Work Text:
July 2003
Ilya’s hands shook as he reached for the brush on the bathroom counter. There were bottles lined up that he knew he was supposed to put in his hair. But they’d just used the burdock oil four days ago, and he was pretty sure he didn’t need more yet.
His hands closed around the soft wooden handle. It wasn’t his brush. His hair wasn’t supposed to be long enough to need a brush.
But his father had been traveling for work a lot that summer, and Mama had let him grow out his hair.
The towel around his waist slipped, and he tried to refasten it—a little tighter this time. Water still specked his torso and dropped from his hair. The mirror was fogged from his shower, and he tried to clear it with his hand but only succeeded in leaving a streaky mess behind. He looked back down.
Whose brush was it now?
He brought the brush to the ends of his wet curls.
“Gently, Ilyenka. You have to go softly.”
He heard the echo in his mind. He didn’t have much time. But he’d learned what happened if he brushed too aggressively.
He gently but all too quickly moved the brush through his hair, trying to get out the tangles. The curls fell apart into limp strands.
He pulled on his boxers and took to towel-drying his scalp. He reached up to feel his hair.
It frizzed in all directions.
Should he have done that before brushing?
He couldn’t remember.
He thought that he remembered his mom wetting the brush sometimes, but all his thoughts were fuzzy at the edges. So he tried that. Wet the brush, gently worked it through his hair again, then slicked it all back so it would dry properly.
The condensation on the mirror had faded enough that he could see himself. His hair looked marginally more controlled.
The rest of his body had dried, but his face still looked wet. Automatically, he reached up and touched his cheek. Tears tracked down his face. He hadn’t realized he’d been crying. He hastily wiped them away.
Stop crying. Stop crying. Stop crying.
They were almost the only words he’d heard in the past three days. The house was full of hushed whispers and his father’s voice yelling at him to stop crying, Ilya. Be a man.
He left the bathroom, and as he crossed the hall, a gold glint hit his eye. He saw a gold cross on a gold chain dumped unceremoniously on the dresser. He grabbed it before he could think better of it. He stared into the mirror and ran his hand through his hair. His throat burned as he fastened the necklace around him. His brother yelled at him to get dressed, so he hurriedly put on his black suit. His jacket was too tight to button comfortably, but he managed. The sleeves were short.
He hadn’t worn it since his grandfather’s funeral last year, and no one had thought to make sure it still fit on such short notice despite the fact that he’d grown 9 cm in the intervening year.
His hands fumbled with his tie. He didn’t really know how to tie it. The tail kept ending up longer than the front. He hoped buttoning his jacket would cover it up.
Ilya padded as quietly as possible into the entryway and put on his black dress shoes.
Alexei joined him, and once they both stood up with their shoes on, Alexei yanked him roughly by the tie, pulling him closer and then undoing the knot.
Alexei slipped the tie over his own head, deftly retied it, and put it back around Ilya’s neck.
“Stop acting like a baby,” Alexei said down the bridge of his nose. His brother was still taller than him, but Ilya was quickly catching up.
They only had to wait a few minutes for the sharp click of a heel to approach behind them, signaling his father’s arrival.
He looked at Alexei and nodded.
He looked at Ilya.
“You need a haircut,” he said flatly.
Ilya ran both his hands through his hair, trying to tame it back.
“Yes, sir.”
Grigori put his hand where Ilya’s shoulder met his neck and squeezed uncomfortably. His reproachful gaze locked with Ilya’s.
“An accident, Ilya. Do you understand?” His father said for the second time since Ilya found her.
Ilya nodded. He understood the lie. What he was expected to say.
A few hours later, as he avoided watching the casket being lowered into the ground, a warm breeze caught him. It felt wrong for the air to be so hot when he felt so cold. It was humid, and he was sweating through his suit but shivering all the while.
He caught sight of his distorted reflection in the gold cross on display nearby. His hand moved to touch its smaller counterpart now hanging around his neck. Would he ever get used to its weight?
His hair was no longer slicked back neatly. It was frizzy and uneven—flying in different directions. He tried to slick it back again, but it wouldn’t lie flat in this humidity.
His father scowled at him, and he lowered his hands back to his sides, feeling the arms of his shirt and jacket stop well before the wrist.
When the service was over, he waited while his father conversed with people from the ministry. Ilya felt more like he was attending someone’s promotion ceremony than his mother’s—his throat burned. He cut the thought.
The various ministers’ wives clucked around him vaguely and unhelpfully. His aunt also tried to tame his frizz back, but with no more luck than him. The nearby clock chimed away another hour. She kept talking. All he heard was ringing:
“…like Irinka.”
The clock counted several more hours before they left. It felt like it would never end.
The sweat had cooled in Ilya’s hair, leaving it greasy and only slightly less fuzzy.
The next day, his father handed him a few notes and told him he would return with a proper haircut.
Ilya found the closest barbershop and felt his breath hitch as the ringlets on the floor were swept away.
December 2007
Ilya stuffed his cap onto his head. He’d worn a hat as much as possible the past few years and had quite the collection. He hated every single one of them.
His hair looked bad this short. He couldn’t find a barber anywhere in Moscow who knew how to cut his hair well. So, he’d either end up with a buzz cut or a lumpy mess.
“Take off your hat. You need a haircut,” was the drum beat his whole life marched to.
But lately he’d started to improvise over it. Ilya had learned how to avoid his father most days. During the school year, he left to work out before his father woke up and returned from practice late at night with a hat on. On the weekends, he stayed as long as he could at whichever party he’d snuck into and stayed with Sasha or Sveta when he needed to.
And the last time his father told him to cut his hair, he just didn’t.
It was long enough that the ends were trying to curl again. He knew he needed products to help it. He remembered the scent of oil and his mom’s soft fingers massaging his scalp.
He walked into the pharmacy at the corner and made his way to the hair care aisle. He walked straight up to the same shampoo he’d bought for the last four years. It was a familiar triangular bottle that reminded him a bit of a lava lamp.
He paused just before his hand touched the bottle, and he scanned the shelf. There were many colorful and medicinal-looking options.
Maybe one of those was better?
He started picking up bottles at random and sniffing the ones he could open. The green Fructis bottle smelled the best. Citrus-y. He thought girls would like that. Sasha, too, probably.
He grabbed it and the matching conditioner, putting them in the little basket swinging in his hands.
Further down the aisle were bottles of mousse and hairspray. He’d seen girls getting ready to go out using mousse, so he grabbed one at random and added it in. Finally, he made his way to the burdock oil and grabbed the familiar brown bottle with pink flowers that his mom had used years ago.
Confident in his choices, he checked out and returned home.
After he showered, he ran into his first dilemma. The shampoo and conditioner were easy. Put them in, scrub, rinse them out.
He picked up the wooden handled brush and brushed his hair more gently than he ever remembered before. Like he could still feel his mom’s hand around his wrist, guiding him.
His curls broke apart. But that was what the mousse was for, wasn’t it? Should he use the oil first, though?
He guessed oil first and dumped some into his palms before trying to work it into his scalp. The sensation didn’t soothe him like he remembered it doing. His hands felt mechanical, like he was rubbing his scalp raw.
Ilya stopped and grabbed the mousse. He turned it upside down, and instead of the white foam he was expecting, oil dribbled out. He glared at the bottle and tried again as if that would make it work.
After an irritated Google search, he shook the bottle of mousse and covered his palm with a small mountain of foam.
He pressed it into his hair, trying to tease the curls back into form.
He spied his hair in the mirror. It looked wet but curly. Ilya felt pretty good about what he’d done.
He sat down to finish an assignment that was due tomorrow. An hour later, he looked in the mirror, and his hair still looked wet, but curly. He touched it. It somehow felt both crunchy and oily. His hands felt the rough texture of his hair while his palms came away covered in residue.
He frowned at himself in the mirror, trying to think about what he could’ve done wrong. He didn't have time to wash it again, though. He needed to sleep before training early the next morning.
When he woke and saw the disaster that his hair had turned into, he was grateful he’d established himself as a chronic hat wearer. As he left for the rink, he only grabbed his old shampoo. The rest couldn’t be trusted.
Over the next few weeks, he didn’t use the conditioner or the mousse, but he did keep using the burdock oil. He let the subtle smell of crushed roots envelop him as he held the bottle up to his nose before dabbing a bit on his fingers.
He worked his hands through his scalp and leaned into his imagination, feeling softer fingernails massage his scalp and send tingles down his spine.
But the memory faded. His hands were too big and his nails cut too short. He had to be much taller than she’d ever been.
He was nearly her height that last summer and was eagerly looking forward to the day that he was finally taller than her.
He touched the cross at his neck and worked the brush through his hair.
Some of the teeth had broken, and many more were missing the end cap. He set the brush down and started working his fingers through the knots instead.
Gently, he heard.
Despite the oil, the hats, and his slick backs, his hair continued to be unruly.
It was frizzy when dry–only a few curls held their form around his ears and the nape of his neck. The rest couldn’t be coaxed into any shape except flattened by a hat. He thought about cutting it again, but he remembered the feeling of long, soft curls under his hands as he wrapped his arms around his mother and refused to capitulate.
His situation finally came to a head when Sveta returned from the semester she’d spent at an international school in the US. She’d flown in that morning, and Sasha had made plans for the three of them to go out.
Sveta insisted that they all dress up for the reunion and came to Ilya’s to get ready together. It meant Ilya couldn’t wear his usual tracksuit and hat combo.
She had arrived already looking ready to go out, but she continued to do her makeup and try on jewelry while he got dressed.
Her hair cascaded in perfect ringlets down her back. He wanted to reach for it, but now was not a moment she would let him touch her hair.
His hair was already getting frizzy. It was mostly dry, but he needed to do something about it. He stared down at the bottle of mousse and picked it up.
He worked the foam around his palms and was raising his hands to his hair when Sveta grabbed his wrists. The tube she was holding clattered to the ground and left an inky black smear.
“Ilyusha, what the hell are you doing?”
“It’s mousse. So, my hair will behave, I hope.”
“Your hair is dry. You cannot put mousse in like that! Your hair is so much longer now. What do you normally do to it?”
He told her about scrubbing the shampoo and conditioner. He showed her the brush while he told her about the one disaster with the mousse.
“Ilyusha, you scrub conditioner into your scalp and brush out your hair?”
“Yes…”
He saw her struggle not to rub her hands on her face. She looked more stressed than when Sasha spilled beer on her new silk blouse last summer.
“No, Ilya. My god. Go get it wet again. Put a little conditioner on the ends. No shampoo! Do not touch it with a towel.”
She examined the mousse and burdock oil.
“This will work for tonight, but tomorrow I will take you to buy better products.”
His eyes were frozen on the oil, and she tracked his gaze. Her eyes softened a bit.
“The oil is good. That you will keep using.”
December 2008
Ilya stared down at his toiletries bag, weighing his options. He normally didn’t bring his hair product to the rink—just a travel conditioner he could get away with using without seeming fussy.
He had his routines down. It was a constant struggle to keep his hair hydrated with how often he had to shower, but he managed. He no longer had to constantly hide the frizz under hats.
But this tournament was different. The world juniors—his first time in North America. This part of Canada had been underwhelming: flat and small, but there were NHL scouts here: people he needed to impress if he wanted to escape the chaotic symphony of his home life.
Despite the independence he’d carved out, his father was a militant conductor. Ilya had memorized the score–knew how to harmonize with each note. But no performance could ever satisfy him.
More, Ilya.
Make them hear you in the back.
Don’t embarrass me again.
He gave until his voice broke and his fingers bled.
It’s why he was the best. No alleged Canadian prodigy would be able to take that from him. Ilya knew how to play the game on and off the ice. He needed to look the part.
He wasn’t being recruited for the way he looked, but he knew firsthand how much more people were willing to give if they found you attractive. He hesitated for a moment longer, then put all his products into his hockey bag.
——
At the end of the second day, Ilya had stepped outside of the rink, waiting for the shuttle back to his hotel. His team was playing well; he was playing exceptionally. Anyone with eyes could tell it would be Russia vs. Canada in the final. The hockey world was already waiting with bated breath to see the first showdown between Hollander and Rozanov.
He hadn’t bothered to do anything with his hair. He wasn’t going to see anyone who mattered between the locker room and going to bed for the night.
While he waited, he stuffed his hat into his pocket and retrieved the cigarettes one of his older teammates bought for him. As he dug through his pockets for a lighter, movement caught the corner of his eye. A figure was walking his way from across the parking lot.
Ilya wasn’t sure, but he thought it was Shane Hollander. He really hoped he was not walking over here to talk to him. Ilya had nothing to say to Canada’s so-called golden boy. His only plan regarding Hollander was to beat him in the finals— and then the draft.
But he was still headed this way. Ilya reached up and touched his hair, feeling the curls going a million different directions. He hastily put on his beanie and retrieved his lighter. He turned his back to the parking lot and started trying to light his cigarette.
A few moments later, he heard,
“Ilya Rozanov?”
He clicked the lighter again.
Once more, and it finally caught.
He turned to see dark eyes tilted up at him. He paused, eyes fixed on the scattering of freckles over pink cheeks, and then moved his gaze down to the warm hand outstretched.
——
A few days later
Russia had defeated Hollander and the Canadians in the final. Ilya thought he saw hints of bitter disappointment beneath Hollander’s mask of polite sportsmanship during the medal ceremony.
He had successfully avoided needing to do his hair after the games this week. Nearly every meeting and interview had been before or between games when everyone expected him to look like a sweaty mess.
But now he had formal media interviews and had just enough time to pull himself together before stepping under the lights. He wasn’t scheduled to do any interviews with Hollander, but as Canada’s captain and the other top draft prospect, he’d likely be in the same room.
Ilya thought about the eager look on Hollander’s face when they met and the contrast with his steely determination on the ice. Hollander was a force to be reckoned with. And if the rest of his team could’ve kept up with him, they would’ve won the game.
Ilya thought about all the showdowns in front of them. The draft and then years competing in the NHL. He thought about those freckles and the feel of Hollander’s hand in his.
He was Ilya’s only true competitor. The only one he truly needed to—not impress. Beat.
He grabbed his full toiletry bag, headed to a single stall toilet, and made sure he’d leave a good impression.
Las Vegas 2014
Shane Hollander could never keep his hands out of Ilya’s hair. If he wasn’t on his knees in front of him or face down into the mattress, one or both of his hands were usually in Ilya’s curls.
Sometimes, he’d manage even if he was face down. When Ilya caged him in, Hollander would reach back and pull insistently until Ilya was moaning in his ear.
Each tug sent a shiver down his spine. Each scrape of his nails drove Ilya closer to the brink of ecstasy. When Hollander moved his hands to Ilya’s face, they usually smelled the earthy notes of his burdock oil.
It wasn’t like that with most of his partners. Sveta knew how much work it took, so they rarely touched each other’s hair. Maybe one sharp pull right at the end, but nothing that would add much to the typical unruliness. With most other women, he’d redirect their hands after a few moments. It just wasn’t worth the upkeep.
But he never moved Hollander’s hands. Hollander always made him want more. He kept hoping for and fearing the day Hollander would come to his senses and call this off.
It was one reason Ilya hadn’t reached out since Sochi. But it wasn’t the only reason. Sochi was his own personal hell. An orchestra tuned too sharp. Playing each note a second too late. His father, his brother, his team, his coach–all perfectly out of sync. His father could no longer keep time. But it didn’t stop him from trying.
It created a song that was familiar enough to hurt and dissonant enough to grate his every nerve. His father’s memory slips meant he no longer remembered his last refrain. Instead of carefully spaced hits, perfectly calculated to land with a flourish, they came in staccato.
You need a haircut. You need a haircut. You need a haircut.
Yes, sir. Yes, sir. Yes, sir.
A national embarrassment. A disgrace. Too young to be captain.
Overrated.
Ilya left home, once again, with something to prove.
And no one, not even Shane Hollander, was going to distract him from it.
So when the final buzzer sounded in game six, Ilya threw his helmet in the air, slicked his sweat-laden hair back, and held the fucking Stanley Cup over his head.
“For you, Mama,” he yelled at the camera.
Ilya smiled as he remembered the weight of the cup above his head. At that moment, it felt like the weight of the world and nothing at all.
But when he finally saw the look on Hollander’s face moments before they were set to walk on stage and present some dumb award, he wondered uncomfortably, for just a moment, if he had proven anything that actually mattered.
As he met those irate, brown eyes, he saw Hollander’s hand twitch upward, as if he wanted to reach for something. Hollander was staring at the curl that Ilya could feel resting on his forehead.
His hair was longer than it had ever been before. He hadn’t gotten a single haircut since he left Russia. It was long enough to tie back, but short enough that some strands escaped.
Hollander was saying something, but Ilya was barely paying attention.
Instead, he raised his hand slowly, brought his fingers to his scalp, and slowly brushed the curl back toward his bun. Hollander’s eyes tracked every movement. Ilya smirked at him and turned on his heel toward the stage.
Hollander practically spoke through clenched teeth as they presented, but Ilya was unsurprised to find the bathroom Hollander had stormed into was unlocked. Ilya made the bet with the utmost confidence that he’d come away from the night with the MVP award. Hollander had played exceptionally well–had more regular-season points than Ilya. But only one of them had captained a team to the Stanley Cup. And even if he lost, he’d still get what he wanted.
Hollander’s hands smelling like crushed roots and oil.
Ilya lingered in the bathroom after Shane had left, the taste of him still in his mouth. He pulled his hair out of the bun and gently scratched his scalp. It was a little itchy from the dry shampoo he’d used. He didn’t like to use it, but he knew he’d have to face Hollander, finally. And knew, despite his best intentions, that he would probably see him later that night. Which meant he’d have to wash his hair tomorrow regardless.
That night, when Ilya saw the embarrassed determination as Hollander fulfilled the terms of their bet, something in his chest pulled tight—sharp and unfamiliar.
Not victory.
Something he didn’t have a name for. Wouldn’t give it one if he could.
Feeling the heat spread through his entire body as he watched Hollander put on a show, Ilya tugged his hair back into its bun, pulling harshly in his haste.
“Be gentle, Ilyenka.”
His hands shook as he turned the twist in the tie and let go. He shoved the tenderness down with it.
He needed to keep his lips away from Hollander’s mouth and his head away from his hands.
June 2017
“This dresser is mostly empty, and in the bathroom through there is a second vanity. Your suitcase can go in the closet,” Shane said as he pointed around his bedroom in the cottage.
Ilya would’ve been fine just living out of his suitcase, but Shane clearly wasn’t. So, he unpacked his clothes into the empty dresser and set his suitcase on the empty side of the closet.
“You designed this place for two people.”
Shane shifted on his feet but met Ilya’s gaze when he said,
“Well, yeah. I hoped that one day someone would… be here—live here with me. I wanted to make sure there was space for them.”
Ilya’s heart melted as he imagined filling the empty closet space with his clothes. The tide of emotion kept rising as he put his shampoo and conditioner on the other built-in shelf in the shower, and his other hair products on the shelves hidden behind the second mirror.
His hand shook almost imperceptibly as he tucked the burdock oil against the back of the counter. The label hadn’t changed much in the intervening years. The font was a little different, and the long-stemmed plant with pink leaves was sharper.
His hands came away faintly oily as if the bottle had leaked ever so slightly. He took in the familiar herbal scent. Instead of washing it away, he rubbed the oil into his hands.
All the other products he’d used had changed through the years. Hair care had come a long way even since he first moved to Boston. Sveta, or his regular barber, would occasionally suggest new products for him, but the burdock oil was the one staple he refused to swap, even though there was probably a better scalp oil now.
“What is that? That smell? It reminds me so much of you. I’ve never smelled it anywhere else.”
Ilya kept his gaze on the bottle. He could just see Shane leaning against the doorframe in the mirror.
“Oh–it’s burdock oil.”
“I really like that smell. It makes me…”
Shane trailed off as his cheek heated. Ilya turned around to face him
“It makes you what, Hollander. Tell me.”
Shane shook his head, and Ilya tracked his gaze back to the bottle.
He tried again, stepping within a few centimeters of Shane, and said,
“Please.”
Shane closed the distance. One hand on his hips, tugging him closer–the other in his hair, pulling Ilya’s head down to meet his lips.
Ilya pulled back and raised an eyebrow.
Shane sighed.
“Well, I’m used to smelling it in one very particular context. It makes me want you. Want to be as close to you as possible.”
Ilya pressed him into the door frame.
“Like this?” He asked.
Shane spoke into Ilya’s neck as he kissed him. He moved his other hand into Ilya’s hair, his hands a soft contrast to the fierce way he nipped and sucked at Ilya’s neck.
“No, closer.”
—-
One week later
The front door to the cottage clicked closed behind them, and Shane fell back into it with a heavy sigh.
Ilya drew Shane into him like he was trying to tuck Shane inside of his body to carry the weight of the day.
They’d just returned from Yuna and David’s house after David had walked in on them making out. Talking to them had gone well—better than Ilya would’ve hoped. Especially given the circumstances that they learned about their relationship.
They stayed like that for a while until Shane pulled back.
“Ugh, I feel gross.”
Ilya understood. Shane usually went straight into the shower after swimming in the lake. But today they’d both hastily changed and rushed out the door, needing to face what was coming.
His skin felt tight and dry, and he knew without touching that his hair was a frizzy disaster. He’d kept his hair shorter lately. It was too hard to keep the long ends moisturized with how often he had to wash it.
Hot water would do wonders for them. It had been a good day, yes, but an exhausting afternoon, especially for Shane.
Ilya stripped and got the hot water going. Shane raised his eyebrows at the clothing heaped on the floor.
“The hamper is literally right there.”
Ilya kicked the clothes in the direction of the hamper and missed dramatically, but he made Shane laugh.
Ilya pulled him into the shower. Shane stepped under one shower head as Ilya got under the other.
“You really thought of everything, Mr. Real Estate.”
Shane swatted at his arm playfully as they both soaped up their bodies.
Ilya picked up Shane’s bottle of seaweed shampoo.
“Can I?” He asked.
“You want to wash my hair?”
“Da, sit.”
Shane sat on the built-in bench, facing Ilya.
Ilya poured the shampoo into his hand and began working it into a lather in Shane’s hair.
Shane’s neck drooped forward, leaning automatically into Ilya’s touch. His hair was silky and smooth between Ilya’s fingers. Ilya worked his hands all around, feeling the long strands on top of his head and the shorter ones around his ears. Ilya gently scrubbed his scalp all over and heard Shane practically purring beneath him.
Shane’s hand began roaming up Ilya’s thighs. Ilya paused what he was doing and put Shane’s hands back at his sides.
“Patience, любимый.”
Ilya rinsed the suds from his hair, continuing his head massage. Shane stayed on the bench as Ilya washed and conditioned his own hair. His eyes were closed, and his head rested on the wall behind him. No longer bowed by the weight of the day.
Ilya turned off the water and took his time drying Shane. He dried himself off quickly and stepped out of the shower. He adeptly stopped his hair from dripping with his microfiber towel.
When he turned around, he saw Shane had picked up the burdock oil and was scrutinizing the bottle as if he could read it.
“You use this next, right?” Shane asked.
No. The oil was for before he showered. It was one of the first mistakes Sveta corrected.
“Yes.”
“Can I? It felt so good when you washed my hair.”
“Yes,” Ilya fought to keep his voice steady.
He grabbed the bottle and turned Shane’s palm up, resting against his hand.
He saw his own much smaller hand stretched out to his Mama’s. He had a hard time picturing her face, but he remembered the blue floral print of her house dress vividly.
He put a few drops of oil onto the pads of Shane’s fingers and rubbed them together.
He pulled a stool over and sat down with his back to Shane.
Ilya took a deep breath and forced himself to straighten his shoulders.
Shane’s fingers reached his scalp and paused.
“Gently,” he whispered in Russian.
“Sorry?” Shane said.
Ilya cleared his throat.
“You need to be gentle. Not break up the curls much. Don’t scrub.”
Shane began moving his fingers tentatively through Ilya’s hair but gradually grew more confident. Ilya closed his eyes.
Shane’s hands were slightly smaller than Ilya’s, and he kept his nails a little longer. The gentle scrape of his nails sent wave after wave of shivers coursing down his entire body. It was a sensation he hadn’t felt in almost 15 years.
Shane was working his way toward the front of Ilya’s head when he stopped. Ilya opened his eyes and met Shane’s gaze. He saw the pinch of Shane’s brows and the downturn of his mouth.
“What’s the matter? Am I doing something wrong?” Shane asked.
Ilya briefly took in his own stricken expression.
“Nothing is wrong,” he said, but his voice broke on the last word.
Shane took his hands out of his hair. Ilya stifled a cry at the loss.
“Please don’t stop, Shane. Nothing is wrong. It feels wonderful.”
Shane’s hands returned to his hair, moving in delicate swirls.
“Then why do you look like that?”
Ilya sighed and straightened the cross around his neck.
“My Mama would… do this too. It’s been so long.”
Shane looked like he was on the verge of tears, too, but his hands didn’t stop moving.
“Oh, Ilya, I’m sorry. I can stop if it’s too much. I don’t want to, like, erase this memory of her.”
Ilya shook his head, and Shane kept working his fingers through it. It was past the time that he had distributed the oil, and despite his tender touch, he was indeed starting to break up the curls. Ilya would rather shave his head than tell Shane to stop.
“Doesn’t work like that. Not for me. It makes me feel more connected. Like she is here.”
Shane let out a breathy “oh.”
“It’s both. Happy and sad together. But good.”
Shane brought Ilya to his feet and cupped his face with his hands. As Shane kissed him, the crushed-roots smell invaded his nose and wrapped him carefully in his memories and budding future, something in him settling, at last, into harmony.