Chapter Text
Shane Hollander couldn’t afford distractions. The brisk air of Regina was a familiar climate, wind brightening his cheeks and ruffling his hair. His mind remained lost in thought, overanalyzing the skating he had just witnessed, an exemplary athlete with the potential to surpass even Shane’s abilities as a hockey player. The players of the Russian team all looked the same, but one shined above the rest as an exception, a diamond in the rough. A broad shouldered figure stark against the white background pushed off the ice with a single minded focus and a confidence that Shane had never been able to muster.
Shane was a good player, everyone knew that. But was he the best? Reviewing the data in his head, he started to doubt himself more than ever before. He knew he was good, but was he better than Rozanov? Shane didn’t want to dwell on something so negative.
As Shane followed his parents out of the arena he pushed his thoughts to the side and instead eyed their clasped hands. Hidden at the moment, the tattoos on their palms were a reminder of something happier. The possibility for love and a deep connection that surpassed every part of life, including hockey. The image was that of an old fashioned clock, a stopwatch that continuously ticked down from the moment of their birth, that is until they spoke to each other for the first time. Yuna likes to tell the story after a glass of red wine, just relaxed enough to spill some of the details with light laughter, and keeping her inner thoughts hidden behind shining eyes. David on the other hand tells every soul they come across just how special their soul bond was from the first words they spoke to each other.
David had been playing hockey at McGuill, young and hungry but realizing that being a professional hockey player may not be in the cards for him. He had suffered too many injuries in his youth, and he had a promising job offer that promised a stable life with good income. Maybe the Canadian economy wasn’t the most exciting thing, but David had always been interested in the inner workings behind Canada’s treasury. If he passed by this opportunity, there’s not much hope it would come again.
Yuna had been a young college student working with the newspaper in their sports department, attending every game with her trusty notebook and narrowed eyes, analyzing every pass, shot, and player. She had a brilliant mind that was able to sculpt words enticing even the most sports hating newspaper reader to skim over her column with sudden interest. She never interacted with the players, only knowing them by number and last name, but she memorized their stats, schedule, and strategies easily. Sometimes after the game she would interview a select few for quotes, but she was more interested in their skill than their personalities.
The McGill Redbirds had been having a particularly difficult game, barely tied with Michigan State after an exhausting first half that ended with the opposing team up by one. The energy in the start of the second half led the Redbirds to scoring, but not without an illegal hit knocking number 97 into the foggy plexiglass. Yuna had been on the edge of her seat, meaning to document the game but too distracted by the right wing player who was obviously pushing through a certain pain in his ribs to finish the game off with at least one more goal. Hollander, as seen on the name on the back of his jersey, was the quickest player on the ice, and although his aim could use some work, his points in assists were nothing to scoff at. In the last 30 seconds of the match, he used a sudden burst of energy to propel himself towards the net, perfectly placed in the position to score. His first goal of the season, winning the game and causing the audience to jump out of their seats cheering for his accomplishment.
Yuna hung around the media area, asking softball questions to players with wide grins and a prideful aura. Hollander was mobbed in the corner by reporters questioning him about his goal, answering questions with a boyish charm and a blushing face. He seemed fairly modest, not quite believing in his ability even when it was publicly proven. Once he was finally alone, Yuna couldn’t help but approach.
“Surprised you were able to play with those busted ribs,” she says.
At this point David would stop in the story and stare at Yuna, love, appreciation, and reverence in his eyes.
“I couldn’t believe it,” he would share. “The most beautiful woman I had always seen with her little spiral notebook just stopped my clock. After that game I thought I could never be happier, but I was proven wrong. She’s never stopped proving me wrong.”
Yuna always chuckled and nodded at that, smiling delightfully at David and patting his hand, right over their identical clocks.
One sentence back from David and Yuna’s clock halted as well, signifying their completed soulbound. From that point on they were inseparable. Once you find the love of your life, why would you ever let go?
Shane loved the story, hoping that it would happen to himself one day. But he wasn’t like his parents. All soul bonds differ in type and rarity, with common ones including couples having tattoos of each other's names, a unique soul mark, or even the first words they spoke to one another written on their skin. Less common are the types where soulmates can communicate by writing on their skin, or an emotional type of telepathy that sounds panic inducing to Shane at least.
Shane has the rarest bond of all, he can’t see color. At all.
When he meets his soulmate, maybe when they make eye contact, brush skin, or just speak to each other, he will finally see in color. For now the world remains black, white, and varying shades of grey.
He doesn’t mind much, seeing color doesn’t interfere too much in hockey unless the jerseys are too similar. When that happens he usually just memorizes the certain characteristics of his teammates, like how their stick is taped or the shape of their jaw underneath the helmet.
When soulmates come up in conversation Shane avoids the issue, he’s always been a private person, so his teammates learn to avoid questioning him about it. Not everyone has a soulmate, although that’s pretty rare too. His teammates enjoy showing off the names on their wrists, many of them having already met their soulmates or at least know of them. As for his inability to see color, it doesn’t come up too often, but when he makes a mistake (like assuming all apples are the same color) his teammates just assume colorblindness considering it's drastically more common than a color soulbond.
His parents were the only ones who knew of his bond. They would answer every question he had as a kid about what different colors looked like and the names for all of them. When he found out that different shades of color existed too his mind was blown.
David and Yuna head to the parking lot where their car is parked discussing the Russian team, specifically one Russian player. Shane surveys the lot and spots a figure leaning against a bare wall.
He halts his stride, “Give me a minute guys, I wanna introduce myself to Rozanov.”
Yuna looks on proudly, “How courteous of you Shane! Go ahead, we’ll wait in the car.”
Shane takes a deep breath and mentally prepares himself as he approaches his greatest competitor.
____________
Illya doesn’t mind seeing the world in grey. His mama was the same, she never saw color even after marrying his father. Their marriage was one of necessity, Irina needing the money to leave her abusive father, and Grigori wanting a young bride to give him sons after his first wife was revealed to be barren.
Irina didn’t realize she had left one abusive man only to be tied to another for life.
Grigori was hard on her, rarely becoming physical, but often degrading and insulting her as a woman and her capabilities as a mother. But Ilya remembers her as an angel. The best mother a boy could ever wish for. Someone who picked him up after he scraped his knees after getting too competitive with some classmates, held tissues to his first bloody nose of many when he started hockey, and attended all the games she could with a cheer that rose above the rest.
The matches she couldn’t come to she would lay in bed, unable to get up for days at a time. Ilya would wander into her room often with a book or a toy that he had found, wanting to entertain her even the slightest bit. Anything to see her beautiful smile.
When he first learned that others see the world in color he was confused. These monotone shades were all that he had ever known, what does it even mean to see in color?
His Mama had tried to explain it, “The greys we see around us mean we are special. It means that one day, we will meet someone wonderful enough that the entire world will explode in light and beauty. When that happens, you will know for sure that you have met the person you will spend the rest of your life loving more than anything.”
“Don’t you love me more than anything Mama?” Ilya would ask, perched on her lap.
“Of course moya solnyshko, even though I cannot see color, I know that you are the most beautiful little boy in the whole wide world. And I would give up every color if it meant I could spend more time with you.”
Irina looked sad as she said this, as if she knew that the truth was more than she could bear.
When Ilya was 12 years old he found a styrofoam airplane abandoned in the nearby park and rushed home to show his mom. He knew that she would love it, maybe she would even get out of bed to throw it around the house for him to chase.
He skipped home with joy in his steps, running up the stairs to his Mama’s room.
“Mama! Mama! I have a surprise -”
Ilya stopped after crossing the threshold into Irina’s room. The first thing he saw was a pale hand hanging over the edge of the bed, his mothers face turned away from the door.
“Mama?” Ilya questioned with a waver to his voice.
He creeped towards the bed, noting the stillness of her chest. He called out for her, climbing onto the mattress and shaking her shoulders, the small plane forgotten, falling to the floor.
Her eyes were wide open, and a bottle of pills rolled out of her hand.
____________
Ilya didn’t mind seeing the world in greys. It seemed appropriate after all, it was nice to share something with his Mama even after all this time.
He imagined that seeing color was a lot like playing hockey. The cool temperature hitting his face the moment he entered the area, the bright lights reflecting against the ice, the sounds of skates gliding across fresh ice, smooth from the zamboni.
He imagined the different shades were similar to winning a well earned match with your teammates piling onto your back in a bear hug, or finally mastering that behind the back slap shot, aiming high towards the corner of the goal.
Maybe color was like watching Shane Hollander play hockey. The Canadian protege had taken over a corner of Ilya’s mind, his disorienting speed making Ilya’s head spin, his shot accuracy causing Ilya’s heart to skip a beat. Playing against Hollander must feel like a rainbow, a mix of colors in an established pattern but always beautiful and unique, stretching across the sky until eventually fading into nothing, at least according to what he’s read about rainbows. A match against Hollander would be stimulating at every moment, an enticing distraction that would fire up Ilya’s competitive edge, a characteristic that’s stayed with him since childhood.
For Ilya, hockey was his color, and he would do anything to keep it in his life. Even if that meant leaving his family behind to play for the NHL against Shane Hollander, or prioritizing his skills over his relationship with Alexei. It’s not like his family did much for him anyway since his mothers passing. He would send them money fulfilling his duties as a son and brother, and in return be accepted grudgingly when he went home to Russia.
They were jealous of his success and at the same time proud to have a family member scoring for Russia. If Ilya were to not score for his home country though, he would certainly be ostracized. Unless he gave them all his earnings of course. It's strange that he needs to pay to have a brother and a father. Mama’s love was never transactional like that.
He was deep in thought leaning against a grey cement wall, well, grey to him, maybe it was actually some bright shocking color, he heard red was particularly vibrant.
The cigarette in his hand centered Ilya’s thoughts, the deep drag he held in his chest allowed for control and eventual release. Almost in a meditative state, he wondered if smoking cigarettes was similar to seeing in color when he heard a voice approaching him.
“You’re supposed to smoke over there.”
A glance to the left revealed the man that had taken over Ilya’s thoughts since first watching clips of his goals in Moscow. He was shorter in person, but those videos never showed just how beautiful he was. Ilya didn’t need to see in color to observe those freckles, spread out like the constellations Mama used to spin into stories. He remembered one in particular about a bear, maybe Ursa major?
Ilya couldn’t take his eyes off of the bridge of Hollander’s nose and the top of his cheeks, prominent against his smooth skin. He realized Hollander was waiting for an answer.
“What?”
His accent was unusually prominent, his usual focus on the English language lost the moment a pretty face appeared in front of him. Looking down at his body, Ilya acknowledged to himself that it wasn’t just a pretty face.
Hollander continued on, pointing out a designated smoking area but Ilya wasn’t paying attention, instead opting to light up another cigarette. Hollander’s awkwardness was slightly endearing, but Ilya’s basic English wasn’t able to keep up with some of his vocabulary. He decided to respond in many one word answers, avoiding questions that could lead to more complicated conversations, not wanting to expose just how much of an amateur he was at the standard language of North America. He couldn’t feel like more of a foreigner if he tried.
Hollander stuck out his hand after stating his surprise at Ilya smoking, a comment that Ilya easily brushed off. It was nothing he hadn’t heard before.
Ilya left him waiting for a moment, staring at the offered hand and then back to Hollander’s expectant face. Damn those freckles.
Ilya reached his hand out to grasp Hollander’s, planning on gripping it tightly to see if he could take it.
Imagine his surprise when the world exploded in light. Just like Mama said.
____________
Shane didn’t know what to expect from Ilya Rozanov. Past his obvious talent and his nationality, Rozanov was standoffish and almost shy. Or maybe Shane was drastically misreading this situation and he really was just annoyed and disgruntled by Shane’s awkward attempts at small talk.
He reached out his hand to properly introduce himself, he was nothing if not the polite son his parents raised.
Shane wondered if Rozanov was going to ignore the gesture, he was staring at Shane’s hand as if it was some foreign object unknown to Russians. Eventually he looked back to Shane’s face and reached to meet him.
The moment their hands touched Shane was overwhelmed with a dizzying feeling that had him closing his eyes and flinching back. His head pounded, oversaturated by the brightness around him.
‘Wait… that’s not light,’ Shane thought to himself.
The first thing he saw when he opened his eyes was Rozanov’s shocked expression, his eyes wide and focused solely on Shane's. Later on Shane would learn the names of every color in Ilya Rozanov’s eyes, emerald green surrounding the pupil, light and tan browns intermixing in the iris, all ringed by a deep color that Shane soon associated with chocolate. Shane was pulled into their depths, unable to escape the fierce gaze.
“Wow,” he breathed, unable to look away.
Rozanov seemed to be in the same boat, staring into Shane’s eyes, roving over every inch of his face and torso now that he could properly see. Their hands were still clasped, palms touching, fingers curled around the others.
“Your freckles are even prettier in color,” Rozanov comments.
Shane’s cheeks feel hot even in the freezing conditions of the outdoors.
“That must be red,” Rozanov reaches his other hand out to lightly trace Shane’s cheek. “Da, red is my new favorite color.”
Rozanov's fingers against his cheek shocked Shane out of his stupor, causing him to pull his hand away and go staggering backwards.
“Fuck. Fuck! Shit! No this can’t… this isn’t happening. This can’t be happening,” Shane shakily starts stepping back, away from his soulmate.
“But it is,” says Rozanov, eyeing Shane with trepidation now that the panic has set in.
“No,” Shane says. “It’s not.”
Shane all but sprints to the parking lot leaving Rozanov behind, but before he gets far he hears a shout.
“You cannot run from this Hollander!”
Shane ignores the yell and reaches his parents' car, fuming.
He blames his attitude on Rozanov behaving like a dick, and internally screams.
Shane cannot afford distractions, and Ilya Rozanov is just that.
____________
Ilya Rozanov realizes that he was missing out his whole life.
Hockey isn’t like seeing in color at all.
Color is Shane Hollander.