Work Text:
MARCH 2017
The crux of the matter is that it’s optics, really, when push comes to shove. The league wants more eyes on the rink, his mother thinks that opening up his branding could be good for him as he gets older, and the magazine wants to do a whole fucking spread on omega advancements in the workplace.
Shane gets that. He does. He, even somewhat easily, understands that—he’s been a voice for omegas since he was fourteen and presenting, already locked into hockey with all the viciousness of a spurned, heatbroken omega.
People liked to make jokes. Everyone liked to make jokes; Hollander’s one true mate is a hockey stick, his heats smell like ice and blood, his scent is the rink because the rink's his nest, get it?
He doesn't care about the jokes. It can't even bother him, not when it's all just stupid noise. No, his one fear had been what if they take me off the ice, but the game after his presentation, he'd scored a dick trick and executed a filthy Michigan for one of the shots, and all questions of his abilities had dissolved on the tongue of most of his vehement doubters.
Well, he amends his thoughts. Almost everyone liked to make jokes.
Rozanov hadn't, not in a sharp way, not in an alpha posturing way. He had his other little jokes, but those were all about Shane, not about his designation. And really, truly, the jokes weren't terrible. They weren't anything like what Kent slurred at him, or even what some of the guys on the team said, when they thought that they were being helpful, instead of just repeating shitty old-fashioned takes.
The day he was asked if he needed heat freeze to work out his little pesky emotions had led to the single deadliest preseason training week in all of Metros’ history. Rookies still get warned about pissing him off with questions, which wasn't the point, but it stops them from bothering him with stupid takes, so he keeps his mouth shut.
Of course, it's not like it's escapable. He's not the first omega on the ice, not by a long(ish) shot, but he's certainly the most decorated with awards, with Cups, with brand deals and the like. He's absolutely the most visible. And yeah, he isn't even the first Captain of a team as an omega—he’s just the third.
But the NHL had eaten it up—mainly, he thinks, because it plays so well with his rivalry with Rozanov—and he couldn't complain.
Or, well, he could, but it would serve nothing, would only add to the brewing laundry list of things the league could crack down on if they ever thought that he was being too much of a mouthy omega.
It's part of the reason why he finds himself standing on the early morning rain-slick streets of Boston, his eyes trailing over the brick facade, to land on the bright, glowing neon red sign that reads SHIVER.
He can't believe he got talked into—ordered into?—a magazine article that is essentially softcore porn. And not only that, but softcore porn with his fucking rival that he's been hooking up with for almost a decade; the one he wants to talk about becoming something more serious with, especially after the mess with Rose, after their unwinding in Tampa.
He'd be more freaked out if he hadn't spent the last week in a constant low-level panic attack; by now, he's too exhausted to feel anything other than a twitching sense of doom and the slow melt of relief at finally, maybe, having another real conversation.
He tips his head back and sighs. At least his mom isn't on the set today. Small mercies, he supposes.
“Ah,” Rozanov's familiar smoky voice curls around him, as the alpha settles in next to him, a line of heat Shane tips into ever so slightly, something he knows Rozanov is aware of, given the pause before he presses back. “You are already practicing your poses, I see.”
Shane snorts, a little bit of his fear crumbling away. It's hard not to be reassured by Ilya's mere presence, not when Shane knows that he isn't going to deliberately do anything to publicly humiliate him. “You ever do anything like this?”
“Mm, no,” Rozanov says, nudging him once in the back. The firm solidness of him settles more of his nerves, the pressure grounding. “I think I have had offers—I am very in demand, Hollander, you would know nothing about this—”
“Right, right,” Shane says dryly, but steps forward, opening up the door and gesturing Ilya in. “I'm definitely not in the public eye.”
Ilya sniffs, his eyes glinting. “Yes, exactly,” he says as he brushes past, the familiar muted scents of tart cherries and marzipan following after. “But I have not ever—Marley said I was being pimped out—this no, I have not done.”
Shane makes a strangled noise in his throat, glancing around to see if anyone could have possibly heard him, and sighs in relief when the hallway is empty.
“Don't say you're getting pimped out, are you crazy?” he scolds under his breath as they head down the short hallway towards the elevator bay. “That's—you aren't, for one, and two, that's historically used for omegan sex work. Jesus Christ, Marleau's an idiot.”
Ilya rumbles, a tiny, deep chuff in his chest as he glances over his shoulder. “Marley is concussed more often than not,” he says, arching a brow. “No sympathy for poor Cliff?”
Shane rolls his eyes, biting back the grin that wants to slip out as Ilya holds the door open for him, his fingers sliding across Shane's shoulders as he gestures him forward.
“I'll sympathize with him when I know he's done being an idiot,” Shane mutters under his breath, his spine unclenching as Ilya hovers at his back, the elevator filling with their familiar mingled scents. He breathes in shallowly, ignoring the way Ilya breathes deliberately deeply behind him, the brush of his chest against his shoulder, before he leans back against the wall.
“So never, then,” Ilya murmurs, his smirk wide in the mirror, his canines gleaming, as Shane glances up. Ilya crosses his arms, his arms shifting under his Boston sweatshirt, and grins knowingly at Shane. “Poor Marleau.”
Shane's mouth curls up into an answering curve, and he knows Ilya can read the amusement in his eyes. For a moment, the thrumming livewire between them flares, but before either of them continues, the elevator chimes, a cheerful little warning of their reality. As soon as the doors roll open, Shane shoves his way forward, ducking his head down so no one else can see the sappy fondness spreading across his face.
“Mr. Hollander, Mr. Rozanov,” someone shrills from across the room, the elevator having deposited them straight into the set, the high rafters of the room's exposed wood just barely starting to get the morning sun. “You’re both early.”
Shane lifts his head, blinking at the feverish motion of a crew scrambling to get things together, and pauses, his nose wrinkling at the sudden surge of agitation that swamps the room, despite the clear scent suppressants everyone’s wearing. “Uh,” he says, fumbling for something gracious, even as the sour scent makes his hackles rise before the filters whisk it away. “Sorry. We can—we can stay out of your way—”
“Yes,” Ilya agrees, from behind him, and the odd tension snaps, slipping from existence as if it had never even been there. Shane glances up at him, unable to help it, only to find him already looking back at him, something faintly amused in his eyes.
“What?” Shane hisses as a PA leads them through the frantic set. He hopes it isn’t obvious how much he isn’t listening, as they point at the beverages and usher the two of them into a tiny room that's clearly meant for only one of them. There's only a tiny table shoved into a corner and a single velvet green loveseat that sits against the back wall; the room's small enough that he's almost tempted to call it a fucking closet.
As if he can hear his thoughts, Ilya smirks at him, the expression settling easily on his face as he switches his attention back to the PA to nod along intently. Shane grinds his teeth, dipping his chin once when the PA glances at him, waiting impatiently for them to disappear back out onto the set with a click of the door, before he rounds on Ilya, narrowing his eyes. “What, Rozanov?”
Ilya hums, settling onto the tiny velvet green couch, sprawling his legs obscenely wide. Shane eyes the sharp angle of his beautifully muscled thighs, the width of his armspan as he leans back, the smug tilt of his cupid's bow, and fights the urge to drop to his knees and nuzzle in close. He just knows the scent of Ilya would calm the storm of his mind, that inhaling his steady and familiar notes would settle him more than he can say.
It would piss him off more than a little, too, if it didn't make him so hot under the collar.
“They think we will, ah, kill each other,” Ilya says, tilting his head back to meet Shane's gaze. His eyes are their usual slate blue, no cloud of irritation or anger in his gaze; just warm, fond amusement. He's missed the fondness these long few months, the sharp loss of the look almost doubling in pain after Tampa. It's nearly impossible to think that he'd almost lost them for good. “They are preparing to handle a body, Hollander,” he drawls, as he angles his head down enough so that he's peering up at Shane through his thick lashes, his gaze heavy as Shane inches ever so slightly closer. “And, hm, maybe they are right to. You are looking like you want to devour me,” he murmurs, the corner of his mouth twitching. “Should I call for help?”
“Try it,” Shane says, reckless with the familiar twists of annoyance and simmering delight. It's stupid, how pleased he is to be here, staring down at the spread of Ilya. It bubbles up inside of him, a cool spring of weighty pleasure, wiping smooth the final ragged edges of his unease. He steps even closer, ignoring the way that Ilya's smirk broadens, smugness clear.
Shane lets his whole body melt into trained submission, his spine curving into something only Ilya's ever seen when he’s been brought to heel under the weight of his own desire, the curve of his neck deliberately angled. He meets Ilya's gaze and grins at his wide-eyed expression, unwilling to temper his amusement, ignoring the prickles of awareness at how public they are, far more entranced with the idea of teasing him, if only for a moment. He’s attuned enough to hear a hand on the doorknob, and swift enough to correct his posture for the risk to be worth it. “But I don't think you want that.”
Ilya shakes his head slowly, the curl of his lips still clear even as he swipes a hand over his face.
“Hollander,” he says, peeking through his fingers. His eyes are glittering, with none of the usual alpha snapback that Shane gets whenever he acts a little too omega. “You will kill me.”
Shane smiles, a little giddy as always when Ilya breaks for him and throws himself down on the couch, shoving himself into the farthest corner he can before he overthinks it. What, is he just going to stand in front of Ilya until they get sent to the set or to hair and makeup? No way, that would be fucking insane, so—couch corner it is. “Guess they might be right, then,” he manages to say, before a touch of his good humor fades. “That was—reckless,” he says, flushing. “Sorry.”
Ilya shrugs, looking unconcerned. “We are here to shoot sex,” he says, grinning when Shane squeaks at the baldness of his statement, his cheeks immediately blushing a deeper pink. “Or sell sex, yes? We will probably be all over each other.” His eyes darken slightly, his mouth a scythe of bladed desire that Shane abruptly wants to cut himself on, wants to wet his mouth with blood. “Mm, I have seen the other magazines from here. SHIVER is very good at that.”
“That?” Shane repeats, jealousy tight in the pit of his stomach, lightened only by how Ilya looks at him, his attention a heavy yoke Shane bears willingly, eagerly, even. “Selling sex?”
Ilya shrugs again, a smooth roll that spills down his spine. “The lure of it, yes, I think.”
“I don't even know how I got talked into this,” Shane mutters, shaking his head as he shoves his stirred unease, his budding arousal back. “This is so far off from my usual brand deals.”
“Reebok and Rolex do not want you to be a foxy little omega?” Ilya asks, arching a brow. He ignores the glare Shane levels at him, tsking under his breath. “Fools, then. All of them.”
“I don't think a foxy little omega has ever been my brand,” Shane says dryly, his leg bouncing with faint nerves as he tries not to lean into the warmth of Ilya next to him. “I think I'm normally too dialed in at being the best player in the league.”
Ilya huffs, rolling his eyes. “Second best, Hollander,” he corrects. “And we do not have much competition for third, no?”
Shane grins at him, startled and pleased at the use of we. It's rare that either of them invokes anyone else in their competition about being the best hockey player, if only because, truly, no one else can compete. Sometimes, when Shane's awake late at night, trying to go to sleep, he'll get stuck on the fact that no one else but Ilya is ever going to know just what unique pressure he's been under. No one else could ever even come close.
“I still think there's no real competition for first,” Shane murmurs, smirking faintly at the annoyed noise Ilya makes before he gestures at himself. “But I don't want to tell my fans to stop dreaming, so dream big, kiddo! Maybe one day you'll be as good as me.” He pauses and lets his mouth twitch up. “Maybe.”
Ilya groans, his head lolling back against the wall. “People do not know how much of a dick you are, Hollander. I say, wow, he is a big asshole and Marley says talking to your reflection again? and—” Shane snorts, averting his eyes as he feels Ilya's offended gaze land on him. “Oh, you think Marley is big comedian now?”
“If the shoe fits,” Shane murmurs, before he catches the wrinkle of confusion that slips across Ilya’s face out of the corner of his eye. “Like, I do when he's funny. Only when he’s funny, which isn't often.”
“Ah,” Ilya says. “Like when I say you are the best—the shoe only fits when I am not there.”
Shane rolls his eyes, but lets Ilya have it as someone knocks at the door, and a different PA pokes their head in.
“Mr. Hollander?” they say, their eyes darting between the two of them. Shane absentmindedly wonders at just how at ease the two of them seem; he thinks he'd be freaking out more if Ilya weren't clearly so pleased, if the edges of his scent weren't his own personal relaxer. “Would you please follow me to your personal dressing room for hair and makeup?”
“Of course,” Shane says, pushing himself up. He glances at Ilya, his mouth curving up. “See you, Rozanov.”
“Ah, I cannot wait,” Ilya says, his voice a low purr that Shane rolls his eyes at, even as the PA shifts on their feet.
“Sorry about him,” Shane says, heading for the door. The PA is quiet as they lead him across the room, towards another small room. “And you can call me Shane, please. Mr. Hollander—” He shakes his head, rolling out his shoulders, nerves creeping back in. It’s hard to relax when he wants to go back and bury his face in the curve of Ilya’s neck, when he wants to lave his tongue over the edge of the scent blocker just to taste the bloom of cherry. “Yeah. Shane's fine.”
The PA steals a glance at him, and Shane pauses as they lead him into his room, his nose wrinkling at the faint tinge of nerves that bloom from beside him. “Sorry, did I do something wrong?”
“No!” The PA says as they usher him in and shut the door. Shane glances around, taking in the expected clothing racks and stacked shelves, a chair set before a vanity, the lights ringing the mirror already turned to their maximum brightness. He turns away before he gets sucked into dissecting how his face looks as he waits for them to answer. “Sorry, this is—I did this all wrong. Uh. My name is Alex, uh. I just—everyone said that—” They flush, shaking their head, their mouth snapping shut as if they’ve just suddenly realized who exactly they’re talking to. “I shouldn't say.”
Shane frowns, his head tilting. He knows it's probably a little manipulative to put any amount of pressure on them, but still, he can't not ask. “I'm sorry? What does that mean?”
Alex buries their face in their hands and mutters something that Shane can't quite catch, before they lift their head up and sigh, averting their eyes. “We were warned that you two were going to try to kill each other. That you're both, uh, unable to handle the pressure of being near each other. I don't—I don't know! There was just a lot of talk about how important this is for the magazine and how we needed to keep you both separate until you had to go and get—get photographed together. And we immediately fucked that up.” They shrug, their cheeks bright pink. “But you aren't—I mean. You both seem fine.”
Shane's ears burn. The back of his neck prickles. He fights the urge to rock back on his heels.
He had forgotten in the mess of nerves that the last time they'd had a joint photoshoot had been 2014, in the thick of the two of them decidedly not talking to each other, post-Olympics and pre-Cup. It had been fucking unbearable.
Shane had been deep into rejection symptoms without realizing it; he had, in fact, only realized in Tampa, when they were comparing the post-Sochi reactions with the post-tuna melt issues. Ilya had been insufferably present and destructively opaque in 2014, and it had been—still is—the only shoot he's ever walked out of.
The rumors that had swirled in the aftermath, the horrifying edges of lies he didn't want to look at—Hollander and Rozanov are more than rivals; they actually hate each other! Watch the viral footage of them arguing; our expert lip readers are on the case! Hollander leaves a set near tears after Rozanov's nasty remarks! Looks like the ice isn't the only thing that's frozen between two of the NHL's top centers! In the wake of the shocking reveal of Shane Hollander storming off a set, we're asking the hard questions: are Omegas actually fit to play hockey? Here's a look at Hollander's stats compared to the top Alphas of the sport. Can we trust Omegas to stay professional? Here’s a breakdown of every celebrity Omegan walkout—had been one of the worst media storms he’d ever been a part of. And every single person he'd genuinely been close to in his life had been getting in on tearing Ilya down; it had been fucking awful.
And he'd known, still, that walking out that day was the only way to save himself from actually crying, from getting down on his knees and begging for a chance to not fuck it up. His whole sense of self had been knocked askew by the scent of Rozanov the moment he had stepped on set. He hadn't liked the idea of fleeing, not at all, but it had been his only recourse, which of course had followed him here. The only true break in his public persona—outside of Rose—and it's still haunting him.
One of the only blemishes in his long career, surrounded by teammates cheating and drug scandals, by alphas unused to the word no, and yet—his greatest sin is that he once got upset enough to call off a partnered brand deal on set. Though it had been after they'd gotten his single shots done. They'd still run a campaign with them—capitalizing on the drama surrounding the whole shoot.
Truthfully, walking off the set hadn't done anything except let him keep his already mostly fractured composure, but at least he hadn't actually cried. It had added to the fire of fussy omegas and had brought some of the sharper teasing into the locker room that still continues, but it was whatever. Shane was over it.
“It was a long time ago,” Shane manages, sinking down into the chair Alex gestures him over to. He stares at the wires he can see poking out from a basket on the shelf. “We're fine, now. Well,” he adds clumsily, the words sticking in his throat, “as fine as, you know, rivals can be.”
“Of course,” Alex says, though Shane can hear the unspoken questions writhing underneath their voice. “I didn't mean to imply anything."
Shane nods, keeping his eyes averted, resisting the urge to reach into his pocket and pull out his phone to text Ilya.
“I'll go find your team,” Alex mutters and darts for the door, the acrid scent of muted nerves and tart curiosity dissipating with them, the scent cleanser doing its job as it cycles the air through the repressor humming in the corner.
As soon as the door clicks shut behind them, Shane tugs his phone out of his pocket.
We've scared the crew, he texts, before realizing that it's a fairly dead giveaway if anyone glances at Ilya's screen. I mean. I think you might've. Or, just—there's a lot we should deal with. Shit. Sorry. I don't—I don't know what the fuck I'm saying.
we are so hot and talented; everyone is jealous, Ilya texts back immediately, and Shane hates the way it reassures him, the dredges of worry simmering down at his typed-out words. unless you are saying there is something else. unless you are saying… hmm… there was a big photoshoot from three years ago that maybe was a bad idea.
You decided to do it too, Shane types out, annoyance surging. Jesus Christ, it's like people forget sometimes that it takes two to argue, that it wasn't just his decision. ‘Fussy omegas,’ headlines like to croon, as if it’s not some assholes fault for making them fucking upset by not listening. Shit, maybe he does have a lot of thoughts about this whole fucking thing. So that isn't just my fucking fault.
shanya, i do not think it is your fault, Ilya texts immediately, culling the rising tide of anger. He stares at the new nickname, his fingers itching to look it up, only to refocus as Ilya continues, the texts flying across his screen: we were both sick, yes? no one knows, but us, and i know how hard you work to be good, but it is okay to not be… perfect all of the time. i know this will be hard for you, since you are unbearably good at everything, but it is okay to not be okay sometimes. was very unfair of the news to focus only on you.
Shane wets his mouth, sweeping his tongue out across his lips as he stares at the message. He sort of wants to—he doesn't even know. His hindbrain is unhelpful as it usually is when it comes to Ilya, crooning about going belly-up for his alpha, about rewarding him with an invitation to their nest, about presenting for his knot.
Instead, he shakily, with nerve-clumsy fingers, types, I didn't like it. The press. The prying. How it felt. Everyone wanted to know. And I didn't want to tell them that it was because I was—I don't want it to happen again.
okay, Ilya writes back. it will not. i will make sure of it.
What? Shane sends, only to startle at the knock on his door and hastily shove his phone in his pocket. “Uh, come in?”
The shoot's team sweeps in, unfamiliar faces and new scents that batter at his nose, and Shane settles back in his seat, offering half-hearted smiles as they doll him up for the shoot, accustomed to letting himself white-knuckle through the weirdbadwrong sensations of having too many strangers this close to him.
His stomach churns, his nerves fluttering behind his breastbone. What the fuck could Ilya even mean by I’ll take care of it? All Shane can think about is the last time he heard that—when Hayden had offered to take care of something and had ended up tripping and going through a section of drywall in the kids' playroom at the Pike house. He hopes to god whatever Ilya has planned is less awful than that, though it had been funny in the aftermath. He’d even been tempted to text Ilya about it, but he’d known that he wouldn’t have been able to resist chirping Hayd about it, and the last thing he wants is a reveal of their tangled strings like that.
Instead, he sinks into that almost meditative space that lives in the soft hollow of his throat, letting go of the urges to snap when a hand tugs too hard on his hair, at the soft press of fingers to his jaw as a stranger angles his face to get better coverage. He drifts through the too-strong scents of the crew, lets himself be directed into new clothes, the scratchy texture of the tags appearing and then drifting away as he forces himself not to react.
He’s fine, he tells himself. He just has to get through this, and do his singles shots and then—well. Then it's him and Ilya; something everyone is bracing for, he guesses.
The world ebbs around him as he's called out to set and put through his paces. It's another level of built-in instincts now, to nail the angles, to settle into the version of himself that they want to sell. He's pliant and sweet, and he lets himself dissolve into that softness even as a part of him burns at the thought.
He doesn't want to be a bother, doesn't want another Thing to come of it, but he can't quite figure out if the director has ever spoken to another fucking omega before—even though he knows he has to have, if he’s the primary for the magazine.
In between the calls for more—softer eyes, another pillow behind the back for a better arch, look at the doorway like it's your alpha coming home—he wants to snap, haven't you heard about how vicious omegas get? Haven't you heard about the drive to kill we sometimes feel when strangers edge too close? Don't you know that sometimes when we're racing for a puck, I can taste the other team's blood, hot and thick, under my tongue, and it takes every inch of my control to not go for someone's neck?
He doesn't want to be a spokesperson for omegas in hockey, let alone literally anywhere else—in fact, he never even really thought about it until he was forced to, because he was just fucking living his usual life—and then all the questions that were lobbed his way were so fucking invasive, and it's just—what the fuck is he even doing here? He's not some soft omega who curls up in a nest and waits around, even if they are trying to sell the illusion of it. He doesn't even know an omega who just hangs out, loitering for their alpha's pleasure. The closest he can come to is his fucking Dad, but his Dad’s never waited around a day in his life. Like basically all omegas, if he wants something, he fucking goes out and gets it, just like everyone else.
Stereotypes and fantasies sell, though, he supposes, and resigns himself to being under Ilya for their entire partnered shoot. It’s not like it’ll be a hardship, and he’s shot enough things with alphas, and even some betas, to know that the more heated scent reactions will be ignored, if only to try to maintain some professionalism.
“Excellent,” the director calls, and Shane shakes free from his haze, coming back to reality. He hates the syrupy way it slides down and away from him, but he knows it's better than being too present; when he’s too present, he overthinks, and no one wants shots of him overthinking; he always ends up looking vaguely scared, and not in a way that sells. “We'll do Rozanov, and then it'll be you two together.”
Shane offers him a nod, pushing himself up out of the faux nest they have him in, and making his way towards the room he emerged from. He catches sight of Ilya over the crowd of crew; he looks fucking amazing as always, and Shane can’t help but roll his eyes when Ilya winks at him.
Alex ushers him back into his room, and Shane settles back into his chair, snagging his phone from where it had been set on the counter and unlocking it to find a flurry of messages from Ilya.
do not worry, greets him, followed by, i have a plan. will take care of this, shanya. make a new, better story. not at my expense, but the truth of some things needs to be shown, i think. it was unfair before. even when we were… broken, it was unfair, and i knew it. you are not lesser because you're an omega. you're better than all of us. smarter, surely.
There’s a bit of a pause, and then, right before they'd traded places, Ilya had sent i wish i could be on set right now. is a good thing i am not, because i know seeing you in a nest, even a fake one, would kill me dead.
Shane's face burns at the idea of showing Ilya his nest. He's wanted to, for far longer than he likes to think about. It's his shameful secret that he has two stolen t-shirts from Ilya wound through the edges; just enough to taunt him with what he can't have.
His nest isn't in Montreal, though, so it's been easy enough to keep Ilya away. It's tucked into his cottage, nudged into his usual heatroom, sitting in a corner deliberately built for it. Most of his cottage walls are glass panes in the back, looking out over the lake, but his heat room is on the lower floor, the bottom half of the two walls made of rough, porous stone that deliberately catches scent, and the top half is windows made of one-way glass so only those inside can see out.
He can feel the thought of Ilya just seeing the room doing awful, awful things to his insides and making him squirm, so he shunts it to the side and turns back to his phone, tapping out of Ilya's thread to check his email.
Even as he scrolls through the mostly ignorable pile of messages, the thought lingers: what if Ilya came to the cottage?
What if?
Shane knows that, for one thing, his… impulses will be clear. The greed he has in his chest for Ilya will be fucking obvious if Ilya comes to his cottage. It’s the one place he doesn’t bother scent blocking at—it's thick with the full bloom of his emotions, all his humiliating wants on fragrant display.
Another is that he doesn’t think he’ll be able to stand it if Ilya were to walk away after, if the full richness of Shane’s idiosyncrasies scares him off. He thinks it’ll break a part of him, that soft, tender spot of him that’s still writhing on the hook of Vegas, still pricked on the thorn of being ghosted all those years ago; something, he, humiliatingly, doesn’t think will fade until there’s a deep inset of Ilya’s teeth on his scent gland, until he can smell how entwined they are.
He scrolls on his phone. Taps back to the thread to reread the paragraph of text, and tries his hardest not to read too deeply into what Ilya means.
He can feel the stirrings of something like hope, an odd thing to be feeling now, but he has no reason to think that Ilya won’t take care of it. The other man doesn’t outright lie like that; he pushes, and he dodges, and he avoids, but when Shane can pin him down, he answers truthfully. It just takes forever to get to that point.
It feels like hardly any time has passed, as he gets called back out to set with his final change of clothes on.
Now is when it will get incredibly strange; Shane knows. It’s a balancing act of losing himself in the persona he’s been asked to slip on, while also not losing himself in Ilya, something that he’s always found to be a little bit impossible.
He emerges from his dressing room and ducks his head at the way silence spreads across the set, murmurs rising as he passes by, quiet enough that he can't hear distinct words, even if he can guess at what's being said.
“Okay,” the director calls as soon as Shane steps out into the pool of lights. He can sense more than see Ilya emerging from the opposite direction, a new set of clothes on, before he comes to a stop, three steps behind. He knows it's probably shocking to everyone that Shane's allowing him in his blind spot, but he can't even bring himself to care, already shrinking away deep inside. “Remember, you both have signed on for partial nudity; you have both said touching is okay,”—an amendment Shane had only agreed to once Rozanov had texted to confirm it was him and not some other asshole from the NHL—“and if something, or someone, is uncomfortable, or you need a prompt, let us know. Otherwise, we're working with the idea of who are these alphas and omegas on the ice, and more specifically, between you two—what does fulfilling those positions mean in your rivalry.”
Ilya snorts, loud enough that the director falters.
“Is there a problem?” he asks, an edge in his voice.
“No,” Ilya says, “no problem, just curious—Hollander on the ice is, hm, like a falcon, yes? Deadly and talented, blades for feet, relentless and brilliant, no?” He tilts his head. “He has more control over the entire rink of ice than most alphas do of their own two feet.”
He shifts, the whisper of clothes rustling loud in the quiet space, and Shane fights the urge to turn around, even as he can smell the shockstartlewhatwhatwhat that blooms from the crew in fragrant display before the nullifiers whisk it away.
“On the ice,” Ilya continues, and his voice is lower now, infused with a gravelly sort of glee, and Shane just knows he's pleased at throwing everyone off. He gets the same tone when he's going to chirp something at Hayd that'll make Shane have to stifle a laugh on the ice. “Everyone makes jokes, no? Oh, Hollander's nest, oh, rink as heatroom, oh, an omega playing with the big strong alphas.” He snorts, and Shane keeps his eyes fixed forward into the dark shadows behind the lights, even as he hears a flurry of camera shutters start to click. “But people do not realize—or maybe, they are too afraid to say—but Hollander owns the rink. It is his sireland.”
Shane freezes, and he just knows that the photographer is getting pictures of his eyes blowing wide, the shockpleasedhunger scent blooming from him, dripping down his face in an unmistakable reveal.
He had thought that no one had ever figured it out—so, of course, Ilya has. Really, Shane shouldn't be surprised; when has he not figured out the nooks and crannies of his soul?
Shane can't help himself; he turns.
Ilya has settled on his knees in the middle of the set, and Shane glances around once, taking in the new setup—a throne in the center of the room, just behind and to the right of him, with the faux-nest settled behind, both clearly leftover from Ilya's lone shoot—before he returns his gaze to Ilya.
The alpha meets his eyes head-on and smiles, a slow, syrupy grin.
“Shane Hollander,” he murmurs, his hands on his thighs, palms turned up to the ceiling, his body loose with supplication—a true offering of a devoted acolyte. “Born for the ice. How does it feel to be the saint of hockey?”
He tilts his head back, and even as Shane's focus narrows in on the sloping line of Ilya's throat, the careful, nervous flutter of his pulse, he can hear the inhales of shock from the entire crew.
Whatever they were expecting, Ilya has dismantled their expectations thoroughly.
“Ilya Rozanov,” Shane manages, because even if this is a bastardization of pack rites, he's not going to let Ilya humiliate himself—though he cannot even believe this is happening at nine am on a fucking Tuesday. Ilya is so fucking lucky his mother isn't here—he's pretty sure she would've gone for his throat out of rage. He knows she wouldn't have heard the edge of truth in his voice, would have seen this as a taunt, rather than an answer for past hurts. “Born for victory. How do you come to the pack?”
Someone makes a muffled noise off to the side, before it gets completely smothered, but Shane can't even care about them. All of his attention has been swallowed up by his hindbrain, the smooth rise of omega to the top. He's lost it before, the careful edges of his human brain, sliding out into something harsher, governed only by instinct, but it's never been so public.
He always thought it would hurt more to look at the one man who could be his alpha if only he was brave enough to take a chance. But it doesn’t—not here, not now. Only the sweet song of pack rushes through him, a melody only recognizable to the two of them as it echoes down the beginnings of a bond.
The bright shock of that realization is swallowed up by the growing purr rising in his chest as Ilya tilts his head even further back and murmurs, “I bring my all to the pack, omega.” He pauses, and Shane leans forward, acceptance humming in his chest as he brushes the tips of his fingers over the smooth line of Ilya Rozanov's jaw.
The world fizzles out for a long, swollen moment as he drags down the length of his neck to settle a careful thumb over the fluttering pulse in the hollow of his throat.
Ilya’s skin is so soft and warm, smooth under the calloused pads of his fingertips. Between them, a siren song of potential bursts to life, the rough scrape of ice spilling down the tentative bond, a rink carved cleanly with all their history between them.
He’s close enough to feel the trill that’s smothered in Ilya’s chest, and knows his responding chirp has been tucked under his tongue for what feels like years.
But, despite both of them losing it a little bit, Shane can read the understanding in Ilya’s eyes. That moment will be for them; not shared amongst strangers.
The reminder is enough to shock Shane back into his senses.
“The pack welcomes you,” Shane murmurs, the crown of denmaker firmly settled on his shoulders. It’s a title he wears with pride, despite how little people can think of it. He knows—like all omegas know—that a pack is nothing without a den, and a den is nothing without a nest. He presses his thumb a little bit more firmly into his pulse. “Welcome home, Ilya Rozanov.”
Ilya grins up at him, and Shane knows that it will read as a taunt for the general public; a challenge to his iron-fisted rule. But Shane can see the relief in the curve of his lips, the way his shoulders loosen.
Neither of them is kidding about this, despite it being a performance.
He knows when this is published, it will make Ilya seem like a fool to many. He’s sure he’s going to be smeared as somehow using his omegan wiles to have ensnared Ilya on this set, especially after their last collaboration went so poorly.
But Ilya will be the greater spectacle; an alpha on his knees for an unbonded omega.
“This is taking care of it, huh?” Shane mutters, as he follows through with his muted instincts and drags Ilya up, rolling his eyes as Ilya takes the time to press his wrist glands against the soft hollows of his elbows, the primary space where pack scents sit. “You’re insane.”
Ilya shrugs, his eyes twinkling. “How else will I get you to Boston, Hollander?” he says, loud enough for the rest of the room to catch. “If my excellent hockey skills—the best in the world—”
“Lying already?” Shane says, vaguely amused as Ilya finishes with the traditional cheek press against his. He can feel the bunching of his cheek as he smirks, the hot rush of his breath over his ear. “Off to a shitty start then, Rozanov.”
“Oh, I’ll show you shitty,” Ilya chirps, and then they’re both laughing, tangled and gloriously public, and this is so fucking stupid, because Shane shouldn’t be so okay with this, not when it could blow all of their secrets sky high, but this is all he wants, wholly and truly and desperately, so he is, he is, he is.
***
JULY 2017
“Sireland, huh?” Rose says, her voice worn through with laughter that’s turning more contemplative, as Shane hums on the other end, his phone set on the windowsill as he twitches the last of his blankets into place.
Ilya arrives in under ten hours, and Shane needs everything to be perfect. He can feel the barest hint of him, the faint hum of his mind curled up tight next to his mom and dad, next to Rose and Jackie and Hayden; a space made years ago, though thinking about how long ago it was hurts.
Who knew two handshakes could cause such an irreparable softening, could start the tiny divot needed for an actual fully fledged bond?
She laughs, beautiful and wonderful and his actual goddamn savior at the end of the day because he doesn't know where he would've gotten courage if not for Rose. “No wonder you and I weren't fitting,” she says. “You know I don't need a name, or a confirmation—though I can guess if you want me to—but babes, you're happy, right? You're finding everything you want in your little love nest?”
Shane snorts, his mouth curling into an unwanted smirk that softens the longer he takes to actually contemplate her question.
“Sireland is an old term,” he says, instead of cracking his heart open and confessing that he's dangling at the edge of an actual pack bond, one that he intends to complete before the summer is out. “People use home and heartland before sireland, but it has a more serious connotation; I was born into Canada, which is my home, but I was born for skating and hockey and the rink, which is my sireland. Packs used to run on levels of those connections, back when there were no cities, and settlements were far between. And nowadays, it's been essentially bred out. People aren't born with things that they're sired for because there isn't that need anymore. It's thought of as a random genetic quirk now. And no one had ever—” He pauses, his mouth closing around the seen me so easily, and he knows that Rose already knows who his alpha is; knows that this isn't going to be a confirmation, so much as something finally shared, but the pressure still hurts a bit as he inhales.
“But I think that he has one, too,” Shane murmurs, his voice dipping low and soft, his eyes fluttering closed. “Ilya's sireland is to be loved. He is so goddamn easy to love.”
“Shane,” Rose says, her voice wet and soppy. “You both are made for each other.” She inhales, ragged and bursting with happiness, and Shane can feel the echoing bloom of sweetness spilling down their connection in the back of his mind. “Have you considered if he's easy to love extra because he's your mate?”
Shane laughs, genuine joy bubbling through his veins. “When you meet him, you'll see,” he promises, and crawls into his nest, sprawling out against the perfectly layered blankets and pillows. He laughs again at Rose's involuntary chuff of surprise, and he can smell the notes of his scent—sage and oak—filling his nest.
“That wasn't a denial,” she says, teasingly gentle. “I see how it is, babes.”
Shane hums again, a warm, sated noise that rumbles up from his chest. “I'm really happy,” he confesses, the truth of it settling in the sunwashed room with an ease he hadn't known was possible. “It kind of feels like all my dreams are coming through.”
“Good,” Rose says, firm and pleased and so goddamn happy for him it feels like there's a little sun spinning between them as love crackles up and down their bond. “You deserve it, babes. I am—I'm so fucking happy for you.”
Shane grins at nothing, his lashes fluttering shut as Rose sighs. “You feel so content, babes,” she murmurs. “All your dreams, huh?”
Shane burrows deeper into his nest, and doesn't even try to hide the thin, raspy purr that's started in his chest. He hopes it infuses the very air, that Ilya enters his nest and is smacked in the face with all of his hope and love and delight.
“Yeah,” he says, as Rose makes another wordless sound of joy. “All my dreams.”
***
JULY 2021
I think that more than anything, this reveal of a mating bite, of the relationship that has been brewing unseen beneath our very eyes for years, this public and beautiful wedding; it all demands a return to the SHIVER article I wrote, way back in 2017.
…and, in the first moments of getting back onto the set, the towering, hulking alpha Captain of Boston does something that has never been seen before—at least not in the public eye.
He gets on his knees, and he lets Hollander at his throat.
Now, for those of you who are new to hockey, or unaware of just how surprising this is, it would be like Tom Brady scenting for Peyton Manning. Like Donald Trump kneeling for Bernie Sanders. Taylor Swift offering her throat to Kim Kardashian. The Red Sox going belly up for the Yankees.
I digress.
In this moment, as the cameras flash, as the cover that would go on to sell out in presale (editor’s note: and then again, four times in 2017 and thrice in 2021 so far after the relationship announcement!) of this edition of SHIVER is captured, neither Hollander nor Rozanov flinch. Neither of them shies away from the vulnerability of the motion, of the faux-pack bonding, of the trust that is required—or, even more honestly, the surprise of everyone on set watching.
Say what you will about Hollander and Rozanov; it is never as clear as now that they do not allow their biology to rule them. Neither so much as shift in the face of the other—something that will shock most of the world, and something that they speak candidly about.
In fact, I would argue—and my conversations with both of them after the fact accentuate this—their biology only enhances them.
“We’ve known each other for almost a decade,” Hollander says, perched on the throne (editor’s note: the pictures can be seen in the links at the bottom of the page); Rozanov is settled in, cross-legged at his feet, his head tipped against his knee, Hollander’s hand in his hair. “And I’m not saying we’ve always been the best of friends, but it’s still been a long time to know each other.”
Rozanov snorts, the corners of his mouth twitching. “You try being the best alpha in the league,”—he pauses, as if waiting for Hollander to disagree, and when no such thing happens, he continues, even brighter than before—“And you will find yourself making nice with the best omega in the league.”
Hollander clicks his tongue, his eyes glittering as he tugs on Rozanov’s hair. “I think you just mean making nice with the best in the league,” he says, laughter at the edge of his voice. “But feel free to keep lying to yourself, Roz.”
“You are impossible to please,” Rozanov groans, shaking his head, though it should be noted he doesn’t ever shake hard enough to dislodge Hollander’s hand. “Fussy omega.”
“Asshole,” Hollander says, rolling his eyes, before he meets my eyes, abruptly serious. “We respect each other, we play hard against each other, and we both want the win.” He’s stern, the crown of Captain shining through with every word, before it breaks into something a tad bit softer, even as deviousness noticeably sneaks in. “And despite Rozanov’s best tries, I won’t be leaving the Metros for Boston—at least not until they have more than one little Cup.”
The tripping allegation must be laid to rest, especially after the noted move of Hollander to Ottawa. If the statement of several years ago is to be believed—and let it be known that I do believe that—then to ask if any games were purposefully thrown is nothing short of a horrific insult, and you understand nothing about how these two work, and nothing about how a true mated pair interacts.
My parting thoughts are this: long live the Hollander-Rozanov pack, and when it comes time to face down the Bears again, I expect no mercy from the Cens. All I expect is some damn good hockey, and both of them have proved that, time and time again.