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Winter 2014, Ilya Rozanov
Ilya Rozanov was born an alpha, he was raised an alpha, and the whole world knows it. There is no room for error, he will only ever be an unshakeable force of nature. So why is it this week that nearly breaks him?
It’s Russia, Ilya decides. During the summer, Ilya can hide away in Moscow, away from prying eyes. Sochi is different, the Olympics are different. Ilya must be perfect, the brash, self-assured alpha, as strong as steel. Ilya is none of those things. He is a weak man, watching his father fall apart, his heart breaking with every phone call home. Russia is a honey trap, luring him in with its familiarity and then keeping him from his omega.
No. Shane Hollander is not Ilya’s omega. Ilya isn’t even supposed to know that Shane is an omega, if not for their indiscretions, Ilya would believe Shane to be just an unusually assertive beta. Except that Ilya does know that Shane is an omega and surely it is just biology that makes him want Shane so badly. Shane is familiar, safe, the draw that Ilya feels to him is just biology.
Ilya is on the verge of collapse. So he nearly falls apart when Shane appears across from him. Nearly pulls the omega close and fades away into a kind of vulnerability he has not had since before his mother died. This is too public though, too dangerous. Shane Hollander puts them both at risk, too kind for his own good. Something has changed between them, Ilya can tell. Shane cares in a way that Ilya wishes he didn’t, cares in a way that makes Ilya want to kiss him breathless; wants to care too; but this is Russia, this is hockey, these are not things that allow Ilya to care.
Russia’s crushing defeat, Ilya’s abject failure hangs between them, unspoken until Shane mentions it. This thing between them, the dark rooms and slow kisses linger at the edge of Ilya’s mind, his stomach churns, he might throw up. Ilya forces himself back to indifference, making his voice work despite the weight crushing his lungs. His words are cold, and Shane responds as expected. His omega leaves as quickly as he appeared and it takes everything in Ilya not to call him back, not to kiss him until they are both okay again.
This was easier before Shane, Ilya thinks mournfully. Shane has changed him, softened Ilya’s rough edges and glued the broken pieces together. Going home has been a tragic reminder that no matter Ilya’s attempts to be better, he is broken.
Winter 2014, Shane Hollander
Ilya is hurt, Shane tells himself. Russia’s defeat, the fear of discovery, the stress, all of this is surely what makes him so cruel. Shane is not good at reading people, nuance and subtlety are not his specialty, but there is nothing subtle about Ilya’s suffering. Against his better judgement, Shane wants to make it better, wants to kiss Rozanov until he forgets the pain of loss, the weight of their secret.
Hell, Shane wants to let go of the weight of their secret too. Wants to lock them both away where who they are and the love they share is passionate and loud. Shane is so tired of the hiding, of the delicate words that hang between them - too afraid of what those words could do. How those words could tear their lives apart.
It is not Shane’s place to comfort Rozanov, regardless of how Ilya’s existence makes Shane fall to pieces. Shane is not allowed to feel this way. Shane is not allowed to worry after Rozanov like this, like a partner would. So Shane shoves all of those feelings down, convinces himself that Ilya just needs space, that once they are both home, things will be better.
Spring 2015, Ilya Rozanov
Finally back in Boston, Ilya finds his way back to who he was before. Fierce, unbending, unbroken. Ilya Rozanov is not good enough for his family, so he will make himself better, he will be better.
He does what he is meant to do, skating hard and winning again and again and again.
Shane texts him ocassionally, even if they aren’t meeting up, asking after Ilya, brief remarks on his games in congratulatory texts. Ilya finds himself craving those texts, reading them ritualistically and fantasizing about responding. He can’t bring himself to respond, Ilya cannot allow himself to feel this softness, cannot bring himself to give in to the drug that is Shane Hollander. This is too dangerous a game, Ilya has decided. Shane Hollander is too dangerous an omega.
Spring 2015, Shane Hollander
Shane types slowly, the click click of his phone’s keys a familiar comfort. He scrolls through his conversation with Ilya, an entirely one-sided dialogue. Shane thinks briefly that he should drop it. If Ilya doesn’t care enough to respond, Shane should not care enough to text. Even so, time and again Shane finds himself wondering after Rozanov, following his games and watching every interview. Rozanov’s voice, the cadence of his speech makes Shane’s stomach twist and swoop.
Being eliminated is a fucked-up relief. Shane will not have to see Rozanov, can pretend this thing between them isn’t real and never was.
Summer 2015
Ilya stays in bed while Shane dresses in the other room. Shane’s scent is sad but Ilya says nothing, forcing cool detachment. Ilya is quiet when Shane tells him goodnight, throat tight while the only person he’s ever loved walks out the door.
Ilya breathes hard and clenches his teeth. It is better this way, he has decided. To speak to Shane - to Hollander, is too much. Ilya is far too likely to ask him to stay. Ilya must be in total control, if the price of that control is one omega, well, that’s not so bad. Right? Ilya tries to not focus on the memory of Shane’s warm body, his smooth skin, the muscles flexing under Ilya’s hands and the heart that beats in time with Ilya’s own.
He can do this, Ilya tells himself firmly, this is just sex. Hollander doesn’t mean anything.
***
Shane can feel himself crashing. His heart pounds and he’s struggling to breathe when he gets in the elevator. Shane feels as though he’s been set on fire, blood boiling while his brain melts. This is a new experience. Shane has had meltdowns before, but this is not that. This is heartbreak, he decides, self-destruction.
Shane can feel his omega crying out in pain, he feels like his entire body is on fire while his blood turns to broken glass. His omegestrerone inhibitor should keep his omega in check, but it’s failing. Why me? Shane wonders. His text conversation with Ilya is in front of him, Shane finds himself reading Ilya’s texts, the pain a little less.
…
We didn’t even kiss.
No.
Shane cannot open himself up to this pain any more than he already has. He can feel the floor beneath him, it is cool against his cheek. This cannot be happening. Shane cannot be going into omega-drop in the middle of a hotel elevator.
His body is already failing him, his scent becoming more prominent, his hormones rising and falling like surging tides. This cannot be Shane fucking Hollander’s end, his entire career reduced to a sad omega that got discovered in an elevator because he was too weak.
911
***
Ilya feels more tense than before. Fucking Hollander was supposed to be a momentary lapse in judgment, Shane Hollander should not tear everything Ilya has ever known to shreds. Ilya should not let him. There’s a heaviness in Ilya’s chest that he is not used to, a panic beneath his ribs that has him feeling nauseous.
Ilya knows that he was an asshole to Shane, knows that Shane deserves better than him. Ilya is too selfish, too greedy, craves Shane the way an addict craves their next fix. The nausea is only getting worse, the panic making his head throb.
There’s a sound from his phone that Ilya almost misses. Ilya considers ignoring it for a minute, wondering if he can get away with stewing in self-pity for a little bit longer. Two minutes later, his phone insists that he rejoin the real world, this time he decides to listen.
911
The text from Jane has Ilya’s heart stopping, the breath stolen from his lungs. Ilya is pulling on whatever clothes he can find, pausing just long enough to grab his room key on his way out the door.
***
The pain is only getting worse. Shane curls in on himself more tightly, the world spinning. His pheromones call out for his alpha, his breathing ragged. There’s a phone ringing somewhere. The sound makes him feel sick, as though he might vomit. Oh, maybe he already did? The ringing stops, then starts up again. Shane opens his eyes, aware just enough to process that the noise he’s hearing is his phone. The caller ID declares that it is Ilya on the other end. Shane doesn’t think, answers just so that he can hear Ilya’s voice, hoping that it will ease his pain.
“Where are you?” Ilya’s voice is firm, his words breaking through the fog in Shane’s head.
Pause. Shane can feel tears run down his cheeks, feels dirt beneath him and can’t help the distressed sound that rises in his throat. “Omega, I need you to tell me where you are.”
Rationally, Shane knows that Ilya is using the Voice, a tone used by alphas as a means of controlling and regulating omegas in distress; he should be furious, should resist, instead of embracing the calm that settles in his bones. “E-elevator,”
The word is spoken so softly that Shane worries Alpha won’t have heard him. Alpha does not say anything for a minute, but there is the sound of rushing feet and then the elevator doors are opening. Ilya is more disheveled than Shane has ever seen him, if Shane didn’t feel as though he were dying, he would have savored the moment of vulnerability.
Ilya’s panic seems to subside only slightly at the sight of Shane laying in a heap on the tile. He kneels by Shane's head, gathers Shane up in his arms. Shane has half a mind to resist, feeling overwhelmed at the contact. Any intention to resist is squashed completely when Ilya purrs for him. Shane puts his ear as close to Ilya’s chest as possible, the band around his heart loosening slightly.
***
Ilya sets Shane in the center of the hotel’s lumpy mattress. Ilya will need to get Shane to a hospital, sooner rather than later. A dropping omega is something he isn’t prepared to deal with, doesn’t even know if he knows how. Shane seems to have relaxed somewhat, burrowing into scratchy bedsheets happily. Ilya pulls him close, knowing that he needs to call for help but unable to bring himself to let go. Shane reaches up, and then they’re kissing again, sharing air while suspended in time. When Ilya pulls back, Shane whimpers. This is biology, Ilya reminds himself, Shane is not capable of consent.
“Purr?”
The request is made so cautiously that Ilya doesn’t even think about it. Purring is an intimate act, something done by alphas for their omega mate. Shane is not Ilya’s omega, it should be biologically impossible for him to purr. He doesn’t have the wherewithal to think about the implications of his ability to do this, does it without thinking and feels relieved when Shane’s muscles release some of their tension. A little looser, Ilya reaches into Shane’s pocket. The phone has a line stretching across its screen, evidence of the abuse it has sustained over the last two hours.
Maybe this is a metaphor for something, Ilya thinks. It is not something to linger on though, without medical attention, Shane’s prognosis will only get worse. The phone unlocks when Shane’s thumb touches the sensor, the omega not resisting at all. He’s breathing, Ilya is certain, but this stillness is not typical of the omega, and Ilya is frightened by how vulnerable Shane is.
A quick Google search tells Ilya the name of the Metros’ team doctor, a scroll through Shane’s contacts finds the woman of the same name. It is nearly two in the morning, the woman is probably back in Montreal. Ilya does not know what kind of time difference exists between Las Vegas and Montreal, just hopes it is reasonable time there.
Four rings later, a woman answers the phone. Her voice is professional, the time must tell her that this is an emergency. “Shane? Is everything OK?”
Next to Ilya, Shane attempts to fuse himself to Ilya’s side. Ilya opens his mouth to speak, struggling to speak around his panic. “Hollander is dropping, I need to know what to do to get him help.” If the doctor is surprised by the voice on the other end of the line, she does not betray the feeling.
“I’ll send a list of nearby hospitals, take him there discreetly. I’ll call ahead so they know to expect him. When they triage him, give them my number.”
Ilya follows her directions carefully. Puts Shane in a pair of Ilya’s sweats, a hat, sunglasses. Shane is shivering in the passenger seat of the car, but his skin is burning when Ilya touches him. Las Vegas does not sleep, even at two in the morning, it takes nearly 45 minutes to get to the emergency department.
It’s a whirlwind from there, nurses and doctors taking his omega away on a gurney; a young nurse with dark hair looks away embarrassed while she asks Ilya questions about Shane’s medical history. How did Ilya find him, how long has he been like this, is this unusual for him. A security officer lurks at the edge of the room, alternating between glowering at Ilya and glowering at his watch.
An hour passes, then two. A female police officer comes and asks him some questions (completely routine, she reassures him.)
Ilya wants to scream, because nothing about this is routine. Shane should be home with Ilya, warm in their bed and making that cute noise while he breathes during sleep.
Not our bed. Not my omega. Not my place.
Afterward, the security guard looks less angry. Somehow, Ilya has ended up with a foam cup full of bad coffee. The nurse is back, saying that Ilya is welcome to stay, but that since he’s not authorized, he can’t see Shane.
Ilya wants to scream. Doesn’t. Reassures her that it’s fine, he should be going anyway.