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Part One
- Late July, 2019
Maybe it's just because Shane went half a decade without being allowed to look at Ilya the way he wanted, but he really fucking loved looking at his boyfriend. He watches him all the time, finding him more fascinating than any hockey game could ever be.
He studies Ilya whenever he's cooking for Shane, watching the way he moves so effortlessly around the kitchen — even when they're at Shane's apartment or the cottage instead of Ilya's house. In fact, Shane might like watching Ilya in his kitchen even more, because he likes the idea that Ilya is comfortable in Shane's spaces. He watches the way his hands hold a knife, or the way his hip bumps against a drawer to close it. Watches the way he cleans up after himself, wiping away spilled liquids with paper towels. Watches the way he constantly glances over at Shane, as though he likes to make sure he's really there.
He studies Ilya when they're in one of their home gyms together, which is probably unsafe given all the equipment around. But Shane can't help it. He's obsessed with the definition of Ilya's muscles and how they become even more prominent when he works out. The way his arms or back flex when he lifts weights, the way the fabric of his shorts tightens around his thighs when he does squats. Shane is only a mere mortal — of course he gets sidetracked watching his incredibly sexy boyfriend bench more than his body weight. And in Shane's defense, Ilya is just as bad when it comes to wandering eyes.
His favorite time to study Ilya, though, is in the early morning. In those still moments where everything around them is asleep — sometimes including Ilya. Shane always wakes up first. Normally at such an early hour, he'd get up for a run or a workout, but even in the summer when it feels like they have unlimited time to themselves, some days he wants to spend every spare second with Ilya. And what he does with those spare seconds is watch over his boyfriend in the rising sun.
Ilya calls him a creep whenever his eyes flutter open and catch Shane staring, but Shane could not care less. Even if it did make him a creep, he can't find it in himself to stop. Ilya is so peaceful in those moments, untouched by the hardships of their relationship or the memories of his family. He looks younger, the lines of his face smoothed out and replaced by creases from his pillows — multiple, because Ilya somehow sleeps with three pillows all to himself.
Shane likes to trace Ilya's features, sometimes with just his eyes, sometimes with the barest touch of his fingertip. He's always so careful not to wake Ilya, wanting him to get his rest considering they're almost always up late when they're together. But he can't help touching him sometimes, his finger ghosting over the curve of Ilya's eyebrow or the shape of his cupid's bow. This man is, objectively, so fucking beautiful.
Shane has been attracted to men all his life, obviously, but it's as though every past crush or attraction pales in comparison to what he's always felt for Ilya.
His finger barely traces around the shape of Ilya's ear, eyes locked on his boyfriend's pale, golden lashes. They're so long, curled into an elegant C shape. They're the same shade as the hair on his head, which— God, don't get Shane started on Ilya's hair.
It is his second favorite of Ilya's features, only barely topped by his eyes. Honestly, it may be a tie; he loves them both so much. In the light of the sunrise, his curls look like straight gold, molten and glittering. He doesn't have to touch his hair to know that it's soft, even with the products he puts in there to manage the curls — Shane had no idea curl routines were a thing until Ilya, and apparently they can get pretty extensive.
Caving into the urge, Shane lifts a hand and gently combs it through his boyfriend's hair. As expected, the curls are lush and silky, with only a few tangles from sleeping. Shane tries to undo them carefully, not wanting to pull too hard and hurt Ilya. His nails lightly scratch against Ilya's scalp, the way he knows his boyfriend likes.
As if that simple sensation is calling to him, Ilya tilts his head up, nuzzling into Shane's hand, and his eyes start to flutter open. The minute they settle on Shane, his gaze goes soft, and Shane's third favorite of Ilya's features appears — his smile.
"Good morning," Ilya murmurs, his words slightly slurred and his voice thick. He rolls toward Shane, his palm coming up to snake around Shane's waist and settle on his lower back.
"Morning, baby," Shane says, still running a hand through Ilya's hair.
"One day I will wake up earlier than you," Ilya says. Shane almost laughs.
"I can't wait to see that," he says, knowing that will never happen. They fall into easy silence for a moment, Ilya tucking his face into Shane's chest. Dipping his head down and pressing a kiss to Ilya's curls, he murmurs, "I like your hair."
Ilya hums shortly, tilting his head back enough to look up. He still looks so sleepy and sweet; Shane can't help but kiss his forehead next.
"My hair?" he echoes.
"Mhm," Shane hums, his eyes flicking up to where gold curls loop around his fingers. He pinches one, pulling it out straight before releasing it. "It's so pretty. I love how curly it is."
Ilya's expression melts into something soft and almost sad. "I get it from my mother," he whispers. "Her hair was so beautiful. Lighter than mine. So long, all the way down her back. She took such good care of it."
"Sounds pretty," Shane says, his touch somehow becoming even more gentle.
"It was," Ilya agrees. "I wanted to grow mine out when I was little. Maybe when I was, mm, seven or eight. I want it to be long and curly like my mama."
Shane tries to imagine Ilya with long hair. He's seen it overgrown and unruly at the end of the summer, because it grows so quickly and neither of them get haircuts while they're at the cottage. Last year, it had ended up being long enough that Ilya could almost put the majority of it up into a little bun. Shane's had been long enough for a bun.
They'd both gotten haircuts the day they returned to their respective cities.
But that was an unintentional style due to leaving it untouched for almost two months. Now, Shane tries to imagine it long on purpose. Enough to be put up with a hair tie, enough for Hayden's kids to braid it like they always try to. Well past his ears, maybe even past his jaw. He thinks Ilya would look good with just about any style.
"How long did it get?" he asks.
Ilya's mouth tilts into a frown, and he shakes his head. "Not much longer than what it is now, maybe," he says. "My father did not like it. Says I looked like a girl. I did not try again."
Now it's Shane's turn to frown. He should've guessed that Grigori Rozanov would never allow his son to express himself with something like long hair. Obviously that was just the antithesis of manhood, or whatever.
"You could grow it out now," Shane suggests. Grigori has been gone for well over a year now, and Ilya has no contact with his brother anymore. Anyone who had that kind of control over him is no longer a part of his life.
"I could, but I do not think I will," Ilya says, his unease melting away as his eyes shut, leaning into Shane's hand again. "Svetlana has curly hair, and she is the only reason I know anything about taking care of mine. I do not even like doing my hair but she will kill me if I ever step out of my house with big, frizzy bush. Long hair would be so much work, I think."
Shane laughs softly. His eyes drift back up to Ilya's curls, his fingers raking through them again and again. He's currently making it a frizzy bush, but they have nowhere to be today. The only time Ilya does his hair during the summer is when they see Shane's parents, and they'd had them over for dinner just the other night.
"I think it would look good if you did," Shane says softly. "I think you'd look good no matter what."
Ilya peeks one eye open, a tiny smirk growing on his face. "Oh, wow. You are flirting big time this morning, Hollander."
"Shut up."
"I did not wear you out enough last night? You still want more?"
Well— yes. Always. But that's not why Shane is saying any of this.
"Fuck off, I'm just—" he huffs, playfully tugging Ilya's hair. Which, of course, does nothing to curb his boyfriend's mischievous look. "Can't I just compliment you without you getting all horny?"
Ilya snorts softly, but his eyes shut again. There's a brief pause. And then, in a quiet voice, Ilya says, "Okay. You can. If you want."
Shane smiles, even though Ilya can't see it. "You always look so fucking good, Ilya," he says, his voice soft but earnest. "It drives me crazy. Especially on the ice, you know. I'm not even allowed to look too long and appreciate you."
There's the faintest, barest hint of a blush dusting over Ilya's cheeks. His eyes open, staring right back at Shane. Their noses brush together when Shane leans forward. "I think you'd be hot no matter what, m'kay?"
The myriad of greens and browns in Ilya's eyes melt together when their faces are this close, but Shane still tries to pick the colors apart as he waits for a response. All he gets is a quiet, "Okay."
"Okay," Shane echoes, finally shutting his own eyes and kissing his boyfriend. With ease, Ilya manhandles his boyfriend so that Shane is halfway on top of him, sprawled over his chest. Their kisses are deep and unrushed, taking advantage of the fact that they have all the time in the world. Through it all, Shane's hand never leaves Ilya's hair.
Part Two
- Early January, 2020
Ilya is being weird.
Honestly, not completely out of the ordinary for him. He's frequently incredibly unserious and loves to tease. He'll say shit that's so out of left field, if only to get a reaction out of Shane. So a lot of his usual… strangeness, Shane is used to.
This is different.
This is an avoidant, secretive kind of weird.
It started two days ago when Ilya began refusing FaceTime calls. They'd still spoken on the phone, so it's not as though he was completely unavailable, but he'd told Shane he couldn't FaceTime because his camera was, allegedly, broken. He'd dropped his phone while on a run; it had landed face down on a rock, and there was a crack across the camera lens at the top of the screen. Not an impossible scenario… but it still felt weird.
Shane can't remember the last time he'd gone longer than 36 hours without seeing Ilya in some capacity since they'd begun dating — a video call, a selfie, a mirror picture in his gym. And now, there was just nothing. Well, not nothing. They were still texting constantly and talking on the phone each night.
Ilya says he'll get his phone fixed the moment they're back in Ottawa in a few days, but by then, it won't matter because they have a game against each other in a few hours. With the timing of the Centaurs getting into Montreal so close to the game, normally they would just wait to see each other on the ice.
Which brings Shane to his second point on how fucking weird Ilya is being — he's insisting that he has to see Shane before the game. Not to fuck or anything like that, even though they're both desperate for that, too, but for some other reason that Ilya refuses to name. The Centaurs got to the hotel not even ten minutes ago, and Ilya has already texted that he's on his way to Shane's house, though he'll only be able to stay for about forty minutes before needing to head back.
If Shane's being honest… he's half expecting Ilya to break up with him. Which is absurd, if only because they said I love you this morning and, as far as Shane's aware, he's done nothing to merit this fear, but his mind is just… spiraling, grasping for any explanation.
He's so lost in worry that he misses Ilya's text saying that he's here and is only alerted by his arrival when the front door opens. Shane all but stumbles off of the bar stool at his island, walking towards the foyer where Ilya is slipping off his shoes. He's in a winter coat, with a beanie pulled low over his forehead.
God, it's so good to see him, and yet, Shane's anxieties don't ease. Not really, even as Ilya smiles. Because that smile is… well, weird. It's as though he's relieved to finally see Shane after almost two weeks apart since Christmas, but he's not completely relaxed either.
"Hi," Shane says cautiously.
"Hi," Ilya echoes, unzipping his coat as he walks closer. He hangs it up on a hook, and then he clears his throat like he's steeling himself for something. "Okay, so. Please do not be upset."
Shane blinks. Okay… this doesn't exactly sound like the start of a breakup, but it doesn't sound good either. His brain doesn't even consider something as outlandish as Ilya cheating on him, because he knows that's simply not a possibility. He can't imagine what might make him so upset that Ilya had to come here the moment they got to Montreal to tell him.
"About what?" Shane asks slowly.
Ilya's movements are slow, like Shane is a baby deer that he doesn't want to startle.
"So… I lost a bet the other day."
Well, if that's not the most terrifying start to potentially bad news that may upset him. Shane takes a slow breath, trying to prepare himself for the worst. Maybe Ilya had cheated, losing a bet and being forced to get some girl's number or something. Maybe he'd gotten a super horrible, painfully ugly tattoo that Shane would now have to see every time they had sex.
"Okay," Shane says after he's fully prepared for whatever this is to end in tears from at least one of them. "What did you do?"
In response, Ilya's hand lifts, and even as his thumb slips under the lip of his beanie, Shane doesn't realize what's about to happen. Until Ilya pulls off the hat and there's — nothing.
Nothing is there.
His curls have… vanished, replaced with a buzzcut. With his hair being so short and blond, it almost looks as if there's no hair at all.
Shane's so shocked, he can't do anything but just… stare, his lips parted. He blinks a few times, as if the hair might magically reappear.
"Sweetheart…" Ilya says, tossing the hat to the ground and holding out his hands placatingly.
All at once, he realizes this is it. This was the huge conspiracy that had been eating him alive for two days. A fucking haircut.
"Jesus Christ, Ilya," he huffs, his eyes falling shut as a stupid amount of relief flows through him. "I thought— I don't know what I thought you were going to say, but it certainly wasn't this."
With the crisis of a minor heart attack or their relationship ending out of the way, Shane finally closes the distance between them. His eyes are still, obviously, set on Ilya's almost bare head.
"I can't believe you… you shaved it," he whispers, more shocked than anything. And maybe a little disappointed, because what the hell is he supposed to run his hands through later when Ilya is fucking him through the mattress? He's not… upset, not really. Hair grows back, after all. But, reaching up to skim his fingers over the sides of Ilya's head, he does miss the curls.
The hair is somehow both soft and spiky. He's never felt hair this short, save for that one time when he was fourteen, when his barber had been on vacation, and some other guy royally fucked up his hair.
"What happened?" Shane asks, finally looking at Ilya's face. Every few seconds, though, his eyes flick up, unable to keep his attention away from the lack of familiar curls. It's odd, the way he's both settling with this new look and also silently mourning the old one. Which is maybe a little dramatic, because it will grow back, but… still. The shock hasn't worn off.
"Ah, well… Dykstra said that I would not get hat trick against Colorado," Ilya says, sheepish. "I say that if I do, he shaves his head. If I do not… well."
"And then Colorado's goalie was insane that game," Shane says, putting two and two together. It had been hard enough for Ilya to score one goal that game, let alone three.
"I never would have made that stupid bet if I thought I would lose, Hollander," Ilya says quickly, almost pleadingly. "Colorado normally plays fine, but their goalie is shit, yes? I thought it would be fine, and I just wanted to piss Dykstra off."
"Woah, baby, I'm not upset," Shane cuts in, realizing he hasn't said as much yet. He smoothes a hand over Ilya's head, smiling a bit at the odd sensation. "I mean, yeah, I miss your curls. Like… a lot, I can't lie. I'm not mad or anything. You thought I would be?"
"You—" Ilya frowns, a little helpless. "You were just saying last summer how much you love my hair. I thought you would… I don't know. Not like this."
Shane smiles. When it's put like that, it's maybe a fair assumption. And, if Shane is being honest, he certainly prefersIlya's curls to this. But…
"I also said I think you'd look hot no matter what hair style you have," Shane whispers. His gaze scans Ilya's face. Without the softness of his curls framing his features, he looks a bit more severe. All of his angles are sharper, nothing hidden by the swoop of a curl. His eyes stand out so much more, which is never a bad thing, in Shane's opinion.
As much as Shane can't wait for the hair to grow back… he looks fucking good like this.
Something in Ilya's expression settles a little, his hands finally coming up to rest on Shane's hips. "You are not upset?"
"I…" Shane trails off. He's not not upset. He's definitely more pleased with this outcome than whatever the hell his anxious brain was cooking up before Ilya pulled off the beanie. "I definitely can't wait for it to grow back. But I think you still look good."
Ilya hums. "You are mad," he says slowly, his voice dropping an octave. "I am so sorry, solnyshko(sunshine). I hope you will let me make it up to you later?"
He blinks his big eyes, feigning an innocence that Shane has never seen Ilya have. He almost laughs at the display, but the heat in his gut distracts him. "You'll have to," Shane plays along, though still a tiny bit serious. "I can't believe you shaved it. And you didn't even tell— wait. Is that why you haven't FaceTimed me for two days? Is your phone even broken?"
Ilya blinks, that playful expression falling away. "Oh. Well… no, is not broken. I just did not want you to find out over the phone, ah?"
"Fuck, Ilya," Shane huffs, rolling his eyes. "I thought you— I don't know. I was expecting something so much worse. Oh, my God. Now you actually do have to make it up to me."
A smile pulls at Ilya's mouth, and he leans in, letting his lips brush Shane's. "I will, sweetheart," he promises. "Whatever you want tonight."
Shane leans back. "You could throw the game?" he suggests, purely to fuck with Ilya — he would be pissed for real if Ilya ever let him win, and they both know it. Ilya's face scrunches up immediately in distaste, like it wasn't even a funny joke.
"Shane, please. I am trying to seduce you, do not be ridiculous."
Shane snorts, leaning in to finally kiss his boyfriend. Relief courses through him, weeks of separation melting away. His hands slide up from where they're cupping Ilya's jaw to his hair, where— Shane abruptly pulls back, pouting.
"I have nothing to grab," he says, a little whiny. His fingers grip uselessly at Ilya's scalp. "You're so… bald. What am I supposed to hold on to?"
Ilya barks out a laugh, his arms curling tight around Shane's waist and pulling him into a tight hug. "It will be back the next time I see you, sweetheart," he swears. "You can pull it all you want then."
Shane frowns, but he tucks his face into Ilya's neck, dropping his hands away from the hair he can't run his fingers through. The next time they're meant to see each other is in three weeks.
It better be long enough to pull by then — Shane will have some making up to do.