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“It's not tight enough,” Shane grumbled after something between an exasperated sigh and a growl as he yanked the elastic out of his hair for what seemed like the hundredth time tonight.
At his poorly chosen phrase, Ilya seemed to manifest, leaning against the hotel en suite door frame, muscled arms crossed over his buttoned dress shirt; a signature predatory smile was planted across his face.
“Mmm, what isn't tight enough, malysh?” he preened, sauntering over in socked feet along the cool bathroom tile to stand directly behind his husband, his hands sliding to grip both sides of what was underneath expertly tailored black slacks. “I can tell you something that is…”
To accentuate his tease, his clear, blue eyes flicked up to meet glassy, brown ones in their mirror, as he gave Shane's ass a possessive squeeze.
Reflexively, Shane's knees buckled ever so slightly under the pressure, but a frustrated huff escaped nonetheless.
“Cut it out, Ilya, we have to leave in–” he started, glancing down at his smartwatch, “Fuck!-- 12 minutes.”
Ilya tried to hide a small, loving smile at the fact his husband never rounded up or down when picking a time, but the exact number of minutes. His facial muscles failed him.
The eyes he met in the mirror were now paired with furrowed brows above them.
As cute as the expression was, he knew Shane was getting increasingly frustrated, and also knew he needed to try and soothe his nerves if they were going to make it to the event tonight.
Truthfully, Ilya had little interest in going to one of Scott’s scholarship charity events. Still, he knew the invitation was extended as a courtesy, as it had been to Eric and Kyle, Fabian and Ryan, and finally, Troy and Harris, as it also fell in the month of June.
He loved their growing circle, and he knew deep down Shane did too, which is why he didn't want to jeopardize his lover giving up on the night altogether. Especially since after the stuffy gala, there was a much overdue visit to the Kingfisher to look forward to.
He would never reprimand Shane or even think about being upset with him for not being able to go tonight, but he would absolutely try to help work out whatever was causing his distress.
“What's wrong?” Ilya asked simply, stepping back to give him some breathing room, but not getting even close to leaving the vicinity.
Shane's nostrils flared, a red sheen of frustration covering the bridge of his nose and a wet sheen beginning to cover his hairline.
“It's my stupid fucking hair,” he huffed. “Now that it's long, I want to pull it back for events. I've heard the media is saying it's unprofessional and unruly, and I don't want to deal with that tonight with all the cameras around,” he finished, letting out the first full breath he had since he began.
The fact that Shane's hair had grown longer was undeniable.
The jet-black, thick, sleek locs had now begun brushing his shoulders, and face-framing pieces swooped down to his jawline. If anything, Ilya thought as his blood heated at the fact that the media had now found something else to scrutinize about his beloved, this new look was elegant. And hot, he noted, indisputably hot.
In the beginning stages, Ilya had to do a bit of convincing of his own that Shane would look great with it. He told him it looked beautiful, like a picture-esque frame for the painting of his olive skin splattered with sun-kissed freckles.
His English version of that came out a bit shaky, but when he switched to Russian after Shane saw him stumbling over his poetic stanza, the point got across, and the olive shade turned a bit rosy.
When it was in its awkward stages, leveling out against his chin and he was debating buzzing it short again altogether, Ilya found that keeping a firm, twisted grip on his hair in the bedroom was a perk that kept his spirits about it high.
“And the hair tie is causing you… trouble?” He asked carefully, not failing to notice that Shane was now giving the small black circle tossed in the sink a comparable death stare to that of a Stanley Cup face-off.
“Yes.” His response was clipped, but none of the anger was directed towards Ilya.
“Even when I twist it as many times as it will go,” He began, picking up the elastic and demonstrating the unfruitful process as he explained, “it's never tight enough. It feels loose and heavy against my scalp.” With the third twist done, he let go of the tie and let it envelop the small ponytail now holding the top half of his hair back— slightly to the left…
“Great. Now it's fucking uncentered,” he said quietly.
Ilya knew from experience that when Shane began expressing his frustrations in a soft, hushed tone, he was about to stop talking at all. He needed to take the reins, and fast.
“Give” was all he said, his arm reaching forward and his hand open so his palm was exposed.
With the end of the comb on the counter, Ilya began re-sectioning the middle of his hair horizontally, the prior attempts having made the line muddy.
After some quiet moments passed, Shane's breath leveled out at the feeling of strong fingers other than his own working through the strands.
After Ilya deemed the line perfect, especially to his husband's standards, he popped the hair tie in his mouth to hold it while both hands worked to keep the back section steady.
With a few smoothing passes, he began to hook the elastic around the tail.
Once, twice, three times, and miraculously, four.
Ilya let go, holding his breath, awaiting approval.
Shane beamed.
Spinning around on his heel, he looked up at Ilya with clearer, lighter eyes.
No weird strands were being yanked on, he looked presentable, and most importantly, he wouldn't be worried about it falling all night.
“How did you do that?” Shane inquired, still in slight disbelief at the handiwork.
“I have very skilled fingers, you know this.”
An eye roll and a bitten inner cheek were all his remark earned.
“Seriously, Ilya, when did you learn how to part hair and shit?”
As he said the words, he began to think back and dwell on them, how his skills may have come to be. An uneasy seed planted in his stomach as he thought of his reputation with women, and how his talents may have manifested there. With a former lover.
Not that it truly mattered, but he thought this moment to be achingly sweet. Domestic in a way they were still learning to adjust to.
But when Ilyas's eyes began to crinkle softly, Shane knew it was all fondness. A memory he had from childhood, no doubt.
“My mama,” he said at last, his voice tender in remembrance.
“She would get tired some nights, from keeping the house together all day. From daily routines made much, much harder by my father. And Alexi. And sometimes, me,” he added, looking down.
Shane knew Ilya would never have deliberately done anything to make his mother's life harder, not when he cherished it so much then, and even now that it was over. Long over.
But the specific light in his eyes, the one that both clouded and lightened his irises, showed that despite the choice to be angry for what she had done, the choice nobody blamed him for, all he saw was understanding. Understanding that sometimes scared Shane in ways he was scared to admit, but it lay beneath his conscience nonetheless.
“When she would lie on the couch, she would sometimes sleep there until morning. Felt safer there, I think.
I never wanted her hair to tangle in the cushions or the splintered wood… so I'd tie it for her. Make something easier for her.”
Caring was the word that flashed over and over in Shane's head as Ilya opened up. A small window in the house of horror he had lived in, but this window was illuminated by warm, undisturbed light. Ilya had always been so caring.
“Even when my fingers were numb from the cold, of the rink or the outside, I would run patterns in her hair. It was colored and curly like mine is now.”
As a kid, Ilyas' frizzy entanglement of hair was so blonde, it was almost white in the snowy sunlight. But as he grew, it had darkened and began to match the shade of Irina's.
After he was through with puberty, he was proud and thankful to whoever above that he could carry this piece, this color of hers with him. He prayed his hair never grayed like his father's. He didn't want to see a shade that wasn't hers.
“Sometimes, she would wake up with braids. Those were her favorite.” And finally, the rims of Ilyas' eyes threatened to spill over with hot tears.
Shane rushed to wipe them away with the pad of his thumb. Not to rush him, but to let him stay without turning away.
As if on cue, the left side of his stubborn shorter pieces by his temples fell into his eyes.
But Shane wasn't mad about it, not one bit. Not when he got to look up into Ilyas' gaze, it not faltering as he reached a hand up to tuck the dark strand around his ear.
After a few breaths, Shane closed the space between them with a single step and hugged Ilyas so tight that he felt a surprised huff expel against the crown of his head.
The two stood like that for a minute or two, just swaying, the only sounds being the occasional honk of New York City traffic and a shutting of a heavy door across the hall.
They were still in various stages of formal dressing. Ilyas' own hair still swooped in all different directions from not being able to yet put his curl cream in after their shower. Shane's belt remained unbuckled, his shirt nowhere near tucked in correctly, and hung awkwardly at his hips. They hadn't even locked each other's cufflinks in place, their little ritual for each other before a fancy event.
An event they undeniably would now show up late for, but after some time with Ilya, Shane had warmed just a bit to the fact it could be ‘fashionable’.
And with the way his heart ached with such warmth inside his chest, he felt no gripes about quickly silencing his watch's alarm.
“We should go.” Was all Ilya said, now muffled against Shane's shoulder where his forehead rested
“We really should,” Shane replied.
Neither dared move.
- - -
“Come here,” Ilya called from the couch he had flopped back onto moments ago.
Shane was busy slipping off his loafers and changing them out for the boring house slippers he had packed from home– with a slight stumble.
“Hollander, you had one and a half ciders. You cannot be falling in the entryway.” Ilya teased.
Practically the whole league knew that Shane was never seen nursing anything other than a ginger ale in a tall glass during the season. Still, occasionally, he would have a simple beer, or, when available, a Drover Cider if a bar had it on tap.
“ ‘Mm, not tipsy” Shane complained, but with nothing but full affection at his husband being a lightweight; Ilya knew better.
Their night had been enjoyable, undoubtedly.
Both of them truly did care about the cause, and Ilya only slightly teased Scott about being prehistoric in his speech, which was otherwise filled with palpable admiration.
Plus, the Kingfisher had welcomed him back like a second home, or third now that he also considered Yuna and David’s property one, too.
Catching up with all of their friends, yes, their, was much needed, but relishing in the afterglow and wind-down of an outing was their favorite part.
Shuffling to the plush couch of the small suite foyer, Shane finally plopped down, laying his head in Ilya's lap as he belonged there, rubbing an eye with the back of his palm.
Ilya's smile hurt.
They didn't even bother putting on the TV, and just settled to the sound of each other's breathing.
Shane always made it a point to have their chests rise and fall in tandem, even if he had to hold his for a few seconds to make sure they exhaled at the exact same time. He knew the other had to notice, but silently thanked him for never saying a word about it, knowing he knew it grounded him.
Ilya's eyes raked over the strong body against his own, and noticed his hair was still up, almost exactly how it had been over five hours ago. Sure, a few strands were awry, but it made it all the more endearing.
He also knew that Shane had to be growing sick of the elastic confining it, and with one hand, he steadied his lover's scalp as the other gently pulled the tie free.
He slid it onto his own wrist, and smiled at it. He would buy Shane a new tie, he decided right then and there, as this one would never be coming off.
A content hum escaped deep from within Shane's chest as fingers started soothing the skin around his hairline and temples. He hadn't even realized how much tension was there before Ilya knew how to make it all better.
A peaceful stretch of time had passed, as they now struggled to keep their eyes open, only in intervals, when Shane broke the silence in a soft voice, barely more than a whisper.
“ Ilya? “ he shuffled, “You awake?”
“Da,” he said, tone laced with thick honey.
He only snuggled deeper into his lap, the fingers working at his scalp still working in lazy strokes.
“I'm gonna grow my hair out a bit longer,” was all he finally declared, after putting some thought into it since their conversation earlier.
“Are you asking my permission? You know you do not need to do this, unless you are about to–”
“Quit it!” he quipped, giving Ilya a halfhearted swat in return, but the didgets nevertheless continued their magic. “I'm serious.”
“How long? You know Yuna would throw a fit.”
He smiled, knowing that yes, his mom probably would, but this was far more important than withstanding a brand deal.
After a heartbeat, he muttered his response in a volume right above a whisper.
“Just long enough so you could braid it. If you ever wanted to.”
The fingers finally stilled.
It was as if a doe was spotted in the wild; every muscle in Ilyas' body tensed as he stared into the black void of the hotel flat screen as if they had turned it on after all.
His breath did not quicken, though, and if anything, it slowed.
Even though he really would appreciate any sort of response, Shane waited patiently, grabbing Ilyas' hand that now stopped to rest on his head, and pressing a chaste kiss to his knuckles.
But once the words finally registered, Ilya couldn't help but act on the thrumming of his heart and the surge of heat that threatened both his chest and waterline simultaneously.
In an instant, he tackled Shane against the opposite end of the small couch with a guttural oof escaping both of them, but he didn't care; he was so damn grateful.
Forever grateful that his husband always honored his mama, the one he never got to meet, but in those dreams at the cottage in the hammock, they had. And maybe he was wishful, all he could be in the days after she left him, but Irina had loved Shane back.
Now squirming under Ilyas' welcome bombardment of sloppy, smiley kisses against his entire upper half, Ilya remembered he needed to answer him.
With a gross, wet sniffle, Ilya finally locked his turquoise with auburn.
“You would do that? For me?” he asked, hushed and awed.
“Of course, Ilya. I want to…” He didn't know exactly what, but he always enjoyed nurturing the inner child in Ilya that came out so frequently when it was just the two of them.
And with that, he promptly scooped his husband up, and instinctively, muscled legs wrapped around his torso, carrying Shane to their shared bed, giggling along the way.
- -
At what he presumed was right before dawn, as the sheer curtains of the room let in little to no light, Shane softly arose out of bed and practically tiptoed to the en suite to use the bathroom, leaving his other half to keep drooling on the mountain of pillows undisturbed.
He thanked the hotel gods that this bathroom didn't have solely an overhead light, but a small lamp on the counter as well, supplied with a warm bulb.
Not wanting to miss the bowl in the dark accidentally, he clicked it on, illuminating the space just enough to see.
Just enough to see that when he was finished and turned to wash his hands, chunks of his hair held a crinkly, wavy texture that was not there just hours ago.
Narrowing his eyes, not wanting to get his glasses out of fear of disturbing Ilya, he leaned into the mirror and examined the sections of odd crimping.
At the top of each one, about six in total, three strands of sleek hair intertwined themselves just enough to see the beginning of a braid form before they inevitably fell out into this array.
And even though he was sad to see Ilya's nighttime handiwork go to waste, he smiled so hard his lips felt tight at knowing that in a few months, the braids would hold. That maybe, he too would wake up with a different style every day, and he would thank Ilya every single time.
After climbing back into bed, his spot still warm and wrinkled, he kissed Ilya tenderly on his forehead where his own damp curls resided.
Finally, when he nodded off to sleep once more, he was giddy with visions of his hair being fondly tied up before swimming at the cottage, or longer, damp strands being shampooed by Ilya's hands in their bathtub, or even, his favorite by a small margin, a single braid being laid along one side, tucked neatly under his helmet on the ice.