Chapter Text
Ilya
Ilya can’t remember the name of this stupid fucking Canadian town he is in. He knows it does not matter—the teams are bussed from their hotel to the rink for practice and games—but he hates not knowing where he is. If his father calls and asks, he needs to be able to answer, or gaskets will be blown. Roofs will be hit. It is something with an R. He takes his cigarettes out of the inside pocket of his coat. He will ask Coach. Coach will know, and he will not be a dick about it.
He takes the cheap, plastic lighter he’d bought at the same time as the cigarettes out of his pocket. He almost wishes he had a nice lighter, like his father’s: a Zippo that flips open, decorated with an eagle. Ivanov, one of their defensemen, had said the lighter was bright red, the color of the tiny cherries they give you on ice cream Sundays. Ilya had wanted to ask about his soulmate; it’s rare for someone his age to have found their person already, especially in places like Russia, where people are so spread out and the winter is so long.
But he hadn’t asked. Ilya can’t see color yet—he doesn’t think he’ll ever be able to. He doesn’t want to hear about his teammate’s luck, his destiny with the one person he’s supposed to be with.
“Ilya Rozanov.” The voice is unfamiliar. Ilya turns, and there is a boy his age standing there—one of the Canadian players.
His eyes are brown.
Ilya blinks. The boy’s eyes are still brown. His hat is deep, dark green. He looks down at the lighter in his hand. The color of sweet cherries.
“I’m Shane Hollander,” the boy says.
Shane Hollander.
“Okay,” Ilya says, instead of saying the boy’s name back.
His soulmate can’t be a boy.
“I just wanted to introduce myself,” the boy says. His lips are a different brown than his eyes. Mixed with red, or pink. He wonders what pink looks like. “I uh… don’t think you’re supposed to smoke here.”
“Okay,” Ilya repeats, unable to find the words in English to tell this boy that they cannot be soulmates, that Ilya’s destiny cannot be to be alone for his entire life.
Or worse, to be like—
“Well, um…” the boy clears his throat. “It was nice meeting you.”
Ilya nods. “Okay.”
*
Ilya should stop thinking about Shane Hollander. He is standing with his father, and the owner of the Boston Bears and he is thinking about Shane Hollander. His suit is black. His shirt is white. The two colors really are opposites. His father’s eyes are steel-grey, almost white in this lighting, blending with his sclera and making his cutting gaze slice deeper into Ilya. He thinks about the deep, woody brown of Shane’s eyes. Ilya’s own eyes are bright blue, darker than his father’s.
“I promise to work very hard for you,” Ilya murmurs when prompted. His father calls him lazy. Ilya thinks about the brown of Shane’s eyes, and the way his freckles are just slightly darker than the rest of his skin. He thinks about Shane’s hair, also dark brown in contrast to Ilya’s curls, which are a golden color. He thinks about his mother; he has a picture of her, in full color now. Her hair was also gold like his, but her eyes had been brown.
*
Ilya is panting. Shane is also panting. Ilya’s legs are burning. His chest is heaving. Plain water from his lucky bottle has never tasted so good. It’s the same color as Shane’s shirt, Ilya realizes. His shorts are the same dark green that his hat had been. He wonders if Shane knows, if someone who can see color picks out his clothes.
Does Shane have a favorite color?
He does not have a water bottle with him. Ilya offers him his own.
Their fingers brush, and Ilya’s soulmate cannot be a boy, but if he was—
If he was Shane’s soulmate, and Ilya was his, they could share water. They could race on exercise bikes or treadmills for fun, to push each other. He could hear Shane panting for different reasons than exercise bikes.
Their fingers brush again when Shane hands the bottle back. Ilya’s soulmate cannot be a boy, but there is a boy sitting across from him, and he is perfect.
*
Their faces are very close together. Ilya had been calling Shane Hollander all afternoon, as they posed in different pieces of gear, holding different pieces of equipment. And now their faces were very close together.
“You look pretty,” he says because he can’t stop himself.
“You’re wearing makeup, too,” Shane says, voice higher and reedy. He thinks Ilya is making fun of him.
He should let him think that, but their faces are very close together—Ilya had never known that a person’s irises were textured. There are peaks and valleys of color, all circling around the pupil.
He doesn’t know who breaks first—himself or Shane—but the two of them are smiling, laughing. They reset. They reset again. And again. The photographer sighs and gives up.
Shane doesn’t go straight to the locker room to change. His mother is here. She is beautiful. Her hair is brown, streaked with grey.
*
Ilya is imagining the way Shane’s eyes keep straying over to him. He must be. He should pretend that he is.
He thinks about Shane’s smile, the brown-pink-brown of his lips. He tries to count the freckles that dot Shane’s neck and shoulders. They’re like stars in a clear night sky. Brown eyes meet his. He holds the other boy’s gaze. Something possesses him.
He’d heard stories before, of people doing stupid things to get their soulmate’s attention. The people in the stories can’t help it. They lose self-control and self-preservation instincts. The universe grabs them by the brain stem and forces them to do something. And for Ilya, apparently that something is stroking his cock in a public shower.
Shane’s mouth drops open. His tongue is pink. He looks at Ilya’s groin, then at his eyes, then back again. “Not here,” he says, and turns off his showerhead. That is probably a good idea. His soulmate is smart, practical, pragmatic.
Ilya’s soulmate cannot be a boy.
He turns his own showerhead off, towels himself dry. His towel is dark green. It reminds him of the hat Shane had been wearing when Ilya’s world had burst into color for the first time, the shorts he had one when their fingers brushed in the hotel gym. He wraps the towel around his waist and stalks toward Shane, where he’s sitting on a bench, tying his shoes.
Ilya is no longer possessed by the universe, but he opens his mouth anyway, “Shane—”
“Hey, I'm sorry,” Shane says with a sigh. “I shouldn't have—you’re really hot.” A warm sensation blooms in Ilya’s chest like he’s never had someone call him hot before. Maybe it’s different because they’re soulmates? Shane clears his throat. “But I'm... it’s gonna sound lame, but I'm saving myself? For my soulmate.”
Ilya feels like all of the English has fallen out of his brain. Shane has been saving himself for him. “Mm.”
“My mom and dad are soulmates,” he explains without prompting. He’s looking down at his hands, studying his fingernails. Does he know the very tips of his fingers are pink? “And they're the best couple I've ever met, you know? And I like the idea of only being with the person I'm meant to be with. I... I already want them, you know? Whoever they are.”
He already wants his soulmate. Already wants Ilya.
Ilya’s soulmate cannot be a boy.
Shane smiles, tight-lipped, like he’s expecting Ilya to retaliate, or make fun of him for saving himself.
“Very romantic,” Ilya says. Has anyone ever been romantic toward him? Svetlana, maybe. But they are friends. Dear friends, best friends, but not romantic.
Shane chuckles, his face going pink around his cheekbones. Ilya wants to fall to his knees and worship this man.
Has he ever had that thought before? About anyone?
No one else is his soulmate.
“Shane Hollander.”