Rating:

Mature

Archive Warning:

No Archive Warnings Apply

Category:

M/M

Fandoms:

Game Changers Series - Rachel Reid, Heated Rivalry (TV)

Relationship:

Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov

Characters:

Shane Hollander, Ilya Rozanov, Hayden Pike, Yuna Hollander, David Hollander

Additional Tags:

Autistic Shane Hollander, Angst with a Happy Ending, Good Friend Hayden Pike, Coming Out, Ableism, Neurodiversity, Shane Hollander Needs a Hug, Panic Attacks, Situationships, Jesus these tags...this really is angsty but if it's any consolation I made Hayden extra goofy

Language:

English

Stats:

Published: 2026-03-31 Words: 9,094 Chapters: 1/1

he turns off the big light

Summary

Ilya knows firsthand that the world isn’t comfortable. It’s loud, bright, demanding, a harsh place in direct opposition to everything he’s recently learned about autism.

Is it so wrong that he wants Shane to feel safe here? To carve out a space where, even if only for a few hours, he doesn’t have to grin and bear anything? He can just be?

Or: Ilya Rozanov has a lot of good ideas. Telling his fuck buddy that he should consider getting an autism diagnosis isn’t one of them.

Notes

No book spoilers as this borrows from show canon and takes place in a nebulous late situationship era. I see this as sort of an alternate tuna meltdown. It's a salmon shutdown, if you will (this joke will make more sense after reading, come back to it)

Heads up, this fic contains ableist sentiments about autism (internalized and from others). There are positive ones as well though. My aim was to write from a place of both realism and aspiration.

This one’s dedicated to my best friend. Recently, I said to them, “I don’t know, maybe I’m not actually autistic” and they made the same face that Ilya does when Shane asks him to wait in the car. When you’re right, you’re right! Sorry your lord and savior Scott Hunter didn’t make the cut this time

Title is from the song complex by Katie Gregson-MacLeod, though the rest of the lyrics don’t really apply

Alright I’ll let you read now but truly, is there anything more autistic than a long, overexplain-y author’s note? I’m just giving you an immersive experience!

Ilya doesn’t miss Hollander.

He’s spent the past hour looking up his name on social media purely for research purposes.

They’re playing Montreal in a few days and he’s too lazy to get out of bed to grab his iPad and review tape. That’s all.

So he scrolls through photo after photo of Hollander. A few recent ad campaigns, a handful of stills and clips from his game tonight and the press after.

He stares at a picture of Shane giving said press, his face sweaty and flushed. He zooms in on Shane’s lips. For research purposes.

He scrolls to the next one when the caption catches his eye. He’s been largely ignoring the captions.

It’s mostly women who are desperate to fuck Hollander, which is funny and definitely doesn’t make anything weird turn over in his stomach.

But this one’s different: I love my little autistic man a completely normal and healthy amount actually

Ilya frowns. Autistic. He’s heard the word before, but he doesn’t understand what it has to do with Hollander.

He’s not autistic. Is he? No, Ilya would know. 

Surely it would be news. The league is always pedaling him out as the first Japanese bla bla bla. As if his accomplishments can’t stand on their own. As if his stats don’t put every white player in the league to shame—Ilya excluded of course.

He opens the comments. Maybe it’s a meme or something? Seems like a weird meme.

How tf can a two time Cup winner have autism? Wtf kinda blue haired nonsense is this? Are you shitting me

No. Have you seen the way that man stands??

Lmao literally!! And he’s never made eye contact once in his life. If you search autism in the DSM-5 there’s a picture of Shane Hollander stimming with his water bottle

Ugh. So many words he has to Google. This is more work than reviewing tape.

He looks up DSM-5, which seems like a very boring book, so he moves on quickly to stimming.

The definition makes him pause. Ilya thinks of Hollander’s hands swiping through his curls. Of his pretty lips wrapped around Ilya's fingers.

He reads the next reply: Lowkey I feel like taking this would change his life

He clicks the link. It’s aptly titled ‘autistic test’.

He briefly considers texting Hollander just to see what he would say—but he doubts it would be anything good. Ilya’s not an expert on autism by any means, but he knows how it’s perceived.

Last year, Carmichael’s nephew got diagnosed with autism. He kept lamenting how the ‘poor kid’ couldn’t feel empathy or really anything at all. Everyone clapped him on the back, offering condolences like the boy had been diagnosed with a terminal illness.

It doesn’t feel like an accurate way to describe Hollander, but these comments don’t seem to mean it as an insult. They’re coming from accounts with display names like “Hollander and Pike’s third” (laughable) and “Shane Hollander hole enthusiast” (relatable).  

It makes him curious. Enough that he decides to take the test himself but posing as Hollander, like the world’s most boring roleplay.

I am good at spotting patterns that other people miss, the first question reads. Agree or disagree. Well, yes, of course. That basically sums up Hollander’s career.

I prefer to do things the same way every time.

His fingers hesitate. He thinks about all the different ways he’s fucked Shane. In the shower, on a bed, against a wall. He always seems to get a thrill out of the variety, like finding new ways to come is another challenge worth rising to.

But outside of bed? Hollander only drinks one specific brand of ginger ale. Once at an All Star game, Ilya saw him wrinkle his nose and turn down a can of Schweppes. He folds his clothes shirt first, then pants, every time. Well, most of the time—when he's not immediately distracted. 

Ilya’s never thought about it before but there’s a rhythm to Hollander. A comfortable predictability. 

Agree, he clicks. Agree.

He keeps taking the quiz, with more agrees than disagrees. 

Most of the answers are straightforward. Yes, Hollander fidgets when he’s nervous. Yes, he’s uncomfortable at large gatherings. 

But Ilya hesitates when he gets to I could talk about my interests for hours and hours.

The answer must be agree, but he doesn’t know firsthand. He’s never had the luxury of hours and hours with Hollander. It sounds like a dream, getting to sit there and listen to him talk about hockey until his voice gets hoarse. 

Ilya swallows and forges ahead, until he reaches the end. 

89/100, the results read. Many signs of autism.

Huh. According to the internet (a very reliable source, as everyone knows), Shane Hollander has autism.

He goes back to Google in search of a different definition because it’s just not adding up to him. He thinks back to what Carmichael said about his nephew being incapable of feeling.

He thinks of Shane’s beautiful brown eyes, welling up with tears in a bathroom in Vegas. And a rink in Sochi. And in a few very proud moments, in Ilya’s bed.

Hollander is so different from the way that Carmichael talks about his nephew.

He’s different from the way people online talk about him too, even the ones who have pieced together that he’s autistic.

He finds another thread discussing the idea, because apparently this is a niche but widespread theory. They’re right that hockey is Shane’s “special interest” of course. Ilya’s pretty sure Shane’s obsession invented the concept.

But some of Hollander’s fans theorize that he secretly has a collection of fidget spinners, and Ilya doubts that. 

Actually, the more he reads, the more Ilya’s certain that his own dick is a stim toy for Shane. And his fingers of course. And his hair. And, well, him.

He doesn’t exactly hate the idea of being one giant toy to Hollander. Of being his to use, to self soothe with as he pleases. Ugh, great, now he’s horny.

He grabs lube from his bedside and pulls up the video of Hollander’s post game interview. He’s already this deep, there’s no sense pretending he’ll be able to get off to porn tonight without his mind wandering here.

He stares at the pout of those lips. Montreal lost to Toronto tonight, so there’s a lot of that pouting. It's subtle, but easily recognizable to Ilya.

Ilya thinks about those lips wrapped around him. About the fact that in a few days time, they will be. He’ll be here in this bed, clutching these sheets. 

Maybe he’ll ride Ilya. Maybe he’ll grab Ilya’s hair when he’s close to coming. Ilya loves when he does that. Sometimes he gets so lost in the moment that he yanks it hard and makes these soft little whines and—

Ilya spills over into his hand. He always comes fast when he’s thinking of Hollander. Really, it’s the most efficient choice.

He grabs a tissue to lazily clean himself off, the video playing on a loop as he does. 

“It’s, um, you know. It’s never fun to lose,” Hollander says seriously. Like this is a necessary statement that he needs to go on the record with.

Ilya smiles to himself.

Autistic. Maybe the stupid internet’s right on occasion. 

He drifts off wondering if this is another secret Shane carries tight to his chest—or if he doesn’t know.

***

Ilya’s considering fist fighting the Google search bar.

He’s eating breakfast (a greasy pretzel croissant sandwich from Dunkin’ and a large iced coffee, which he sends a picture of to Hollander just to get a rise out of him) and staring at his screen.

He wants to look up how to support Shane, but he doesn’t know how. He’s no expert on search engines, but he’s pretty sure there wouldn’t be many results for: how to support your booty call with autism that he may or may not know he has.

His thumbs stay still as he stares at the screen. He almost does it. He almost types how to support your boyfriend with autism or how to support your lover with autism.

Just for ease. Definitely not to see how it feels against his fingers.

No. How to support someone with autism, he types, hitting search. There’s a wealth of results. 

He takes out his laptop, opening a Google Doc so he can track the articles he reads and make a list of the most relevant points.

He’s considering color coding it when he realizes with a startled laugh that this is something Hollander would do. Well. What’s the phrase? You are what you eat? He moves onto the next article. 

He’s glad that he’s picky and bought so many lamps. Dim lighting is good, apparently, and at least this way Hollander will have options. He just has to figure out how to let him choose without asking outright.

He’s pretty sure Hollander would be weirded out if Ilya said, “Now hang on, don’t suck my dick just yet. Tell me, is this lamp dim enough?”

He’ll just go with the dimmest one, he decides. One in the living room, one in the bedroom. Actually, he should put one in the bathroom too. The light is so bright in there now that he thinks about it.

He’ll go to the antique store today and buy another. Brenda, the woman who runs the place, probably thinks he has a lamp fetish, but whatever. He needs one for the space that’s small and soft enough.

He’s reading about sensitivity to texture and re-thinking the blankets on his bed when Hollander responds to the breakfast picture.

Gross. I can’t believe you put that shit in your body

Ilya smiles, sends back: It’s as yummy as what you put in yours 

Then, he remembers the article he read about how autistic people sometimes struggle to get jokes. Hollander’s always seemed to understand his humor fine, but just in case, he adds: I mean my dick

Shane replies: Jesus. It’s not even 8 AM yet

And immediately after: Your place tomorrow, right?

Ilya’s smile widens. He loves the way that Shane always double checks plans. 

God, he must have been so stressed during that snow storm years ago that prevented them from meeting up. Did he know why? Did his parents (Yuna and David, his encyclopedic knowledge of Shane unhelpfully provides) get him diagnosed?

Did they notice the way that Hollander folds his clothes in neat little piles? The way his voice veers into a monotone when he’s stressed, the way eye contact is the only thing he’s ever failed at, the way he’ll happily eat salmon and rice for every meal?

Did they take him to an expensive therapist’s office with a chair that was too big and a white noise machine that made him cringe? Or did they do what Ilya did until last night and think to themselves: Oh, that’s just Shane. Charming, sweet, perfect Shane.

He hopes it’s the former. He hopes Shane has always had the answers, has never had to ask, “why am I like this?” while tearing himself to shreds.

Ilya does not think about his own mother. He does not think about that dark, nebulous part of his brain that he’s too afraid to name, because naming it will make it real, and if it’s real…

Yes. I hope your ass is ready. I have big plans for it, he sends.

That’s clear enough, right? As a precaution, he tacks on: Plans like my dick

Yeah, I’d hope so, Shane replies.

Ilya chuckles and stands, clapping his hands together. Okay. One hour until practice. Plenty of time to stop by the antique store.

***

Ilya’s first week in Boston, he spent the day on the Common.

Just sitting in the grass, listening in on conversations in annoying accents, some he could parse, some he couldn’t.

Later, he would do what he was supposed to. Go to clubs that didn’t card, sleep with a woman or two. Become the king of the city that he was destined to be. Fuck Brady. It was his now.

But for a few hours, he sat there. Not Rozanov, just Ilya. Blending in and breathing. A lesbian couple walked past pushing a stroller, and something in his chest loosened.

Kissing Shane is like that afternoon. There’s this sense deeper than skin, deeper than bone, that he’s where he needs to be.

This part he knows how to do. He knows how to kiss Shane, how to fuck him.

Even after his two day research spiral, it doesn’t require much adjustment. He’s always been clear: Are you okay? Get on your knees. Still want this? Don’t come yet.

But he keeps his voice quieter when he can manage it. He keeps the room darker and he turns off the continuous fan so there’s no excess of white noise. He doesn’t play music, though he never has with Shane.

He does with all his other hook ups, choosing from one of six playlists curated for specific vibes—but not with Shane. He refuses to let a single moan or whimper be drowned out.

So it’s not that different in the end, fucking a Shane who he knows is autistic. There’s a fleeting moment or two where he worries that he’s overstimulating him, but Shane is still Shane.

So beautifully, hypnotizingly vulnerable. He begs for it and pleads and whines, lets Ilya know in twelve different ways that he wants this. No, needs this. 

After, Ilya grabs the wet wipes he had waiting on the bedside table. This part is new. Usually, he just sort of lounges for a few minutes until one of them can be bothered to shower.

Sometimes he showers first, which he’s embarrassed by now. He doesn’t really mind cum drying on his stomach. It’s like a temporary tattoo. 

But he’s sure it makes Shane squirm. He doesn’t need a think piece on autism to know that—it just seems obvious now that he thinks about it.

He gently runs the wipe over Shane’s stomach. “Oh.” Shane’s eyes widen. “Um, do you need me to leave?”

“What?”

“I can shower back at the hotel, I guess.” He picks at the sheets with his fingers. Stims with it.

“No no,” Ilya says quickly, realizing his mistake too late. He changed the routine with no warning, no explanation. Fuck. “Just…don’t want you to sit in the mess. You have the first shower. Whenever you want. Okay?”

“Okay.” Shane gives him a fleeting, wary side-eye, but ultimately melts back into his post orgasm haze. 

Ilya runs a hand through Shane’s hair, unable to help himself. Shane’s hair is so soft, like a puppy crossed with a teddy bear.

“Is this okay?” Ilya asks, even if selfishly he doesn’t want to be given a reason to stop. He wants to do this forever.

No. Not forever. Never forever. Just…for a few more minutes.

“What?”

“My hand. I can stop.”

“Oh.” Shane’s confused. Of course he’s confused. Ilya has never asked for consent outside of sex. He’s just taken scraps of affection here and there when he thinks he can risk it. “It’s, um. It’s fine.”

“Okay.”

“I’m gonna…shower.” Shane pulls away and Ilya’s fingers move absently, searching for him. He wills them to stop.

When Shane stands to go, Ilya calls after him, “There is a lamp.”

“What?”

“In the bathroom. There is a lamp now. You can use it.”

“Oh.” Shane frowns. “Isn’t that a fire hazard?”

He’s so cute, Ilya wants to stand up just to pinch his cheeks. “Is not in the shower, Hollander.”

Shane hugs his arms tight around his stomach. “Why did you put a lamp in your bathroom?”

“Mood lighting,” Ilya says, raising his eyebrows.

“Yeah, okay.” Shane snorts.

“If you don’t like my lamp, maybe use the middle switch.”

“Middle switch?”

Ilya’s regretting not explaining this before sex. Shane’s brain gets mushy when he’s just been fucked and he came twice tonight. “Yes. It turns on the light without the fan. It can make the bathroom hot though.”

“Okay…” Shane furrows his eyebrows. Ilya’s failing at this so miserably.

He just….Ilya knows firsthand that the world isn’t comfortable. It’s loud, bright, demanding, a harsh place in direct opposition to everything he’s recently learned about autism.

Is it so wrong that he wants Shane to feel safe here? To carve out a space where, even if only for a few hours, he doesn’t have to grin and bear anything? He can just be?

“I’m gonna…” Shane heads into the shower and Ilya almost calls after him that he has salmon and rice in the fridge if he wants it. That he ordered the brand of lemon pepper sauce Shane talked about in a lifestyle video a few years back, that Ilya still sees in his kitchen.

Instead, he lets Shane go. He scrolls idly through his phone, swallows past the lump that always forms when they’re nearing the time that Shane has to leave.

Shane emerges from the bathroom with a towel slung low around his waist.

Ilya’s temporarily distracted by his abs—and the subsequent urge to lick them. He forces his eyes away and crosses the room to pull out the t-shirt and sweatpants he set aside.

“Here,” he says.

Shane blinks at them. “I can wear my own clothes. I just forgot to bring them in—“

“You should stay. Stay for dinner.” His throat feels tight, like it’s constricting around the words, trying to push them back down. “I have leftover salmon.”

It’s unassuming this way, he thinks. If he only says they’re leftovers, Shane won’t have to know that Ilya made it especially for him. That he studied the recipe, burnt the first batch, and stayed up late making a second.

It doesn’t seem to help. Shane says nothing. He’s staring at Ilya like he just proposed marriage.

It’s too much. Ilya knows it’s too much, but he still can’t manage to tamp down his greed.

He wants a few more hours. Just a few more. He’d settle for one though. Hell, he'd settle for thirty minutes.

“I have way too much food. I could never eat it all myself,” Ilya says. “Will be healthier than takeout, yes?”

“Okay…” Shane says slowly, fiddling with the t-shirt in his hands.

“Okay.” Ilya smothers a smile. “Make yourself comfortable in the living room. I will shower and then reheat it.”

His greed is clearly spilling over, because Ilya can’t help himself. He leans in and kisses Shane, just fleetingly, just once. 

He steps into the bathroom, grinning when he sees that the lamp is on. Victory.

He hopes Shane likes the outfit he picked out too. He went on a deranged virtual scavenger hunt to find the right material.

He scoured through this Instagram account called Shane Hollander fashion. A laughable concept, really. Why have a fashion account for someone who exclusively wears branded clothes, black t-shirts, and blue button downs?

Ilya has a similar fan run account that’s much more interesting and, naturally, more popular. But Shane’s account was helpful.

He was able to look up the materials of the clothes Shane wears most often, then pull something from his own wardrobe in a similar cotton blend.

He probably should have bought something new that was an exact match, but he figures his clothes will be worn in, more comfortable. That’s all. It’s definitely not that he’s desperate to see Shane wearing them.

He emerges from the shower, towels off, puts in his hair mousse. He pulls on a shirt and sweatpants in the same material Shane likes. He’s not expecting to cuddle or anything. But, well, if they do, he doesn’t want the fabric to be abrasive. It’s good to be prepared.

Shane’s sitting on the couch waiting for him, looking around awkwardly, like he’s lost.

That’s fair. Ilya’s veered from the routine again. He knows he shouldn’t.

But maybe the routine’s broken. Maybe it’s time they gut it from the inside, lay the foundation for a new one.

“You want ginger ale?” Ilya asks. “I have Canada Dry.”

Shane nods. “That would be nice. Thank you.”

Ilya gives him a can to drink while he heats up the food. He brings the plates over, turns a game on, keeps the volume low.

He’s not sure if Shane keeps the volume high in his own home, if he doesn’t mind noise when it’s coming from a rink and the dulcet tones of commentators.

He places the remote between them. “You can change the volume. If you want.”

“Okay.” Shane doesn’t touch it. Ilya doesn’t know how to communicate that he means it. That he’d give more than Shane would ever ask for.

Shane eats a bite of salmon. Ilya watches him out of the corner of his eye. He’s not much of a chef beyond tuna melts and fried eggs. He hopes he did an okay job.

Shane swallows, then goes very, very still. Oh no. Ilya knew he should have made a third batch. 

“What sauce is this?” Shane asks.

“Lemon."

“What brand?”

Fuck. Shane knows. Of course he knows. He eats it all the time. His tongue is probably as acquainted with the taste as it is with Ilya’s cum. 

Ilya considers lying, saying he made the sauce from scratch. But wasn’t the point to make Shane comfortable? “Clement's.”

Shane sets his fork down. “What’s going on?”

“What?” Ilya feels distinctly like a rabbit thrashing against a snare.

“You’re being…what is this?”

“Salmon,” he says flatly.

“Why do you have a lamp in your bathroom? Why did you…Clement's is a Canadian brand. They don’t sell it in America. I’ve checked before.”

Ilya inhales sharply. He knows that too, because he had to overnight it and spend an absurd amount on shipping.

Stupidly, he didn’t think that Shane would question it. He thought that Shane would just eat the damn salmon. That he’d be happy. That Ilya could be the one to make him happy.

“I like their sauce,” Ilya says pathetically, desperately. “Good quality.”

“What’s happening?” Shane says again. Like if he keeps asking, he’ll get the answer. It’s one of Shane’s most frustrating and endearing traits, that stubbornness.

“Nothing. I just—I thought it might…help.” It’s not the right word. He considers blaming it on his English, but he knows that won’t work, not with Shane, not after all these years.

“Help what?”

“You,” Ilya snaps with unearned patience. “Help you.”

“Help me…what?”

It’s like pulling teeth—and Ilya’s always hated going to the dentist. He used to cry for hours when he had to go. He’d beg his mother to stay by his side when he was in the chair. She always did. Always stood above him, tracing soothing circles over his palm.

It’s a mistake, facing that memory head on. It makes him soft, stupid. Makes him pick at that blister of a question: how different would things be if even one person saw her? If one person put a name to what she was feeling and carried it with her? 

“Has anyone ever told you that you could be autistic?” It falls out of him, sharp and clumsy.

It’s the wrong thing to say. Of course it’s the wrong thing to say. Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck. 

Shane blinks once, twice. “Autistic? Is that…what are you…what?”

“I have been reading articles…”

“Articles,” Shane says tersely. “Articles about how crazy I am?”

“Autism is not crazy,” Ilya says. “Autism is just…how some people are. I think. I don’t know, I only started learning about it two days ago.” Admittedly, he’s still not sure he fully grasps it, beyond the fact that it’s probably what makes Shane Shane.

“And you decided that I have it? What the fuck, Rozanov?” His hands ball into tight fists. He looks torn between crying and punching him. “Is this—is this something you do? What, are you gonna fuck a girl tomorrow and tell her she’s bipolar?”

“No. That would be weird.”

“How is this any different?!” Shane spits and Ilya nearly laughs, but this time, he manages to catch himself.

“Because…because I have known you since we were kids,” Ilya says, voice as measured as he can make it. “I know you.”

“You’re not my fucking therapist.”

“So you have a therapist?” Ilya’s not sure why he asks it. Curiosity? Jealousy? A death wish?

Shane’s eyes widen. “God, this…I can’t fucking believe…” He shakes his head, turns away, and says so quietly that Ilya can barely make it out, “and you were, like, the only one.”

“The only what?”

“The only person who treats me like I’m fucking normal!” His arms are shaking, his shoulders hunching. He’s making himself smaller, smaller, smaller and Ilya’s desperate to stretch him back out, limb by limb.

“I do think you are normal.” It’s a lie. Ilya thinks that normal is an insult for someone as remarkable as Shane Hollander. He knows that would be unhelpful right now though.

“You read fucking articles to figure out what type of crazy I am.”

“Not crazy—”

“Jesus Christ,” Shane says. He’s shaking now. Ilya wants to hold him, but he read that that can be bad for autistic people at times like this.

He’s guessing because he can’t ask. He isn’t allowed to ask. There are carefully outlined rules to their thing and he's pretty certain they don't include checking in with your bottom about regulation strategies.

Shane’s barely breathing. Ilya tries to block out everything he’s learned, because before he read all those fucking research papers, he learned to read Shane. 

“Breathe,” he says. “Breathe for me, Shane.”

Shane, still hyperventilating, flinches at the sound of his own name.

Ilya doesn’t falter. He rubs Shane’s back in slow circles, keeps his hand heavy. Minutes pass. The only sound is Shane’s gasped breaths and Ilya’s reminders to take deeper ones.

“I can’t,” Shane says finally, “I can’t believe you…”

“I—I only wanted to…” To know you better. To treat you better. To lo—

Shane stands. “I have to go. I have to…” 

“Hollander. Hollander.”

He flees into the night. 

Ilya sits there, staring into the space he left behind, barely illuminated by one lamp.

Shane slams the hotel door behind him, then winces. Everything’s so fucking loud.

The cab driver’s music and the squeak of his sneakers and his own fucking heartbeat. He slides down the door, sits on the carpet, and nestles his head against his knees. 

He used to sit like this as a kid when the world became too much, when hockey wasn’t enough to tune it out, shut it off. Like if all he can see is his own body, maybe everything beyond it will cease to exist.

“Whoa,” Hayden says.

Right. Hayden’s here. Jesus, how is Shane going to explain this?

It’s…he can’t even explain it to himself. 

Warm lighting. A softer voice. Wet wipes. The sauce he puts on his salmon. How did he get the fucking sauce? Did he smuggle it across the border?

And how did he even know about it? How did he know any of that? That stupid shower lamp had been so nice and he hates that. He hates that Rozanov was right.

He’s always known him so well, so maybe—Shane lets out a choked sob. He’s crying. When did he start crying?

“Breathe,” Hayden says, his voice coming from beside him now. “Breathe, buddy.”

It’s so similar to Ilya’s words but louder, rougher. His hand on Shane’s back is too light, it gives him goosebumps. Shane needs it firmer, probably, but he doesn’t know how to ask.

With Rozanov, he never has to. Had to. It’s not like he can see him again. He’s a deranged person, clearly.

Who does that? Who, like, reads research papers and diagnoses their hook up as…as…

Fuck. “Fuck,” he says aloud.

“Shane,” Hayden says softly. “Do you wanna talk about it?”

Shane laughs. He can’t help it. It’s just…he imagines telling Hayden and it’s fucking hilarious. Yeah, Ilya Rozanov diagnosed me with autism tonight. And he’s curing it through the power of ambient lighting.

“What happened with Lily?” Hayden whispers. “Did you guys…break up?”

Shane shakes his head, because breaking up would imply they’re together. They’re not. They’re just fucking. Why is Rozanov buying his lemon pepper sauce if they’re just fucking?

“Okay. Good,” Hayden says.

“Good?” Shane croaks out.

“Yeah, I’m rooting for you crazy kids!” he says, and Shane laughs roughly. “So what happened? You got in a fight? That’s fixable, buddy.”

“No, it’s. She…” The pronoun tastes like ash in his mouth. God, why is he even bothering? “I can’t—It’s too…”

“Too?”

“Embarrassing.”

“Oh. Oh,” Hayden says, nodding. “Okay, say no more. Got it. It happens to the best of us.”

“...what?” Shane’s not a betting man, but he would put money on this being the least relatable situation in human history.

“I mean, it hasn’t happened to me, but it’s normal, I’ve heard! Have you tried Viagra? No shame in doing what needs to be done to keep the good times rolling.” 

Shane chokes on air. “No—no, not that.” Although, props to Hayden, it's not the worst guess. Shane is terrible at getting hard with women. But tonight, he came twice. Hell, when he was sitting on that couch, he was considering asking for a third. He was already breaking the cardinal rule and lingering. Maybe even staying. Fuck. “Fuck.”

“Okay, seriously, what happened?”

“You won’t even believe me. It’s so…” He shakes his head. “It’s fucked.”

Hayden raises his eyebrows. “Well now you have to tell me. Like, because I wanna be there for you, but also because I might die of curiosity.”

Shane lets out an embarrassingly snotty laugh. Okay. Fine. Maybe if he says it, if Hayden laughs at the absurdity of it with him, it will help him move the fuck on. Because he has to. After tonight, he has no choice.

“She…was acting weird all night.”

“Weird how? Like sexually? Is she into foot stuff?” Hayden gasps. “Oh no, don’t tell me she has an Asian fetish. I’ll turn on Boston Lily if I have to.”

“Please stop guessing. Weird like…” He doesn’t want to say it. He doesn’t want to admit that he breathed easier when Rozanov used that wet wipe. That he felt more relaxed in a shower than he’s ever been. He picks at the t-shirt, soft on his skin. He’s still wearing it. Hayden hasn’t seemed to notice.

“Like?” Hayden broaches.

“I don’t know. Like keeping the lights dimmer and making salmon with the brand of sauce I use and acting all…whatever. I asked why and she said—she said she read articles about how to help me…” He pauses, inhales. “Help me with my ‘autism’.” He doesn’t actually have it in him to make air quotes, but he’s sure they’re implied. 

Strangely, Hayden doesn’t gape and say, ‘that’s the weirdest shit I’ve ever heard’. Instead, he grins. “You told her you’re autistic? That’s great! So is it getting more serious between you guys?”

“What?”

“Wait, why are you so freaked out?” Hayden’s eyebrows furrow. “Was she not good at supporting you or something? It sounds really thoughtful! Okay, I’m back on board the Lily train. Leaving the station with or without you.”

“Hayden, what? I’m not autistic,” Shane has to state the obvious for some reason.

“Huh? Yes you are.”

“No I’m not.”

“You’re…oh wow.” He finally makes the face that Shane was expecting. What the fuck is this night? “I just assumed you knew, that Yuna was on that shit, but I guess different generation and all…”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“I’m not…” Hayden shifts slightly, repositions himself so he’s sitting across from Shane. “I mean, Jackie and I talked about it when Jade was going through her evaluation. Remember that?”

“Not really.”

“She didn’t end up being autistic. At least, the psychologist didn’t think so, but I’m kind of starting to think we need a second opinion. She has a meltdown, like, three times a week and have you heard her talk about the folklore of fairies?” He shakes his head. “Anyways, we didn’t talk about it in a bad way of course! Just that it’s great that the kids have such a positive autistic role model.”

“A positive…”

“Aren’t you diagnosed?” Hayden says. “I swear you told me you were. Who am I thinking of then?”

“I…I’m not…” This is ridiculous. It’s absurd. He’s the best player in the fucking NHL. The best player in the NHL can’t be autistic. The best player in the NHL "can’t be gay" either, a tiny voice tells him, but he smothers it. “I’m not autistic.”

“Are you sure?” Hayden says. “You’re…you know…”

“What? I’m what?” He waits for the inevitable: Crazy. Insane. Weird. 

“Particular,” Hayden says. “Not in a bad way! But, like, remember last month, we checked into the Embassy Suites in Buffalo and you were complaining that they changed the lightbulbs since the last time we stayed there?”

“They were buzzing,” Shane mumbles.

“Right. And you fold your clothes twice. Like you take them out of your suitcase folded, then you re-fold them for some reason. You always have to hang up your game day suit in the same spot in the closet—”

“That’s just regular hockey player superstition,” Shane argues.

“Sure. But you’re…you eat the same foods over and over without getting sick of them. Your routine is, like, sacred to you. Remember when our flight to Jersey was delayed and you had a panic attack about how it was gonna be pushed back?”

“That’s—” Shane starts. Stops. “I’m an athlete. Diet, sleep, routine, that’s part of my job.”

“Or maybe that’s what you tell yourself so you don’t have to think about why you really do it.”

Shane drops his head back to his knees. He’s so tired suddenly. Tired of being told who he is, how he thinks. Tired of the little inkling that it’s all true. It can’t be. It just can’t be.

“Oh Shane.” Hayden claps him lightly on the shoulder and Shane can’t hide his grimace in time. “Sorry, sorry. Look, whether you’re autistic or not…isn’t it nice that Lily put real thought into how to take care of you?”

“No. It’s weird. We’re not even in a relationship.”

“Why not?” Hayden throws his hands in the air. “It’s been years and she’s out here ready to turn the sun down for you and shit.”

“We’re not…we can’t.”

“I think you already are.”

“We can’t,” Shane says more forcefully. That’s what makes this so much worse.

It’s already making his skin crawl that Rozanov thinks he’s crazy, that he fucking made a game plan for how to deal with him. It’s that much worse knowing that he crossed—no, trampled over—the line. 

That invisible line that keeps them safe. Because if they ever admit that this is something, if they buy fucking lamps and import lemon pepper sauce for each other, then they’ll have to let it go.

“Why?” Hayden asks again. “Is she married or something?”

“Fuck. Fuck, we just can’t.” He hazards a glance at Hayden, at his best friend who’s apparently thought he was autistic for months (years?) and hasn’t looked at him differently. Not once. He forces a leveled breath, averts eye contact, and says, “He knows that we can’t.”

“Oh. Oh!” Hayden gasps. “Well fuck. That one I didn’t see coming.”

***

Two hours later, Shane’s laying in bed, accepting that sleep will never find him, when Hayden bolts upright.

“Holy shit,” Hayden says, turning a light on.

“What?”

“You’re telling me a man was reading articles on ways to support you?” 

“Yes, Hayd,” Shane says, squinting and considering knocking the lamp to the floor. “We’ve been over this.”

He drank a ginger ale while Hayden asked him one annoying question after another. 

Have you always known? Are you ever gonna come out? Who else in the league do you think is gay? Don’t you think J.J. has a bit of a vibe? Is that homophobic? Are you a top? Why do you look like you’re about to murder me?

“A man bought your special lemon sauce. Not a woman. Wow,” Hayden says. “What else did he do?”

“I don’t know, like…” Shane fiddles with his travel pillowcase. He does know. He’s spent the last hour thinking about it nonstop. “He put a lamp in the bathroom. So it wouldn’t be too bright when I showered.”

“Shane. You need to marry this man.”

Shane laughs so hard it physically pains him.

***

After a rough four hours of sleep, he wakes up to five texts from Ilya.

“Jesus,” he mumbles, staring at the screen with blurry eyes.

“Good morning!” Hayden says, way more chipper than he usually is at this hour. “Or should I say gay morning? Can I? I’ve been sitting on that one for half an hour.”

“Oh God.” Shane slaps a hand over his eyes. He’d been hoping that last night was a bizarre dream. “I feel hungover. Or dead. Am I dead?”

“No, but I’m gonna kill you if you don’t answer your phone. It’s been going off all morning. I think Lily’s really sorry, man!”

“Did you—” Shane holds his phone tighter to his chest. Hayden might actually walk into Boston traffic if he finds out that he told Shane to marry Ilya Rozanov last night.

“Relax, I didn’t read them, I just assumed. And hoped. You know I’m the number one Shily fan.”

“Shily?”

“Shane. Lily.” He presses his palms together. “Shily!”

“Ew. Please never say that again.”

“Well, you won’t tell me his real name!” Hayden pouts.

Shane ignores him, finally opening the texts.

Hollander

Come back. 

Please

We can eat salmon

Forget it ever happened.

Shane swallows. He can’t forget. He can’t forget the fucking lamp—all the lamps.

He hadn’t noticed at first because, well, there was a naked Ilya Rozanov in front of him. But he can see it now. The whole apartment, darker and softer—for him.

Why would he do that for him? How many articles did he find? How long did he spend reading them?

Shane buries his face in his hands. He doesn’t know what to do. He doesn’t know how to keep telling himself that it’s nothing when there’s a lamp plugged into the outlet of Il—Rozanov’s bathroom, carefully far from any water source, for him.

“It’s okay,” Hayden says.

“It’s not. I can’t…” Shane lets out a low exhale. “I’m already that Japanese hockey player. I can’t be…autistic. I can’t be…gay.” Both words feel like poison in his mouth—because they are. 

Hayden moves over to his bed, sits beside him. “I don’t think there’s any can be. You just are,” he says. “Like how you can’t wake up tomorrow and choose not to be Japanese.”

“That’s different. I can…I can be normal. I can date women. I can…” I can be good. I can be the best. I can shove everything I feel, everything I am, into the smallest box possible and tuck it on a shelf so high I can’t reach it. “At least until I retire…”

“That’s not how it works. You know that. I know you know that,” Hayden says. “What’s your plan, man? To deny who you are, even to yourself, for the next ten, fifteen years?”

Shane opens his mouth but no words come out. Instead, for the second time in two days, he bursts into tears.

***

Once he’s all cried out, he texts Ilya back. He’s too tired to pretend he can stomach thinking of him as Rozanov.

I need time to process all of this. 

The response comes in right away: Take all the time you need.

Unable to help himself, Shane adds: Where did you get my lemon sauce?

Online, Ilya replies. Overnighted it. 

Then: You want some? I could only buy in bulk. I have twenty bottles. I feel like I am running an Olive Garden

And Shane just can’t help himself. He smiles.

***

Shane sits on his parents’ porch, watching the sunset and trying to breathe normally.

It reminds him of that night not long after the draft, when he did basically this. He was absorbed by guilt after his first (but absolutely not last) time coming to the thought of Ilya.

He stared at this same view and willed himself not to think about it. He honestly thought he could manage it. That if he boiled Ilya Rozanov down to fragments (hard abs, sharp jaw, killer puck handling), he’d never have to face the truth in its entirety.

It feels so naive in hindsight.

“You okay?” his mom asks, looking up from her phone. She’s been drafting an email on his behalf. He can’t for the life of him remember the subject.

“I…Have you ever thought that maybe I’m autistic?” It’s an echo, he realizes. Maybe he is starting to sound like him.

“Autistic?” She’s shocked, he assumes. He doesn’t look at her long enough to find out, just stares at the tree line. “Where’s this coming from? Did someone say something to you? Was it on the ice?”

He chuckles. That would be a creative chirp. Hey Hollander, heard you suck at sensory processing, what’s up with that?

“No. No. Just, uh, Hayden. He was getting Jade evaluated and he thought maybe there were…similarities.”

“Similarities,” she sounds out the word slowly. “I’ve never—I mean, I suppose there was Mrs. Roy.”

“Mrs. Roy?” He remembers her fondly, his grade 3 teacher. She gave him a nonfiction book about hockey and let him read it by her desk during recess.

“Yeah. Your grade 2—no, 3, teacher. Her son was autistic and she thought maybe we should have you evaluated.”

He inhales sharply. It’s like losing an edge. Like not realizing the wind’s being knocked out of you until it’s gone completely.

“Did you get me evaluated?” he asks, unsure of what answer he's hoping for.

“No. No, we didn’t want to make things harder on you.”

Would it have made things harder? Probably. But easier too maybe? There’s no way to know now.

He can’t override the childhood he already had. Ice beneath his feet, his mother's smile above him, spilled ginger ale too sticky on his fingers. Laughter from teammates that he was never quite sure was with or at him.

But he can wonder. Maybe he’ll always wonder.

“Do you really think you could be…” She can’t say the word. He’s not sure it would be fair of him to judge her for that. He’s been researching virtually nonstop for the past week, but he can barely speak it himself.

“I don’t know,” he answers honestly. “Do you?”

“It seems…unlikely.” She reaches forward, pushing his hair to the side like she always does when he’s jittery. “You’re so capable. Sometimes I don’t think you realize how exceptional you are, Shane. Your father and I are so, so proud of you.”

“Thanks,” he says quietly, because he knows he’s supposed to, but her words make his ears ring.

Autistic or capable. Is there any way it could be both?

The sliding door creaks open and his dad appears, wearing his favorite soft gray shirt that’s nearly in tatters by now. “Joey’s for dinner? Usual order?”

His mom frowns. “I thought you were making salad.”

“I was, but the store was out of cherry tomatoes.”

“So get Roma or something.”

“But we always make the arugula salad with halved cherry tomatoes.”

“It’s not like that’s a hard rule,” she says. He doesn’t answer. “Do you have the other ingredients? We could make it without tomatoes.”

He stares at her blankly, like she’s asked him to make steak out of chewing gum.

“Joey’s sounds good to me,” Shane offers softly, and his dad smiles, flashes him a thumbs up.

Shane turns to his mom, who’s back to glaring at her phone.

“What email are you sending again?” he asks, earning the sigh he expected.

“I’m drafting potential responses to the director of the latest Monbray shoot. He’s been finicky and I'm worried he’s either gonna come back and say we need more photos or that we need more touch ups. I’m preparing a reply for both scenarios.”

“So you’re writing a reply to an email that hasn’t come in yet? Is it super time sensitive or something?”

"No?" She wrinkles her nose in confusion, like the question makes no sense. “I’d just like to have a draft of both ready. So no matter what he throws at me, I'm prepared.”

“Okay.”

Shane pulls out his phone and googles: odds of autistic child having two autistic parents?

He’s starting to think they’re pretty damn high.

***

It’s a collection of little things, in the end.

The way he absently chews on the collars of his T-shirts, the strings of his hoodies.

The way he can only handle an excess of noise when he has hockey to muffle it.

Hockey.

The way he winces reading menus at new restaurants. Feeling the wrong fabric on his skin. Drinking the wrong ginger ale. Making eye contact. Being late. Breaking routine. 

Every thing that on its own, he can explain away as discipline, superstition, humanity.

But when he adds them all together, he sees it. He can’t stop seeing it. And he can’t stop thinking of Ilya, seeing it first.

“How did he see it before I did?” Shane asks, sitting in Hayden’s living room, sipping a ginger ale. Canada Dry, of course.

“The same way I did,” Hayden says. “He cares about you a lot.”

“Oh yeah?” Shane raises his eyebrows. “You care about me the same way he does?”

“Autistic people aren’t supposed to make jokes, you know. That’s what all the articles say.”

“They probably say we’re not supposed to be Stanley Cup winners either,” Shane says, and it doesn’t totally, completely pierce him. That we.

“I’m not sure they mention it at all. I think they say autistic people are supposed to tell their best friends if they’re a top or bottom though.”

Shane tosses the nearest kid’s toy at him. He thinks of it though. The last time they slept together.

Ilya knew by then. He knew and he still fucked Shane so hard he blacked out twice. He still looked at Shane like he was someone worth desiring. No, worth devouring.

“What do I do?” Shane asks. “I don’t know where to go from here…with him.”

“I don't know, why don’t you just call him and ask? Talk it out and stop making yourself miserable.”

“We don’t really do phone calls.”

Hayden scoffs. “Literally what is this relationship?”

“It’s not a relationship.”

“Oh no, no way. Just years of fucking in dim lighting on sheets with thread counts curated for you specifically.”

“The dim lighting is new,” Shane mutters, except it’s not, not really. Maybe Ilya was even more careful after he realized, but…even before he knew, he always knew Shane. “God. I think I might love him,” he blurts out.

“You think? You know, I always heard that autistic people were supposed to be freaky geniuses, not idiots,” Hayden says. “I’m starting to think the media has it all wrong.”

When it comes time for their next game in Montreal, Ilya’s not expecting to see Shane.

He takes his phone off airplane mode, sees Jane’s name flash on the screen, and drops it in his lap. He scrambles for it, reading, then rereading, doubting his eyes.

Come over after you land?

“Jesus,” Marly says, reading over his shoulder, nosy as ever. “She’s desperate, huh?”

“Can you blame her?” Ilya smirks, trying to shove his heart back down to his chest.

He takes a cab straight to Shane’s, who answers the door looking tired. Gorgeous. Rumpled. Shane.

Ilya wants to kiss him hard enough to knock him over. Instead, he tentatively steps inside. “Hi.”

“Hi. You can…” Shane gestures for Ilya to take his shoes off, like he does every time, as if he doesn’t know the rules by now. It’s an overwhelming relief, being charmed by that again.

Ilya takes his shoes off, following Shane to the living room. They sit down on the couch. Ilya doesn’t kiss him. It’s the hardest thing he’s done in a long time.

“I never should have said that,” Ilya blurts out. “We can pretend it never happened. I promise.”

“I can’t do that,” Shane says, and Ilya’s jaw tightens. So this is it. He was invited here so Hollander could get the breakup over with. Is it a breakup if they were never really together? If Ilya didn’t get to call Hollander his, even in the privacy of his own mind? 

“Okay.”

“I just…I think maybe you were right?”

“Right?” Ilya's certain he misheard.

“Maybe I am…autistic,” he says. “It turns out Hayden thought I was. I, um, came out to him by the way.”

“As autistic?” 

“As gay.”

Fuck. What the fuck happened after he left? “How did that go?” 

“Good. Really good.” Shane pauses, visibly steels himself. “He thinks that Boston Lily must care about me a lot to do all that research.”

Ilya tries to pull a lie out of his ass. Fails. “You will only hear me say this once,” he says finally, “but Hayden Pike is right.”

In the time it takes him to blink, Shane is in his lap, kissing him furiously. Ilya cradles the back of Shane’s head and tries desperately not to cry. He thought he’d never have this again and now that he does, he can admit that to lose it would be to lose his lungs, fuck.

“Just please,” Shane says, breath hot on Ilya’s cheeks, “please don’t be gentle with me. Don’t…”

“Hollander. If you think knowing you are autistic will stop me from fucking you into next week, you don’t know me at all.”

Shane surges forward to kiss him again, but Ilya puts a hand on his shoulder to stop him, no matter how painful it is. 

Shane whines. “Seriously? You just said—“ Ugh, he's so hot when his horniness overrides any pretense of patience. 

“I know, I just have to…I’m sorry.”

Shane’s eyebrows raise. “Has hell frozen over?”

“Yes.” Ilya smiles. “Just…maybe I was right. But you were too. I am not your therapist. I had no right to tell you who you are.”

“No. You didn’t. And you’d be a terrible therapist. Your treatment for everything would be your dick.”

Ilya cackles. Oh, he’s not going to be able to pretend anymore, is he? He loves this man. He loves him so fucking much.

“It’s a good treatment,” Ilya says, rubbing a hand over Shane’s ass. “A great one.”

Shane whines into his mouth. “Will you fuck me already?”

“Needy. And not very polite.”

“Will you…” Shane rolls his hips on Ilya’s lap. Ilya deserves a medal for not moaning. “Please fuck me Ilya?”

Ilya swallows. He kisses Shane hard so he doesn’t say something stupid like, 'I love you so much'  or 'I so hope you'll keep me'.

From there, it’s simple. Wet hot heat and perfect little whimpers and sweat mingling with skin.

After, Ilya goes to fetch a warm washcloth from the bathroom and he sees it—a lamp on the counter.

He comes back, runs the washcloth along Shane’s stomach. “You got a lamp?”

“Hmm?” Shane says, blissed out and beautiful. 

“You put a lamp in your bathroom?”

“Oh yeah,” he mumbles. “Was a good idea. I got a cordless one though. Less of a fire hazard that way.”

Ilya leans in, smiles against his lips. “Shower with me,” he says at the same time that Shane says, “Stay. Stay tonight. Let me make you salmon.”

He freezes. “With lemon pepper sauce?” he asks, sure that if he’s silent, Shane will hear his heart pounding.

“Yeah, I have a bottle of the Clement's brand. I’m surprised I got it. I heard some weirdo in Boston bought out the whole warehouse.” Shane laughs lightly at his own joke. “So you’ll stay?”

Forever, Ilya wants to say.

For now, he settles on, “Yes.”

***

It’s not until their second double date that Pike brings it up.

Jackie and Shane are off doing God knows what. Looking at the new rug in the guest room or something equally unnecessary.

Hayden’s giving Ilya a wary side-eye, his favorite pastime after playing hockey terribly and populating the earth.

“What?” Ilya snaps. "You know I am famous, yes? If you want to stare at me, just google me later."

“I wasn’t—“ Pike sputters. Shane keeps telling Ilya to stop messing with Hayden. He will once the dumbass stops making it so easy. “I was just—Are you really the one who did all that shit to support him? With his autism?”

“No. Was some other guy he was fucking for years who is now his boyfriend.”

“Come on, man. Say something earnest for once in your life.”

Ilya rolls his eyes. “What do you want me to say? Of course it was me.”

“How’d you figure it out? That he’s autistic, I mean. I can’t remember exactly how I did. I still think he told me and forgot.”

Jesus, this guy is so stupid. He must be the trade off for getting something as sacred as Shane. Like the universe is leveling out the score.

Ilya thinks about the question though. He could tell the boring truth. A post and a research rabbit hole, his fingers poised on Google, typing in every word that would give him another piece of Shane.

It’s more fun to torture Pike though. “The first time we had sex, he folded his clothes,” Ilya says. “He had never had sex with a man before. Was very scared. Horny, but scared. And he still took the time to fold all his clothes.”

He expects Pike to recoil at the mention of their sex life, but to Ilya’s surprise, he bursts out laughing. “God, of course he did. That’s so Shane.”

“Yes,” Ilya says, smiling at his boyfriend when he re-enters the room, fiddling with the new fidget ring on his finger. “That’s Shane.”