to pick something on a whim.
Which he does.
Shane gets a jar of pickles, and cheese slices. He throws in sourdough, and pickled tomatoes. He gets three flavours of ice cream and a pack of ketchup crisps. He got chocolate cake (a whole cake) and whipped cream, just in case.
He blacks out at the cashier counter. He packs everything and carries the bags to his car without an ounce of shame.
He tries not to think of what he had just done. He felt like a teen with his parents’ credit card, buying a bunch of junk food. But Shane is satisfied, and he is particularly excited about the cake.
He forgot, when the last time he had some chocolate cake was. Was it someone’s birthday? Was he seven?
The drive back goes a lot smoother than before. He gets home when it starts to get dark outside, and he brings the food to his apartment, humming a little under his nose.
Shane is tired, but he is content when he unloads the groceries. He wants to shower, the foreign scents clinging to his skin, in a way he finds unpleasant.
He changes into sweatpants and a sweatshirt that is too large for him, but it smells of Rozanov which is nice.
They do stuff like that. Exchanging clothes for their hats and ruts, to bring into the privacy of their apartments. They started doing it not long ago, perhaps last year, and Shane is still getting used to the fact that he can simply pick up Rozanov’s shirt or sweater in his wardrobe and bring it to his nest.
It is comforting, in a way. It is also terrifying how much Shane missed his scent.
They saw each other last month, and yet Shane does not think, that it was enough.
Rozanov’s sweatshirt smells of home. Shane finds so much comfort in the alpha’s scent, of warmth and something woody, that his body automatically relaxes, and his mind stops racing at an ungodly speed.
He can actually focus on dinner, the ground beef bowl with sweet potatoes this time, instead of worrying about why the foods he used to eat since he was a kid are now making him nauseous. Shane eats the food while catching up with the latest sports news. There is not much to watch off-season but the Australian Open, and Shane is grateful for the distraction.
When he goes to bed he is almost at peace. There is no gassy feeling in his stomach, or tugging at his muscles. Shane reads a couple of pages of his book and throws in a couple of Rozanov’s shirts into his nest.
Even when he heads to sleep, he is still wearing the sweatshirt, thinking that if he were to take it off, the fragile peace he built with his body would break.
*
March, 2016
“Omega bitch.”
A whistle from the referee. A red card for language.
The beta skates away with a snarl, and Shane is sweating buckets under his uniform.
Soar loser, Shane thinks, when he glances at the score. He is leading, five goals to one, and he is smiling despite the exhausting tugging at his muscles.
This goal felt especially sweet.
The team was riling Shane up since the start of the game. If they wanted a fight, Shane was not going to refuse. He felt good, he was in good shape for today’s match and Shane was proud of that.
The past month his health has been on a rollercoaster. His pheromones and his scent were too strong even for his regular blockers, and even things like working out and running started to tire him out way quicker than before. He treasured the days when his body was normal like everything was fine.
It made little moments like this goal feel especially precious.
Shane hides his smile around his mouthguard and skates towards Hayden, who is watching him intently across the rink.
“You okay?”
The alpha nudges Shane playfully, but he can’t hide the worry in his voice. Shane feels goosebumps rise on his skin, both from the touch, and from Hayden’s display of protectiveness which fuels the warmth, swelling in his chest.
“Yeah! I am fine,” Shane puffs his chest.
Omega bitch, the voice in his head nudges. He had been called worse.
“He is a dickhead. Just ignore him. One of the other guys will take care of him, if he keeps bugging you,” Hayden reassures him, even if Shame does not really say that he isn’t too bothered by the insults.
Shane is about to skate away, when Hayden asks him quietly, or as quiet as he can manage through the cheers of the crowd and the loudspeaker announcement ringing through the stadium, “Are you sure you are alright? You smell like- like you are close to your, you know, cycle.”
Shane stares at him, wide-eyed. “I am fine! Really.”
Hayden skates away, his arms raised. “I know, man. Just wanted to make sure you were alright. We need you healthy, Shane. Can’t have any accidents happen.”
Shane knows that the alpha means well, and yet, he can’t help but dwell on the words even after the match. His teammate was not the first person to comment on Shane’s smell despite his not being able to scent anything.
His mother was first. And then there was Hayden.
Shane wins the game, but he can’t bring himself to celebrate. He stays with the team to prep for their next match, but when he gets home the only thing he wants is to shower and collapse into bed.
‘Saw your game last night. Having fun with the Oilers’ left wing?’
Shane reads the text when he walks through his front door. He scoffs to himself. Leave it to Rozanov to text him at the worst possible time, and all because he saw the little fight he had with the opposition.
Shane contemplates whether he should reply now, or after his shower.
He takes off his jacket and sweater, then removes his pants and his socks. He stands naked, wearing only his underwear in the middle of the room, when he texts Rozanov back.
‘Why? Feeling left out?’
He smiles to himself. It is stupid of him, he knows, but he kind of likes the little sparks of jealousy in Ilya’s texts.
He pushes down the feeling that wants Rozanov to be with him here and now. Perhaps they could shower together, their bodies pressed against each other, and Shane could suck on Ilya’s dick and maybe allow him to knot in his mouth. If they had enough time, they could cuddle after, and Ilya could scent him, so that Shane would stop feeling so hot and bothered underneath his skin all the damn time.
Before Shane’s thoughts become a nuisance, his phone rings.
‘No.’
Ilya double texts before Shane’s smirk disappears from his face.
‘Are you home now?’
Shane huffs, typing: ‘Yes.’
He bites his bottom lip. He feels sudden wetness gathering between his thighs. ‘Why?’
Shane is about to take off his underwear. Rozanov keeps typing and then deleting the message. It is so unlike him to hesitate, before asking Shane to do something for him.
‘Send me a picture.’
Shane nearly chuckles in disbelief. He does not know what it is, the height of the victory or the excitement of finally talking to the alpha after almost a month-long silence, but, he decides to snap a picture in the mirror.
Nothing crazy, just his torso, and the swell of his breasts with the slight roundness of his stomach from all the junk he has been eating lately. His briefs feel tight around his thighs, and you can see the way they bite into his tanned skin in the mirror. Shane sends it fast, before he changes his mind.
He does not even study his face, for it is half covered with the phone, but if you look closely you can see his disheveled hair and the side of his freckled cheek.
‘So sexy.’
‘Want to suck on those tits when I see you again.’
Shane flushes when he reads the text. His fingers hover over the keyboard, deciding if he sounds too desperate to ask the alpha to spend the time with him in two weeks when they come to Montreal.
‘I might let you.’
‘If you ask nicely.’
Shane does not have to wait long for a reply.
‘We both know you will end up beginning for it by the end of the night, baby.’
*
Next day
Shane arrives for his appointment nearly forty minutes early.
It is nothing, he keeps saying to himself, just a regular check-up.
To ease his mind off things, and to figure out what is wrong with his pheromones.
He booked it last night, because he was feeling riled up from the brief conversation with Rozanov, and because Hayden’s words never truly left his mind. If he and Ilya were truly to see each other soon, Shane would rather just figure out what is wrong with him before so that there would be no awkwardness between them.
He had his family doctor on the call and they said Shane could come anytime between ten and twelve in the afternoon so now here he was, at nine-twenty, squirming in his car seat.
It is not that he is .. sick.
It is more likely that his symptoms are .. inconsistent.
Some days he feels completely normal, his appetite is good and he sleeps better than ever, while on other days he wakes up to nausea and aches in his chest. It happened two days ago, when Shane realized with mortification that his chest was leaking in his sleep. He must have slept through it but when he woke up, there were tiny damp spots on his pajama shirt, and when Shane inspected it closely, he was hit by the subtle scent of milk.
So yeah Shane is a little .. freaked out.
He does not want his odd behavior to stop him from seeing Rozanov soon. The last time they met it was bad enough, and Shane does not want to feel the embarrassment of submitting to his instincts again.
That seems to be an issue with his omega and Ilya.
Somehow, Shane finds them extremely compatible. He submits to him easily and bares his neck without worrying that Ilya would lose his shit and bite him on the gland.
No, they are not that close.
It is simply very good sex, with both of them getting something out of it.
For Ilya, it is releasing pent-up tension and letting Shane handle his intense ruts.
For Shane, it is finally letting go during heats and having a familiar scent to carry into his nest.
It works both ways. Plenty of alpha and omegas sleep together without mating. Or so Shane hopes.
He gets out of the car when the clock shows nine fifty and heads to the doctor’s office. It is a private clinic and Shane is not surprised to see that he is the only person inside. He pays his doctor enough for confidentiality and privacy.
This was the one thing his mother insisted on when Shane joined Montreal and got drafted for the League, that he must, at all times, have a check-up with a doctor. Being an omega in a predominantly alpha-filled sport was already bad enough and Shane was at consistent risk of being threatened by an alpha despite the officially issued suppressants and scent patches they all had to wear when inside the rink.
But his mother said it was important for his health, because his well-being must always be his number one priority. When he presented Yuna made him take about five different sex ED classes, one of which was especially focused on heat sex.
Shane’s knee twitches as he waits for the doctor in the waiting room.
Perhaps four years ago, he should have listened closely when the omega teacher warned him about the dangers of knotting during your heat.
“Mr. Hollander?” the nurse calls out his name.
Shane raises his head, suddenly very, very nervous.
“Dr. Richards will see you now.”
*
“Alright, Mr. Hollander, you can get dressed now, please.”
Shane pulls up his underwear and his pants. He sits on a low examination table, the doctor’s glasses perched up on his nose and he scribbles something in his pad. Shane’s heartbeat is so rapid that he can feel it in his eardrums. The doctor inquired about the symptoms and did a scan of his stomach.
Shane moves to the doctor’s desk when he asks him to join him at the table.
“Now, Mr. Hollander, I want to first say and reassure you that you are perfectly healthy and there is nothing to worry about in terms of your hormonal levels. I might need to see the result of the blood test, but judging from the other scans I don’t believe there would be any deviations from the normal.”
Shane swallows hard. He nods, unsure of what to make of the doctor’s monotone voice.
“Now if you don’t mind I want to ask you a couple of questions,” the doctor opened his notepad again. “When was the last time you experienced your mating cycle?”
Shane drops his gaze on the neat stacks of papers before him. “Uhm, two months ago I believe. Start of January.”
“And would you say that you have spent it with your partner?”
“I- well, I don’t have a mate, but yes, I did have someone helping me during that time. He is an alpha.”
“And are you currently on any sort of birth control, Mr. Hollander?”
Shane’s stomach drops. “No, but he always- we always use protection.”
“It is fair to say that during heat cycles using contraception can still lead to the risk of accidental pregnancy,” the doctor notes, and his voice softens. “Mr. Hollander, your sickness is not unusual for a male omega entering his third month of pregnancy.”
Shane blinks. The words slowly settle in his head, while he stares wide-eyed at the man before him.
No.
“No,” Shane whispers. “I am-I am not- I can’t be pregnant.”
“It is early to tell, but I can see the outlines of the fetus on the scans,” doctor pulls out the result of the MRI to show Shane with calm and somewhat comforting tone, “now, I want you to know that on the third month it is too early to tell the gender but there little uncertainty that you are indeed pregnant. I believe congratulations are in order.”
Shane’s ears are ringing. He does not know if he is breathing but he ends up listening to the doctor for an hour before he leaves the room on shaky legs.
He can’t be pregnant.
What will his mother say?
And his teammates?
And Ilya, fuck, what will Rozanov say?
Shane is trembling when he gets into the car. He sits in dead silence for fifteen minutes, before, he decides, that he needs a confirmation, another source to prove that the doctor is right.
Of course, he has no reason to lie, and Shane saw the scans, but he needed a prof, a solid prof that there is indeed something growing inside his stomach.
He pulls up to the nearest drug store and puts on a cap to hide his face. The store is almost empty when he buys four pregnancy tests and scans them through the self-checkout. They are all from different brands too and Shane hopes one of them will actually comfort him by saying it is a mistake.
But when Shane gets home and waits for the result, all four of them have two sticks displayed in bright red.
*
Next week
Ilya lands in Montreal during a snowstorm, only to find out that his match is postponed to tomorrow evening.
He is bored in the city, which is dead under the layers of snow and he is fiddling with his phone because stupid Shane Hollander does not reply to his texts.
He is more than a little bit pissed off.
He wants to pretend that the radio silence isn’t pissing him off but he can’t.
Ilya thought they were fine. Hollander replied to his texts and even sent a picture of himself to Ilya the last time they spoke, which was already an improvement since the omega rarely puts himself in front of the camera.
Ilya hoped things wouldn’t get awkward after Hollander’s heat and they didn’t.
Shane’s heats were always a little rough but Ilya prided himself on taking good care of him even if that shit didn’t matter because they were not anything.
But Shane always got a little knotdrunk and dumb, forgetting to drink water or eat and over the years Ilya had built a good routine at looking after him and making sure Hollander was plenty satisfied with his knot.
So yeah, alone in his hotel room, Ilya is more than a little pissed off, and he had every right to be.
He texted Hollander twice since he landed, and each message has not even been marked ‘read.’
He opens his screen and stares blankly at the texts he sent Hollander.
‘See you tonight.’
‘?’
‘I know you are wet just from thinking about my dick, baby’
Okay, perhaps the last one was a bit of an overkill, but Ilya was horny. Nobody managed to fill his craving like the pretty omega did.
Shane’s scent drove him crazy, the mix of jasmine and black cherries, and there was something addictive in its sweet taste, that lay thick on Ilya’s tongue.
He was addicted to it. He was buzzing with excitement on the plane, so imagine his disappointment when, there was no reply even when he got to his hotel room after the airport.
The text he sent was in the morning.
Ilya grits his teeth, thinking if he is desperate enough to text the omega again.
Fuck it.
He is.
‘Hey omega.’
‘Did you get swallowed by the snow or something?’
‘Or do you have better plans than getting fucked by me tonight?’
The last thought .. stings. Ilya is not possessive by nature, but the idea that Hollander could be out there, letting another alpha scent his gorgeous, long neck and bite at the soft skin of his chest does make something ugly curl in Ilya’s stomach.
Even when he met his for the first time, Ilya hated that every alpha in the league was eye fucking the omega.
Shane was not the first to enter hockey as an omega, but he might definitely be the youngest.
He presented early, Ilya remembers. When he met him, he knew Shane was an omega but it did not make him think less of the boy.
Quite the opposite.
He was fascinated from the moment their eyes locked on the rink.
Ilya hates to admit it, but he misses him.
He toys with the crazy thought of just turning up to Shane Hollander’s apartment but he knew that would be crazy since Shane does not even live in the building where they keep fucking.
Ilya looks at the call button. He could do that. He could call Hollander and see what he has to say about ignoring Ilya’s texts.
Before Ilya decides to do something stupid, his phone rings.
He picks it up in excitement, only to throw and puff angrily at the screen.
‘Talk to me after the match tomorrow. 10 pm. Don’t be late.’
Attached below is the address. But instead of the usual place, it is different, and it takes Ilya exactly twenty seconds to realize that Shane wants to see him at his home.
*
Boston plays well, but clearly, not well enough.
Shane does a superb job of avoiding Ilya the whole match like the plague. He does not look at him when they shake hands, nor does he pay Ilya any attention when they are on the ice. I
Ilya is irritated by the sudden cold shoulder, but, he keeps telling himself that he will see Shane at his home, his apartment, soon enough so he can let go of the pretty annoyance.
Shane’s only way to cast Ilya a bit of his attention was closer to the end of the match.
Shane played well, better than Ilya for certain, with two goals to his one being the living proof, but, Ilya isn’t overly fixated on it.
Instead, he catches the whiff of Shane’s scent when he skates past him, and it’s so sudden and bizarre he almost trips over.
“Are you not on blockers?” Ilya nudges him with his shoulder, when Hollander gets ready to join his team for the final celebrations. Even behind the helmet, Hollander’s eyes are cool and dark, but there is a fresh flush on his cheekbones.
Shane’s scent is stronger now that they are close. It is not overwhelming, but it is there, a distinct sign of omega that makes Ilya’s mouth water.
“I will see you later,” Shane says instead, and moves past, too fast for Ilya to do anything to catch him.
He is lost, that is for certain. He had never scented Hollander inside the ring before. Ilya tries to do some calculations to see if that is perhaps his heat, but that can’t be right, the last one they spent together, and Hollander’s cycle are every .. two months?
Does that mean he is close now? It is March, so that is probably why his scent is so strong.
Ilya’s chest swells at the thought of taking Shane inside his nest.
They spent Hollander’s last heat, here, in Montreal, but it was not in his apartment. Perhaps Hollander is finally realizing how much better it would be for him to experience the cycle in the comfort of his room.
Ilya takes a long shower after the match, but he gets dressed fast, and he does not want to think of how desperate he is, when he types Shane’s address into the navigator.
One whiff of Hollander’s scent, and here is Ilya bending over backwards for him, trying to make way through Montreal’s traffic just to see the glimpse of those pretty eyes and flushed face. Shane always looked gorgeous, but the closer he was to his heat, the more irresistible he became in Ilya’s eyes.
The building was not far from downtown, and Ilya texted a quick ‘downstairs’, thinking if Shane would come and meet him outside, instead he received the floor number and a rapid, and very desperate, ‘hurry.’
Ilya’s heart is beating stupidly fast when he gets into the elevator. This is not the first time, Shane shared the heat with him, and it certainly won’t be the last (Ilya’s hopes), but, the thought of being in the one place Shane never allowed him to see makes something jump in Ilya’s stomach, both terrifying and exciting.
He decides to knock, and once he does, he waits.
Now, Hollander is not the one for lingering, and, yet, he leaves Ilya for over two long minutes, as he stands outside the door, with his hands tucked inside the pockets of his leather jacket.
The hallways are empty, thank fuck, and it does look like Shane’s little apartment is the only one that takes up space on the whole floor.
Ilya wonders if his place is just as fancy as that other place he owns in the city. Two floors, Ilya imagines, with a private gym and a view of the city. The bed is nice, and soft, with many pillows bunched on top of each other and two blankets to form a nice nest.
Does Shane throw Ilya’s clothes in the middle, to join together with the rest of the scents? To make his bed smell like the alpha even when Ilya is far away? He should not be thinking about it because if he does, he might stink up the whole floor with his scent.
The door opens wide with a bang and Ilya does not even have to knock twice.
“Come in.”
He moves slowly and nearly flinches when the door shuts behind him with a loud ‘click.’
Hollander looks well .. normal. He is not flushed from the heat, nor does he smell like overly ripe fruit which is what his scent turns to, when his cycle is close. Even his hair is brushed nearly, and his sweater and pants are both ironed, without even a wrinkle on them.
He does not look like an omega close to his heat.
Ilya raises his brows. “Hi?”
“Take off your shoes. I will show you to the living room,” Hollander looks constipated, but, he also does not look like he is about to jump Ilya’s bones which is well.. it sends mixed signals to Ilya’s brain.
Ilya does not even have time to get excited about fucking Shane in his bed, before he is taken to the massive living room, with a huge TV, a huge couch, and a huge kitchen counter, while Shane is lingering behind.
The scent is nice though, Ilya wants to admit. It’s domestic, and it has the notes that belong distinctly to Shane. Ilya looks at the couch and sees the piles of blankets and pillows put together like a little fortress.
Ilya almost smiles, but catches himself, before he does something stupid like admire Shane’s little living room nook.
“So,” Shane clears his throat and Ilya turns around to meet him. He is quiet and has no desire to make it easy on Hollander. He raises his brows, expecting, watching the omega fiddle nervously with the sleeves of his sweater. Ilya’s sweater.
How did he not notice it when he came in?
The scent is almost completely washed out and it looked old, Shane must have put it through the laundry a couple of times, but, perhaps Ilya was so used to having their scents mixed together that he did not even notice that Shane smelled like him.
“Thank you for coming,” Shane tells the floor, his eyes seemingly unable to meet the alpha’s gaze. “I- I want to talk to you. Privately. No one else knows, but I think you deserve to be the first I can speak about this.”
Ilya tenses. What the fuck? Is this Hollander’s fucked out way to break up with him? Or telling him that he has a secret girlfriend or boyfriend that could help him better than Ilya can? He almost curses out loud, but something in Shane’s fragile face makes him hold his mouth.
“Tell me what?” The words are too harsh for the silence of the room.
Shane takes a deep breath. And another. He blinks and for a terrifying moment, Ilya realizes that the omega is about to cry.
“I am sorry. I don’t know how it happened, I thought we were careful, but I- fuck, I am so stupid, and-“ Shane raises a hand to his eyes, and Ilya is next to him at an instant. He thinks,- fuck, fuck, fuck,- bit instead of panicking he holds Shane close and brings the omega to his chest, rubbing his back with the palm of his hand.
“It’s okay,” Ilya whispers somewhere at the top of his head. Shane’s breath is staggered, and he is hyperventilating, but, Ilya does his best to keep his scent calm and comforting, so that Shane will start breathing, instead of shedding wet tears against the fabric of his shirt. “It’s alright, baby, whatever it is you can tell me.”
“You will hate me.”
“Never,” and Ilya means it. He cups Shane’s face in the palms of his hands and raises it up. Fuck. His omega always looks good when he cries.
His.
Ilya can step up.
He can take responsibility.
He wipes Shane’s tears with his thumb.
At the end of the day, perhaps it would always come down to this. To Shane looking up at him with those sweet doe-like eyes, and a parted mouth and Ilya willing to break him down and put him together again.
They were stupid.
Ilya was stupid.
He knotted an omega, when he was in heat.
He never did it with anyone. But with Shane.. fuck, with Shane he wanted it so much, he had no regrets.
“You can tell me, Shane,” Ilya’s voice is a low murmur. Shane’s breath hitched but at least he stopped crying. His scent is sticky sweat and Ilya wants to bask in it.
Shane is nodding in his hands, and Ilya lets himself smile a little.
“Ilya,” Shane wraps his hands around his torso, and his eyes are huge and dark, and Ilya hopes their children will inherit them from him. “I am pregnant.”