Work Text:
November, 2020. Ottawa, Canada.
Ilya wasn’t planning on buzzing his hair.
No really. He wasn’t. It was VERY spur of the moment. One moment he was sitting in his massive house, alone and contemplating in the wake of his first therapy appointment with Galina, contemplating how much he missed Shane (though he had seen him only the day before), and then suddenly, he was at his massive bathroom mirror with an electric razor that he had lying around. He didn’t normally need such a powerful razor, since he infrequently let his facial hair grow to a length that would require it (it was kept at a respectable, yet very sexy stubble, thank you very much), but he had not bought it for himself.
No, this razor was purchased months earlier, after Shane won his third Stanley Cup, and Ilya shaved his beard off for him. It was very sensual. A shockingly intimate moment that neither had the words for in the aftermath. Being in love is fucking weird. Ilya hoped he would never stop finding weird shit about love.
Either way, Ilya had kept the razor, and somehow it ended up in his hands. Then it ended up running through his curls. And then, wouldn't you know it - Ilya came to and suddenly he’d been shaved clean. A buzzcut unlike anything he’s ever had before.
Whoops.
ᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧ
He didn’t know what possessed him to shave his curls off. His signature curls. People knew him as the Russian asshole with the sexy body and sexy curly hair. He can’t recall the last time it was so short that one couldn’t even see a hint of a curl.
It certainly had nothing to do with the fact that every time Ilya looked into the mirror recently, he had been haunted by the sight of his mother. That would be absurd and impulsive and-
Ilya was in the final year of his 20s. His 30th birthday was near, and he didn’t know what to do with that.
His мама never got to see the end of her 30s. Her face was permanently frozen at 36. Ilya never got to see her age past that. No one did. And now, it felt scary how close he was to that number. Not just eclipsing the years on earth that he had lived without her, that was a long time ago, but eclipsing her years on earth. Period. His brother, though he loathed to think about his brother, was almost 35. If Ilya ever gave thought to his brother, he would ponder if Alexei ever thought about how close he was to surpassing their mother’s age, her entire life. If it plagued him. If every orbit around the sun was a reminder of how little life she got to live.
Ilya had always known he was a dead ringer for his mother. They shared the curls, the mischievous little smirk, and the twinkling blue eyes - although Irina had lost that sparkle in her eye long before she herself was lost. But as he aged, he began to take on more and more traits that favored her. Sometimes he’d look in the mirror and see her in his place and wonder if his was an immaculate conception. But then he’d remember all the things his father passed down to him, and that idea would vanish. Unfortunately.
And, for better or for worse, he was beginning to truly comprehend that her looks weren’t the only thing he had inherited from her. He had her capacity for love - or at least he hoped he did. But he also had her capacity for darkness.
Ilya had always understood her in some way, shape, or form. He could recall being a young child, no more than 7 years old probably, and feeling a lurch in his gut every so often. A pull downward. A moment where his heart sunk and he could do nothing to raise it back up. He just had to be patient. It would amend itself. Eventually.
He saw this in his мама when he was little, though he never fully grasped the severity. He thought they were akin to one another in that way and until he was 12 years old, he had no reason to believe otherwise. Her heart would always rise back up. Her mood would always mend. Sometimes it took hours. Other times, weeks. But Irina Rozanova was not a weak woman. And even bedridden and devoid of spirit, she would keep what little energy she had left to care for her sons. To love them. To be present for them.
When Ilya was a kid, before hockey took over his world, before Irina exited his world, his father would force the family to attend a myriad of events. And Ilya would always hear people compliment his mother’s lively blonde curls. Slightly unruly, but never so much that she looked unkempt. She never looked unkempt.
Women, men, whomever - they would all tell her how beautiful her hair was, how soft, how luxurious. Мама would always brush them off, never one to boast. But Ilya would often watch her eyes light up, preening under the compliments. And then, even if her darkness had been strong before they walked out of their home, she’d inflate slightly. It energized her, being seen. Being appreciated. Ilya’s father never gave her such compliments. Ilya’s father seemed immune to the concept of bestowing compliments.
So in the last year, every time he saw himself - be it a reflection in a mirror or on facetime or on television - all he could see was Irina. But not just her looks. Her energy towards the end of her time on earth, or lack thereof. It was…frightening to say the least.
Ilya’s first session with Galina compounded with a shockingly emotional visit from Shane (emotional on his end at least, but that had been how he felt in all parts of his life recently) and, with no game until the next evening, and practice and training already complete for the day, Ilya was left to his own devices. His brain was busy. But none of the thoughts were concrete, they just sped around his head. He couldn’t run because of the game the next day - god forbid he injure himself, he’s practically fucking middle-aged as far as athletes go now - and it while Shane was concerned for his dietary habits, Ilya wasn’t stupid enough to gorge himself on delicious junk food the day before a game. Plus, he wasn’t feeling particularly capable of movement. He felt untethered, wandering around his own home like a ghost.
So, that’s probably how he ended up in his bathroom, staring at himself in the least vain way possible.
He knew he was attractive and handsome at almost all times (again not vain, just honest) but he could clearly see the sunken darkness surrounding his eyes, the flatness of his facial expressions, the dullness in his pupils. His curls were slightly unruly, longer than they had been in a while, but not nearly as long as Shane’s hair. A couple curls threatened to fall into his eyes. And the way he was angled made it harder to see his sharpened jawline. He looked softened, almost feminine in a way.
It was like he was staring into the face of his mother.
Ilya had shook, visibly, once the connection was made inside his head. He felt outside of reality, floaty and lost. He was aware of everything around him, but also nothing. The only thing that was perfectly clear was the fact that he saw Irina Rozanova - the hollowed, tragic, oldest version of her - staring at him from the other side of the mirror.
And so, like any sane and mentally stable person would do, Ilya ducked away from the mirror and went rifling through his cabinets - looking desperately for something to sever the image. He’d throw his fist into the mirror, but that would harm his mother - or the mirage of his mother. He could never do that. And again, he had a game to play the next day. He had already felt like the worst captain alive, no reason to show up with bloodied fists and an inability to play and worsen his image to his team.
Okay then, he thought. There must be another solution to find within his bathroom cabinetry.
His cabinets were - like the entirety of his house - incredibly sparse and full of random shit. Mostly things Shane told Ilya to buy. Or things that Ilya bought for Shane. Which is how he remembered the electric razor, hidden behind all of his colognes (for some odd reason).
Perfect! People drastically change their hair all the time. That is a super normal and unconcerning thing to do.
It wasn’t until the blades were buzzing and the entire left side of his hair was on the bathroom floor that he realized that Shane might murder him for this change. But it was too late. What was he supposed to do? Glue the hair back on?
Ilya was half tempted to snap a mirror selfie and send it to Shane, but he knew Shane was playing a game at that exact moment. And by the time Shane saw the picture the deed would be fully done. So he didn’t take a picture, he just kept shaving.
It kind of sucked that he felt…nothing. Ilya didn’t know what he expected but not even a hint of relief or regret in his body was disquieting. He needed something to fill his brain, so he fiddled with his phone until he was blasting Russian club mixes. The familiar yet distant words went in one ear and out the other, but they were a comfort nonetheless. The mess of blond curls on his tile tickled his unsocked feet and when he looked into the mirror once more, the sight of Irina Rozanova finally faded and all Ilya could see was himself and his rough, uneven buzzcut. It was simultaneously painful and freeing.
With the music still blasting, Ilya felt his body return to earth, this episode of manicism, of floating numbness, was finally beginning to subside. And Ilya felt bone-deep exhaustion. But that was better than feeling nothing. Being empty was scarier than being down.
His hair cut was a mess, though. And his forehead was bigger than he had realized. Shane was gonna be so fucking pissed.
ᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧᐧ
Ilya cleaned up the disaster of blonde on his floor and his head. He checked the time, realized that Shane’s game was over, and scrambled to check the score.
The Voyageurs won, of course. Unsurprisingly. Despite their chemistry being atrocious, they still manage to pull through on consistent wins. Must be nice. And even more unsurprisingly, Shane was behind all 3 points - 2 of which were goals that he scored and the third of which was a goal from Hayden Fucking Pike, assisted by Shane. A favor because Shane was not a stat-padder, surely. Ilya laughed to himself and reached up to run his fingers through his hair. Only to remember that he no longer has hair. Perfect.
It was at that moment when the last hour or so caught up to Ilya and he really understood that he had just shaved his entire head of hair off, something that he had never done before. His head felt odd, lighter in a way, and feeling the air touch his entire head and scalp was a truly new sensation.
His hair was truly shaved to oblivion, not a hint of an inch was left on his scalp. There was nothing to grasp, nothing to collect. Nothing for Shane to pull, to ring his fingers around. Nothing for Ilya to be worried about pulling back during a game, nothing for him to shampoo or condition. All his fancy products for his curl routine - useless. For now, at least.
In this light, he saw the slight similarities he held in his face with his father. The rigidity of his eyebrow bone, the shape of his ears. It made Ilya want to throw a wig on, just a little bit. But he didn’t see his father in the mirror when he looked at himself, so that was an improvement. He wasn’t haunted, just aware. Cognizant.
With that thought, Ilya decided he was done in the bathroom and meandered back to his unnecessarily massive living room to turn the TV on. Just in time to see the highlights of Shane’s game.
Watching Shane play made Ilya love hockey in a way he couldn’t when he himself was on the ice. Shane’s movement was beautiful without aggression. It was calculated in a way that wasn’t showboaty. Just clean lines and speed and pure power. The beauty was in the power he held and his ability to hold it without losing focus. The one time Shane stopped overthinking was when he was on the ice (and when he was getting fucked but, that’s generally irrelevant), and it was obvious. Shane looked free when he was playing hockey. Satisfied and content in a way he so rarely looked in every other part of his life. He looked like that around Ilya too, sometimes. But his focus was different and therefore his peace was shown in his smile rather than his determined eyes. Ilya was immensely grateful that he got that side of Shane that so few did. That level of comfort he shared with so few things on the planet.
And his playing tonight was lethal. He seemed on it in a way he hadn’t quite been since the beginning of the season. He seemed rejuvenated - Ilya could only hope it was because they saw each other the day prior. He could only pray that he recharged his boyfriend the way his boyfriend recharged him. That he held the piece of his heart that the ice couldn’t quite grasp.
He decided to bite the bullet and text the love of his life, knowing that Shane may ask for a phone call, which would mean a facetime, and Ilya couldn’t find a way out of it. Shane was going to find out about his lack of hair eventually.
Ilya: You played very well tonight, моя любовь. Like you always do.
Ilya: Was a fire in you today. The rest of the team? Not so much.
Ilya was so incredibly tempted to put his phone on do not disturb and go to bed and face the music in the morning when he was hopefully better rested (but honestly, he never slept well unless he was sleeping beside Shane). But at the end of the day, he liked to see Shane a little mad, a little flustered. It might lead to a nice nightcap, so to speak. Ilya was a glutton for this type of well intentioned, domestic punishment.
This led him to sit staring at his phone, waiting for a text back or a call. Luckily, in his frazzled state he was able to zone out a bit, letting the world and time pass by him. He felt the wear and tear of all his racing thoughts and actions catching up to him. But he couldn’t sleep until he talked to Shane. He probably wouldn’t sleep great after that but there was no point in even trying to sleep until Shane responded to him. He was wired through his exhaustion and it was more mental than physical. He could work with mental exhaustion. For now.
Shane texted him back about 45 minutes later. Well, Jane texted him back - an old joke and not needed at this point, but Ilya did find it weirdly enjoyable to keep the names going, it did provide a slight blanket of anonymity for their relationship, a barrier.
Jane: Thank you.
Jane: It was a long fucking game.
Jane: And the team did play well, Ilya. Don’t be an ass.
Ilya joyously cracked his knuckles in anticipation to respond, feeling life seep back into him. Like his mother, energized by compliments. Except his compliments were Shane calling him an ass or an asshole or a fucking asshole or a dick - anything in that expletive vicinity worked great. It made him grin like a lovesick fool. Which he was. Admittedly so. Happily so.
Ilya: Take the compliment, Hollander.
Ilya: That game was yours. And only yours.
Jane: Ilya.
Ilya: Okay, fine. I guess technically was a little bit of Pike’s too.
Ilya: But only the tiniest little bit.
Ilya: Like microscopic.
Jane: Dick.
Ilya: If you are asking for my dick, you need to be nicer.
Ilya smiled to himself lightly and felt incredibly genius because of his pivot. And, because he knows Shane better than he knows himself, Shane not responding and instead calling him for facetime was not at all surprising. Before picking up, Ilya ran to turn the lights off, if Shane was going to freak out regardless, he might as well give it a dramatic entrance.
“Hey,” Shane said easily into the phone. “Why are you in the dark? I know I didn’t wake you up.”
“Ah yes. Is technical difficulty, give me one second.” Ilya gave it a 50/50 shot that Shane would play into his antics at that moment.
Shane snorted. “Sure. Technical difficulties. Don’t tell me you picked up pissing or something because that’s actually disgusting.”
Ilya laughed. A real true laugh. It felt like an exhale. Loving Shane was Ilya’s breathing. “No мой чайник, I am not doing anything like that. I just need to…” He tapered off his voice purposefully as he made a show of making noise as he obviously searched for something.
“Turn a fucking light on Ilya, Jesus. If I wanted to see darkness this wouldn’t be a facetime. Also, no clue what that one was, sorry.”
Ilya grinned, cat-like and invisible due to the lack of light. Which was about to change. “If you insist, my kettle,” Ilya responded, emphasizing “kettle” with a thick Russian accent, making it clear what he had called Shane. Before Shane could question or protest the nickname, though, Ilya flicked the light on, bathing his side of the call in a warm light but letting his camera face the ceiling alone.
“Ilya, why am I looking at the ceiling?”
“Okay. So… I did do something.”
Shane rolled his eyes fondly, “I don’t like the sound of that already. How bad is it? Do I have to call Mom? Farah?”
“No моя любовь, nothing like that. Is just something that I am not sure you will love. Was a…quick decision.” Ilya felt a twinge of nerves pierce his skin, hoping to god that Shane would love him with or without his curls.
“Don’t tell me you got another tattoo. You need to spend time thinking about those, they’re permanent!”
“No, it’s not a tattoo. And is not permanent, not unless I want it to be.” Ilya grabbed the phone ready to move the angle.
Shane was still completely lost. “Not permanent unless you want it to be? What does that mean? Did you get a fucking piercing, Ilya? During the season? That would just be a waste of time and money. And it would be irresponsible. You aren’t supposed to have piercings in to play it’s a safety issue and sweating on them can cause infection and-”
Before Shane’s panic rant could progress any further, Ilya moved the phone to reveal his bald little head.
To say Shane’s eyes bugged out would be an understatement. He looked completely gobsmacked. Shocked. Confused. Ilya was both nervous and weirdly excited by the notion of Shane’s incoming reaction.
“Yes,” Ilya started, “I decided to go-”
Before he could finish his thought, Shane spoke, louder than he does 98% of the time. “You got a fucking BUZZCUT, Ilya!? You shaved your hair?” His voice went up half an octave.
Ilya gulped. Shane did not sound pleased but that was expected.
“It was not planned! I’m sorry. I did it because…” Well, Ilya couldn’t really explain why he did it without sounding like an absolute nutjob. And without revealing all the things he hadn’t told Shane about like his feelings and his therapy. Yeah, probably not the time. “Well, I did it because I felt like I needed a change. I’m sorry I did not ask you, I should have.”
Shane’s face went through about 20 different emotions before he processed what Ilya said fully and responded. “No, Ilya, hey. Don’t apologize. It’s just… very very different. I don’t think I’ve ever known you to have hair this short.”
Ilya laughed a little, glad Shane wasn’t too upset. “да, I do not think I have ever had hair this short. Except for when I was a very small child. But, even then.”
Shane stared at him through the screen, which somehow made Ilya flustered. Like Wyatt would say (although not technically about Ilya), God he was fucking whipped. Then, in a switch up that Ilya genuinely would’ve never predicted, Shane’s voice got deep and husky. “So what the fuck am I supposed to pull at, then?”
If the world could see the real Shane Hollander, they’d never recover, Ilya thought ruefully, although he was perfectly content to be the only person who got this side of Shane. Always and forever.
“It will grow back. Fast probably. Will be something to grasp by the next time we see each other.”
“No, Ilya. I can’t pull at half a centimeter. It’s not fucking possible.”
Ilya huffed. “Well maybe you can grab at something else then, or I can buy nice wig. We can work on this problem. The hair will grow back though, so you will not suffer for long.”
Shane darkened - which Ilya again, Ilya didn’t expect at all. “No. Maybe you should keep it like this for a while. You’re right, we need to workshop some ideas, but I’m open to figuring that out as we go. I need to see this hair in person though, to truly understand what I’m working with.”
Ilya hummed, “that seems reasonable.”
Shane grinned, his real dirty grin. Ilya was so in love he could fucking combust. How he went from numb and floating and untethered to this amount of joy in only a few hours? He didn’t know. He hoped to keep this high going though. Take the wins as they came.
“I might have to try holding onto your neck. That would be pretty tight though,” Shane sucked his teeth, faking concern.
“Oh no!” Ilya sighed dramatically, “what ever will I do with something being tight? How will I survive?”
They both laughed at each other. It felt almost boyish; free and floaty in a way so polar from how Ilya had felt when he shaved his head. When he saw his mother in the mirror. When he was unraveling, curl by curl.
“I am sorry I did not ask you, Shane. It was a decision I made as I was doing it. I had no warning for myself.”
Shane’s light smile shook away to something more serious. “Ilya it’s your body, you don’t have to consult me before you change it.”
“You use my hair more than I do. Is basically your property at this point.”
Shane muttered something that sounded suspiciously like damn right. Ilya’s heart panged with the deep desire to cup his hands around Shane’s face and hug him and kiss him and breathe him in. Shane looked down momentarily, and he looked up in admonishment.
“Ilya, you have a game. It’s crazy late. Go to bed.” It was not crazy late, it was one in the morning. But Ilya couldn’t fight Shane on that. He wasn’t stupid enough to waste his time on that losing battle.
He sighed, his exhale loosening his chest, and suddenly he felt all that exhaustion compound and settle into him. Fuck, he was tired. In so many ways. “Is not that late, Hollander. And I do not have morning skate, so I can sleep in a little.”
Before Shane could protest Ilya’s remarks, Ilya continued, “but because you did not murder me over phone for my curl-less head, I will go into bed.” He punctured this sentence with a genuine yawn, unfortunately vindicating Shane.
“Good, you need to sleep. It’s the most important part of performance. And you look exhausted, sorry.” Shane had the decency to look slightly sheepish at the last part.
“Is okay. I know you still think I am sexy at all times. But I will go to bed now.”
If only Shane knew that Ilya regularly got 4 or less hours a night. He wondered briefly if that sleeplessness was truly impacting his game. But then he remembered that he’s still playing well personally. There just is a lack of gel at the team level, if not the organization level.
Ilya walked to his bedroom and propped his phone up on a bedside lamp as he got into bed. Feeling the blankets pull him into the sleep he’s been dodging far too often. Maybe tonight he would get a good night’s rest without Shane being beside him. A guy could dream.
Shane just watched him in silence. Attentive as Ilya changed clothes and laid under his duvet. Ilya wished more than anything that he could know what Shane was thinking. All the time, but especially now.
“Thank you for being on the phone with me. I miss you,” Ilya said to Shane, holding his phone level with his face.
“Always. No reason to thank me. Sorry for freaking out about the buzzcut. It’s just a big and unexpected transformation.”
“Да, and I know how you hate those мой ежедневник.”
Shane looked at him so adoringly that Ilya wanted to rip his hair out- oh wait. Too late. “I don’t know that one but I imagine it has something to do with rule-following or planning or something.”
“Planner, is what it was.” Ilya agreed, his eyes slipping closed against his will.
“I’ll let you sleep now. I miss you too. So fucking much. Literally all day every day, it’s embarrassing.”
“Is not embarrassing, I’m very desirable and missable.” Ilya opened his eyes with the strength of 10,000 soldiers. Shane had a fond half-smile.
“Okay. Sure. I love you. Goodnight. I think I can call before you leave for your game, but it depends on when our flight out is.”
“Да, okay. Just let me know. Я люблю тебя больше всего на свете. ( I love you more than anything).”
Ilya closed his eyes as Shane replied, “я тоже тебя люблю.”
“Спасибо,” Ilya whispered, so lightly he didn’t think Shane heard him. But of course he did.
“Thank you? For what?”
“For everything. For being here with me. For loving me with this stupid buzzcut. For будучи моим домом (being my home). за то, что видишь меня таким, какой я есть (for seeing me as me).”
“I’ll stay on the phone until I’m sure you’re asleep. I love you so much, I don’t know what to do with it.” Shane whispered that, too. Not out of shame. Out of sanctity. Out of reverence.
Ilya knew rationally that loving Shane wasn’t the cure to his hauntings. His numbness and his manic impulse. But he hoped it would be enough, that love would bring his heart back up to pace, his soul to solace. It had to be. He wouldn’t allow himself to imagine otherwise, to look back at his мама, forever young in his mirror.
So, he fell asleep knowing Shane was patient. Knowing Shane was watching. And it brought him a momentary peace. A recharge to keep him upright. For now, it would have to be enough.