Rating:

General Audiences

Archive Warning:

No Archive Warnings Apply

Category:

M/M

Fandom:

Game Changers | Heated Rivalry - All Media Types

Relationships:

Shane Hollander/Ilya Rozanov, Shane Hollander & Ilya Rozanov

Characters:

Shane Hollander, Ilya Rozanov, Zane Boodram, Troy Barrett, Harris Drover, Chiron (Game Changers), Ottawa Centaurs Team Ensemble (Game Changers), LaPointe (Game Changers), Young (Game Changers), Luca Haas, Cassie Boodram

Additional Tags:

Ilya Rozanov Loves Shane Hollander, Autistic Shane Hollander, Shane Hollander Needs a Hug, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Fluff and Hurt/Comfort, no beta we die like crowell hopefully will, no AI, Fuck AI, I have no idea what's book canon vs. show canon vs. fanon anymore, Post-Book 6: The Long Game (Game Changers)

Language:

English

Stats:

Published: 2026-04-07 Words: 3,393 Chapters: 1/1

Sweetheart

Summary

After a busy day, Shane gets overstimulated at a Centaurs party. Ilya helps him.

 

“Do you want to tell me what happened, moy lyubimyy?”

Shane leans forward until his forehead rests in the space between Ilya’s neck and shoulder.

“Just a lot,” he mumbles. “Smells. Noise. Too much.”

“Busy day, hmm? Good thing we have a break now. We can do whatever you want next two days. We can do it all of the next two days. Make the team jealous.”

He waggles his eyebrows even though Shane can’t see. But Shane doesn’t smile or huff. He just presses harder into Ilya’s shoulder, ducking his head like he wants to hide.

Notes

This is my first fanfic that's made it out of my head onto paper (or screen, I suppose) but I think I might be addicted because I already have multiple more ideas.

I almost made myself overstimulated writing this. I don't know if it's genuinely that good, or if I was still just recovering from being way overstimulated the day before. So, be warned, I guess

TW: self-harm, technically. He doesn't mean to, but Shane's stimming does hurt him a little

Also, I use absolutely no AI ever. I hope I don't have to worry about this but do not feed my work into AI.

It smells weird.

 

That’s all Shane can focus on, the thought slowly expanding to cloud out the rest: it smells weird. Some mix of all the food, probably? And maybe some sort of air freshener, and he thinks one of the rookies is wearing a new cologne for a new girlfriend, except whoever it is overdid it. And can he actually smell the flowers in the kitchen, or is he just imagining it because he knows they’re there? Weed too, drifting in from outside. And it’s all jumbled into one stuffy, confusing, overpowering, vaguely bitter scent that’s shoving itself up his nose every time he takes a breath.

 

If he could just stop breathing, he thinks nonsensically. Ilya probably wouldn’t like that, though. Of course, if Ilya was here instead of… wherever else he is in this house, Shane could sit close enough that Ilya’s smell would be stronger than the rest. He wouldn’t even be too mad if it included a whiff of cigarette, if it helped mask the rest.

 

He retreats to the bathroom, hoping for a brief reprieve, but -- well, Bood always warns them how spicy his grilling is, and Chouinard always underestimates it. He doesn’t spend long in there.

 

“Hollzy!” Dykstra cheers when he reappears. More jump in.

 

Shane doubts they’re that excited to see him two minutes after he left mostly unnoticed; they’re just happy for an excuse to interrupt Hayes’ rant about the newest X Squad movie -- something about unacceptable inaccuracies from the comic book to the screen or something. They’ve all heard it half a dozen times, but Shane zoned out halfway through the first time a week ago and hasn’t picked up anything more since.

 

He pastes on a smile.

 

“Hollzy, tell him Haas’s birthday isn’t the time for this shit,” pleads Dillon.

 

Shane looks around the room exaggeratedly, playing his part. “I don’t see Haas in here, do you?”

 

His voice is too flat, but nobody notices.

 

There’s a chorus of boos and a few come on, Hollanders and a whoop of excitement from Hayes as he picks back up right where he left off, but Shane doesn’t pay attention as he cranes his neck, trying to peer through the doorways.

 

Where is his husband?

 

Young walks in from the kitchen with a full plate, dragging with him the smells. Yeah, Shane decides, he can definitely smell the flowers. They’re fucking potent, and another day he might enjoy the freshness, but right now they remind him of one of the few times his parents dragged him to church and they sat right next to a couple old ladies with their floral perfume. They’d chatted back and forth the entire service, then had the gall to glare and shush at him the one time he complained about the heat because the church didn’t have air conditioning and the single fan on the ceiling was spinning so lazily it might as well not have been there.

 

The memory alerts him to the humming of Bood’s A/C. It’s working overtime with all the hockey players crowding inside, the door opening as they move back and forth from the yard, only closed again half the time.

 

Next to him, Young digs into his food. Shane can smell the raw onions in something on his plate and tries not to wrinkle his nose. He doesn’t want to be rude. Although -- fuck, it doesn’t really matter if he finds Ilya or not, they can’t leave Luca’s birthday party anytime soon, not when they’re not even going out with them tonight. Ilya was the one who told the team, knowing that Shane already had a photo shoot in the morning and then lunch with Rose. Fuck, fuck, fuck.

 

Someone cracks their knuckles. Shane disguises his flinch with a cough.

 

“Pointy!” someone shouts, again interrupting Hayes’ rant. Shane doesn’t bother figuring out who. “Tell us you’re bringing your girl tonight!”

 

They’ve been dating… a month? Two? He isn’t sure right now. Ilya would know. LaPointe said she was working today.

 

“Yeah, man, can’t wait to see her.” Dykstra’s shit-eating grin suggests LaPointe shouldn’t let his girlfriend see him if LaPointe wants to maintain his image of the cool hockey player.

 

The A/C kicks back on. When did it turn off?

 

LaPointe squeezes onto the couch, shoving Young up against Shane and Shane against the armrest. The fabric itches. The food smells grow stronger. Shane digs his fingers into his opposite bicep, trying to shrink away.

 

Out in the yard, kids yell. The music gets louder as the door opens and Bood brings in more food to set on the kitchen counter.

 

“--late, because she said she needs at least an hour to get ready,” LaPointe is saying.

 

Young whistles. It practically shatters Shane’s eardrum.

 

LaPointe turns to Young with a glare. “Do not embarrass me, Young, I mean it, or I’ll tell Rozy--”

 

Suddenly everyone is shouting over him. It goes on for what has to be a full minute. Once he’s successfully silenced, Young flings his hand toward Shane. “What the fuck, dude, are you trying to get me in trouble with the captain?”

 

LaPointe turns red and gives a sheepish grin. “Sorry. You wouldn’t betray Young, would you, Hollzy?”

 

Shane turns a blank look on them. Shrugs a shoulder. Fuck, it’s loud, and Young’s body heat is overwhelming, and--

 

“Of course he would, idiot, they’re husbands, would you hide that from your girlfriend?”

 

“For the sake of my teammate, yeah. Actually, I would, Young, fuck you.”

 

“And that’s why you can't keep a girlfriend, Pointy.”

 

Their bickering devolves from there, and the others join in or break off into their own conversations, and the volume rises as they all try to be heard over the others, and the weed is drifting in from the open door. Shane takes a drink of his ginger ale, hoping it’ll help somehow, but the condensation in wrong on his palm, and he wipes it off on his shorts before squeezing his arm again.

 

Young pauses the argument next to him, and at first it’s a relief, but then he starts eating, and Shane can hear the smack of his chewing, and how far can he lean away from the rookie before someone notices?

 

His nails press harder into his skin.

 

The kids scream, even louder than before. One wails above the rest.

 

“Shit, that’s mine,” Bood says, setting down the plate with a clatter to rush out.

 

The air conditioner whirs, useless with the door left open. Most of them are still arguing. Hayes is showing a video on his phone, volume turned all the way up over their voices. Young keeps chewing.

 

Shane starts dragging his fingers up and down his arm.

 

- - - - -

 

Ilya is having a very nice conversation with Harris and Barrett. Well, technically, he is half-listening and occasionally saying something like “da, yes, right” or “he didn’t” or whatever other exclamation seems to fit. The rest of him is occupied with Chiron. It’s not his fault Chiron is such a good dog and deserves all the pets Ilya can give him while they’re here. And all the treats he can sneak him as well, which is much harder than he anticipated with both owners standing right there. Evil Harris and Barrett.

 

“Ilya.”

 

“Hmm, yes?”

 

“You’re not paying any attention, are you,” Harris says. The words are a question, but the tone is not.

 

“Of course I am!” He looks up. “Oh, Luca, birthday boy. When did you get here?”

 

Troy does not look impressed. “He’s been here for like five minutes, Ilya.”

 

“No he has not.”

 

Barrett raises a brow. He doesn’t even bother with words!

 

“Half that time, tops,” Ilya argues.

 

“Long enough to see you give Chiron three treats,” Luca grumbles.

 

“Ilya!” Harris exclaims. “He’s supposed to be on a diet. Because you keep giving him too much food!”

 

“Ah!” Ilya yells, grabbing his chest dramatically and falling backward. “Betrayed by my own son! You have killed me, Haasy, I am dead. What do you have to say for yourself? Shane will never forgive you.”

 

He cracks open an eye. They are unimpressed, so he keeps going.

 

“You will be arrested, but my poor Shane will still have to avenge me, and then he will be arrested too. There will only be one gay left on the Centaurs. Centaurs will start losing without power of gay love. You will all fade from memory without me. All because Chiron is on diet and you stabbed me in the back! Et tu, Luca?”

 

With that, he throws his arms wide and stares blankly up at the sky. Only Chiron is impressed with his performance. He trots over and tilts his head, then starts licking Ilya’s face. Ilya rolls his lips in. For some reason, Shane refuses to kiss him if he’s been kissed by a dog.

 

“...Really?” Troy asks.

 

Ilya does not reply. He is dead, after all.

 

A shadow falls over him.

 

“This is… interesting,” Cassie Boodram says.

 

“Um…” Luca trails off when he realizes an explanation would mean revealing his betrayal. Ilya can practically hear Harris roll his eyes.

 

“As much as I hate to interrupt, can one of you go in and check on Zane and Milo for me? I’d do it, but there’s a situation with the Boyle twins…”

 

Ilya shoots his hand in the air. He hasn’t seen Shane in… too long, he doesn’t know the exact time, but far longer than he wants to be separated from his husband.

 

“I thought you were dead,” Harris says dryly.

 

“Oh, Chiron revived me, he is such a talented boy. I knew there was reason I give him so many treats.” He gently moves Chiron’s face away and sits up, brushing grass out of his hair.

 

“That’s…” Luca trails off again, then settles for, “Ew.”

 

“Thanks, Ilya,” Cassie sighs gratefully. “Tell him I should be in soon if he needs any help.”

 

He agrees, then goes in. The first thing he notices is that the cries from earlier have turned into laughs. Okay, then -- Bood does not need Cassie’s help. Unless Milo is laughing because Bood is crying, but Ilya doubts he’s crying over little Milo’s scraped knees.

 

The next thing he notices is the rest of the noise. Loud, even to him, and he spent most of his twenties in clubs blasting music and hockey stadiums roaring with support -- or hate, depending on where they were.

 

“Captain!”

 

He can’t tell which one of his idiots spotted him first, but the rest turn and echo the shout. He heads over to them, already grinning. Young won’t meet his eyes, and he makes a mental note to tease the rookie until he figures out what that’s about. Pointy’s ears turn red when he sees Ilya studying Young. Hmm. That will be fun.

 

“Roz, tell Hazy to stop talking about that movie,” Dykstra begs. “He hasn’t shut up about it since he got here.”

 

“Mm, no,” Ilya says. He knows the team has a bet going, and he also knows better than to get involved -- unless it’s to put money of his own on it. “Hazy, you may continue.”

 

“Thank you, Rozy.”

 

Ilya spots Shane’s black hair above the far end of the couch and moves that way, getting ready to tease him for not greeting him more warmly, and then to tell on Luca to Shane. Yes, he is very mature captain of the team, tattle-taling to his husband.

 

But Shane does not look up at him when Ilya arrives. Ilya frowns, assessing silently, and -- blyat, he is a bad husband. All this noise, and his busy day, of course Shane would be overwhelmed. Ilya should have at least texted him to check in.

 

He perches on the arm of the couch, careful not to crowd Shane, and that is when he sees the way Shane’s hand bounces over his can of ginger ale, never quite touching it. Down, up, down, up, down, up. Shit. Shane hates to stim like this in front of people. For him to do it anyway…

 

“Alright,” Ilya calls out in his captain voice. The team falls silent. “You have all been in here far too long. Go outside and say hello to birthday boy, assholes. Is his day, not stink-up-Bood’s-house-day.”

 

“Yeah, Chouinard,” one of the rookies chirps as they all file out the door.

 

Shane hasn’t moved. Ilya can’t tell if he even notices the rest of the team left. Ilya crouches in front of him so they’re at the same level, but Shane looks past him blankly.

 

“Shane,” Ilya says softly. “Moy lyubimyy.”

 

No reaction. Ilya wants to reach out, to touch him, but he doesn’t want to risk making it worse.

 

“Solnyshko,” he tries again. “Has been long day, yes? Is okay. The team is outside, is quiet now. Just me, da?”

 

This time, Shane’s hand slows to a stop.

 

“Good. Good job, Shane.” He holds out his arms, palms up. “Can I…?”

 

Shane doesn’t shake his head or move away, so Ilya slowly leans in and grabs Shane in a hug, pulling him in to his chest. Ilya can feel his heartbeat now, much too fast.

 

Over the back of the couch, Ilya sees Bood come out of the bathroom with Milo. He raises a questioning eyebrow, but Ilya just waves him outside, not caring if he just kicked him out of his own house. Once Bood is gone, Ilya runs his fingers gently through Shane’s hair.

 

“Just breathe, Shane. Deep breaths.”

 

But Shane shakes his head. Ilya’s brows lower in confusion, his hand faltering for a second.

 

“No? Why not, solnyshko? You need to breathe.”

 

For a second, he thinks Shane will not answer. Maybe he is not able to, like other times. But then he mutters, “Smell.”

 

“Smell? My smell?” Ilya tries very hard not to be offended. He knows it is hot, but Shane practically lives in gyms and locker rooms. He can’t smell that bad.

 

Then Shane shakes his head again. A twitch more than anything. Not his smell, then -- other smells. Nothing stands out to Ilya, but he adjusts, wrapping himself around Shane more completely, suddenly very glad he decided not to sneak a cigarette.

 

“Is just me, now. My smell. Nothing else.”

 

He’s not sure he’s telling the truth. How can he know if he can’t smell what Shane smells? But Shane’s breathing starts to even out, matching Ilya’s. His heart rate slows.

 

“There we go,” Ilya murmurs, as much to himself as to Shane. He pulls back the tiniest bit, just enough to see his face. “Are you okay for us to leave now?”

 

Another shake. “Luca.”

 

“Yes, he will miss us terribly, but is fine. What is saying? Absence makes heart grow fonder?”

 

He feels Shane smile against his chest. Success.

 

“Is our birthday present to him, then, no?” he adds. “It would be so sad if he got sick of his two favorite players. He would have to take down posters of us by his bed.”

 

The smile widens. Then, “Okay.”

 

“Okay,” he echoes, standing and offering a hand. “Up.”

 

Shane rises slowly, hugging himself and leaning on Ilya. He walks them to the door, then kneels to put Shane’s shoes on for him. As he does, he grins up at Shane.

 

“Remember our first time? Same position, but opposite.”

 

A quiet huff of air through his nose. Not quite his usual eye roll and blush and “fuck off,” but better than nothing. Ilya will take it as a win.

 

In the car, Ilya buckles him in, then sends a quick text to Harris that they’re leaving and one to Cassie to apologize for not helping clean. It’s not a long drive, but Shane is quiet and stares out the window, and Ilya worries he’s getting lost in his head again. The radio is off, but there’s nothing he can do about the noise of their boring Jeep or the other cars on the road. He just sets his hand on his husband’s thigh and strokes his thumb back and forth.

 

When they finally get back, Ilya has to coax him from the car. Once their shoes are off, he deposits Shane on the couch, Anya at his heels.

 

“I will be right back, okay, Shane?”

 

He hates to leave his husband like this, but if he doesn’t feed Anya and let her outside, she will whine and try to jump on them, and that would be worse. Best to do it now, then be able to devote himself wholly to Shane.

 

“I will be right back,” he repeats.

 

- - - - -

 

Shane has his thumb in his mouth when Ilya returns, teeth clamped around the knuckle. It happens sometimes when he is stressed, trying not to stim or make noise. Usually, it’s not a big deal, but when Shane is like this, Ilya worries he won’t notice he’s biting too hard before he breaks skin and starts bleeding.

 

“Hey, hey.” He grabs Shane’s wrist lightly. “We eat food, da, not thumbs.”

 

He waits a couple seconds, and eventually Shane lets him pull it away. As he does, he catches a glimpse of angry red marks on his forearm, just above his wrist. Indents from his nails. Ilya frowns and rubs his finger over them. Shane probably didn’t even realize he was clutching himself hard enough, but he thinks they will still be there tomorrow.

 

“Do you want to tell me what happened, moy lyubimyy?”

 

Shane leans forward until his forehead rests in the space between Ilya’s neck and shoulder.

 

“Just a lot,” he mumbles. “Smells. Noise. Too much.”

 

“Busy day, hmm? Good thing we have a break now. We can do whatever you want next two days. We can do it all of the next two days. Make the team jealous.”

 

He waggles his eyebrows even though Shane can’t see. But Shane doesn’t smile or huff. He just presses harder into Ilya’s shoulder, ducking his head like he wants to hide.

 

“What is it? Too much still?”

 

Ilya wraps his arms around him, rubbing circles on Shane’s back. It takes him a long moment to answer.

 

“It hurts.” Shane’s voice cracks, and part of Ilya’s heart cracks with it.

 

“What does?”

 

Slowly -- hesitantly -- Shane pulls back. He doesn’t meet Ilya’s eyes as he pushes us his sleeve.

 

“Oh, sweetheart,” Ilya whispers. Raw red lines are scratched into his skin, so many it looks like one mass. Only one bled, somehow, and it’s already scabbed over. “Sweetheart.”

 

He doesn’t know what else to say.

 

“I didn’t -- didn’t notice -- I promise, I didn’t mean--”

 

“I know you didn’t,” Ilya assures him. He tears his gaze from Shane’s arm to look him in the eyes. They’re glassy, lined with red. He cups Shane’s face in his hands, wipes away the one tear that escapes. “I know, you didn’t even feel it when it happened. Is not your fault, solnyshko.”

 

“But I did it.”

 

“No. Is your brain. Stupid brain. Like is not my fault when I can’t get out of bed. We will put medicine on it so it stops hurting, yes? And it will heal and be just like before. Okay?”

 

Shane nods, so Ilya finds the medicine in their bathroom. He puts it on as gently as he can, but Shane still winces the whole time.

 

“I’m sorry,” Ilya murmurs. “I know it hurts, I’m sorry, I’m almost done. You’re doing so good.”

 

He hates it, hates that helping Shane also means hurting him. But finally it’s over.

 

“Come on,” he says. Even though the sun hasn’t fully set yet, he knows Shane has to be exhausted. “Time for bed, I think.”

 

He doesn’t even protest when Ilya scoops him up.

 

- - - - -

 

It’s still dark when Shane blinks awake. He’s on the wrong side of the bed, a fact that irritates him until he remembers why. It’s fuzzy with sleep -- not this morning’s; yesterday’s -- but he has a vague memory of Ilya flipping them around so he could spoon Shane without Shane laying on his hurt arm. Ilya’s own arm rests heavily on Shane’s waist, his palm pressed to Shane’s chest. Shane covers it with his, interlacing their fingers.

 

“Moy lyubimyy,” Ilya mumbles, his voice woolly with sleep. “How do you feel today?”

 

Shane smiles, lets his eyes fall closed again. “Better.”