Chapter Text
Shane has two weeks off a year. Fourteen meagre days of silence and stillness and pack. That’s not to say the summers are busy otherwise; it's definitely the off-season for the hockey players, but between training camps, practices, and family commitments, the hours of summer run faster than expected every year.
But this year is different. Shane knows it, he feels it, deep, no matter how much he tries to lie to himself about what he really is conscious of. He is not okay. He hasn't felt okay in a while, not since the Olympics, not since the last time he has seen Ilya really. He hasn't felt okay since autumn 2013, because the last time he saw Ilya, they didn’t even kiss. The last time they saw each other, it didn’t even matter. The last time he saw his alpha, he knew he was fated with a dreadful certitude; the one thing he was desperate for was the only thing he would be sure to lose.
I wish he were here. Shane thought desperately, curling deeper into the bend of the U-shaped couch of his Ottawa cottage. He thought being here would be better, the mixed scents of his childhood pack–the sharp ginger of Yuna Hollander’s alpha pheromones and the tender musk of David’s pepperminty-toned omega scent, that held their family and everything else together–and his adult found family pack with the Pikes. He can still smell the essence of the girls, especially the twins, seeped into the curling corners of the blanket he's snuggled up with.
Not for the first time, Shane thinks about picking up the phone and calling Hayden to bring his family over. He knows logically he should go, that his one person is easier to wrangle across international borders rather than four squirming bodies, but fuck he’s sick and he wants to be selfish. Sue him. He would do just about anything to get Arthur in his arms right now, baby hair tickling his chin, and his warm, soapy, quickly fading newborn scent filling his glands. That could make everything better, he thinks, forlorn. A baby would fix everything.
He shuffles to the kitchen, standing in front of the open fridge. It’s empty, an unusual sight for this house. Usually, Shane is one who has his fridge fully stocked, meal prepped, and carefully notated, so seeing it so barebones throws him off for a second, even though this has been like this the entire week he's been here so far.
He takes a deep breath before closing the fridge. He isn’t hungry. He hasn’t been hungry in a while, forcing himself to keep up with his performance diet while the season was still on, but now, in the summer, especially in his limited time off, he really just isn't feeling it. He eats dinner on the phone with the Pikes because Amber is going through a phase, and the only other person who worries more than his mother is Jackie Pike. It's routine, it's enough.
It's been take out pretty consistently for a week. Hayden hasn't said anything yet, but there's only so much time before he starts really asking questions. Shane is the pickiest eater on the team, never willing to stray from his performance diet. Jackie's even gotten good at making his rabbit food for him to nibble on when he comes over, so seeing Shane eat McDonald's burgers every night for a week straight is enough cause for alarm in Hayden's book. But Shane eats enough to sustain himself, and Hayden already bought tickets to Ottawa for next week, with the whole family in tow behind him. Shane loves his pack, but he loves his cottage more, and Hayden isn't going to make him pick right now.
Shane finds himself wandering back to his nest, back to his room, back to the comfort of home, home, home. His mom called earlier, wanting to know if he would come by for dinner tonight, and Shane had yelled no at his mother in such a tone that she immediately hung up on him. He felt guilty, of course, but not enough to go sit down and have a pleasant, 'not’ formal dinner with his parents. He would then be subjected to at least half an hour of an intense interrogation session headed by Yuna Hollander on where he's been the last month and why his playing has been like absolute shit all summer. He doesn't want to deal with that. He has other stuff going on. Like this new Xbox game he just bought, mostly because Ilya is on the cover of it, and no one would think twice about him owning a video game if it were about hockey.
Besides, he doesn't want his mother to see him because, like in true Asian mother fashion, her first dialogue would be about his weight, followed very quickly by how he isn't eating enough. And he probably isn't eating enough; he probably also isn't exercising, sleeping, or showering as much as he should be, either, but he made it out of his nest today, and that is progress compared to the last few days.
He has lost a lot of weight, almost a concerning amount, over the past three weeks. His clothes lay baggy over his body, shrinking him down, smaller, smaller, until he looks so, so tiny curled up in his nest. His usual scent of lemongrass, orange, and caramel was diluted, overrun by the stench of sorrow and misery. The bitter, tangy aftertaste of rejection fills the cottage, coating every square inch of the space in tides of cold, unyielding iron and the sharp acidity of rotten apples.
This is new for him, the scent of it all. He presented early, before puberty, at the ripe age of ten. He had spent his life on the ice until then, living, breathing, dying hockey. The thought of never playing again, the thought of being shunted to the omega leagues, where it's less about hockey and more about mating rituals for the top A-lister alphas in Hollywood, was earth-shattering. Shane couldn’t imagine that, couldn't imagine his life like that, without hockey, without the ice, without, without, without. At ten, the decision of infertility versus the prospects of a long, fruitful career on the ice in the MLH was a no-brainer. Kids, family, pack, a mate, none of that would matter if Shane never got to step foot on the ice again.
Except it does matter. It does matter because now he’s twenty-three, and there is someone else. There is someone else. There's someone else, but not really, because they didn’t kiss. It doesn't mean anything. He's all alone, and it's all one-sided.
❇⭐❇
Shane finds himself curled up into a corner of his nest, too spacious for just him. He wants to fill his home with tiny voices and booming Russian. He yearns for it so bad, feeling the ache in his stomach. He wants, and he wants, and he wants. Shane shoves his head deeper into the pillow under him, hoping the stains of tears and smell of rot can cancel out the feelings in his heart. The compulsions in his head dig him into a bigger grave. How did this happen to him? Does Ilya know? Is he aware of what he did to me? Of what happened? Would he care? Does he know? His eyes water at the thought of Ilya, not knowing if the worst scenario would be if the other man was in the same position as him or if he was perfectly fine and partying his way through Russia like he does every summer. He bites his lip hard enough to bleed.
His train of thought always gets stuck at the same question. Would Ilya care? Sometimes, sometimes Shane thinks so. Sometimes Shane lies in his nest and remembers the tender care that Ilya presents him with in the slivers of the calendar they get to share together. The love that is bestowed upon him from his ideal partner, his mate, the love of his life. The way he holds Shane after sex and before it too, the way that he is attentive and remembers the things that Shane likes, and there are so many things Shane doesn’t like, and he remembers them all.
It makes him wonder if all this is worth it in the end. He thinks so, no matter how much he says differently, the fear of never finding this bond with Rozanov seems like a nightmare from the depths of Shane's soul. Even the one-sided bond, the trials and tribulations Shane has found himself in over the last few months, the weight loss, the scent change, the sickness, he would do it all over again because he loves his alpha. He loves his bonded mate, whether or not he loves him back.
Sometimes, sometimes Shane thinks Ilya might love him back; other times, like earlier this week, Shane was reading the news only to find himself on a gossip article that was speculating, “Which of the four women Ilya Rozenov has been spotted with this month is he dating?” It wasn’t even the sports section, it was Teen Vogue for god sake.
Although he hated to admit it, even to himself, he knew Ilya had never seen their arrangement as serious, continuing to seek out women publicly, and probably men privately. He knows he has no claim over the other man, no right to ask him to be monogamous, but it doesn't change how deeply his omega begs for it, begs for a bite, a mark.
He wants his mate. He wants the blue-eyed man he's in love with, he wants the alpha whose arms feel like home, he wants him so bad he is no longer willing to deny himself the ounce of joy he gets from calling Ilya his alpha.
His mate.
Because that is what happened, and he knows it, knows that they bonded that night in Montreal. Shane had taken Ilya up to his ‘investment property,’ and they had finally had sex, deeply gratifying and pleasing for both alpha and omega. A soft dialogue of “You still want?” and “I still want.” passed between the two of them, and it solidified the moment into something both men were desperately seeking in their own lives, in their own ways. And then Ilya had kissed him, kissed him for so long, so many times, so many places up and down and across his body, it made him feel like a meteor breaking through the atmosphere.
And then, when Ilya had finally entered him, sheltered himself in Shane's warmth–he saw stars. Bright, blinding, sparkling lights decorated the back of the insides of his eyelids, and he came, immediately, almost, once Ilya’s thumb brushed against his clit. Legs shuddering around both of them, out of control of his own body, for once in his life, Shane felt like he could let go of everything and just be. Just exist. Because Ilya was there to take care of him and make him feel good.
His back was arched, and his hips had large hands pressing fingerprints into the soft flesh, and he was more so being dragged and pinned onto Ilyas's cock than any other description of the action, considering how little control he had over his body beyond pleasure, and this urge like he had to pee really badly.
And then once again, Ilya kissed him, and everything slotted into place, the stars gleamed brighter in the sky, and the orgasm ripped through Shane like a tidal wave.
Emotions were high, and Shane was feeling a lot, maybe feeling too much.
He knew right there and then what had happened to him, and although he would spend the next six months denying what happened, the truth of the matter was that Shane started a bond with Ilya. He thought he could ignore it, that it would go away, that it would dissolve away on its own. His own feelings are strong, but they can't be that strong, can they? Strong enough to make him stay, strong enough to fight for him to come back. Strong enough that he can be loved.
He feels sick as he rolls over, dragging the sheets along with him. It messes up his nest, but it's not his finest work, so he's not too bothered by it, letting it collapse around him.
His doorbell rings.
Shane groans and looks at his phone. It's Wednesday.
The bell rings again.
Shane looks at his phone one more time. It’s 1:37 pm.
He has no clue who is at his door. He thought these two clues could put something together for him, but he's still at step zero as he was before.
He stumbles out of his nest, kicking the pile of clothes next to his bed over during his fumble to stand. His usually spotless room was, to put it lightly, a disaster. Bowls of untouched food littered every surface, used snotty facial tissues were thrown everywhere, and the catastrophe zone that was his bed, where he tends to nest. Clothes from all of the members of his pack, from little tiny socks for Amber, one of Hayden's old sleep shirts, and some stuff from his parents.
And his most recent pride and joy, an away game Rozanov jersey. Ebay can get you anything, and fangirls are crazy. He doesn't really want to know how this jersey came into the hands of the seller, but he's glad he has it now. The faint musk of cinnamon and apple, and Shane's insistence on lighting cigarettes around it placebos him enough into believing it will be okay.
The doorbell rings again.
“Jesus Christ.” He whispers, mostly to himself. “I’m coming.”
He walks down his stairs. The rest of his cottage is just as trashed as his room. Shane doesn't seem to notice.
The bell rings again.
“I know you can see me!” Shane calls out. This house is mostly glass.
The bell rings twice more in response.
Shane rolls his eyes. He yanks the door open.