Chapter Text
It was a shock when the Metros team doctor called him into his office, sat him down, and told him he'd like to have a colleague come in and do an autism assessment for him.
It was even more shocking when after a week of questions and pretend scenarios, did said colleague diagnose him with ASD.
At first he thought there must be a mistake, that the test results were wrong, or maybe he overthought the questions. But after a long conversation with the psychiatrist, he realized, despite everything in him wanting to believe otherwise, he was autistic.
In the following days he spent hours on the internet learning everything there was to know about the disorder, and the more he read, the more his entire life made sense.
His disdain for social events, the stress he feels when surrounded by a group of his peers, and why he sometimes loses his shit and meltdowns when things get to be ‘too much.’ Everything he hated about himself- the things he’d come to resent because of how they made him different, could now all be explained by his brain working differently.
It was a relief, to not feel so inherently fucked up, but there was a new sense of dread that followed him.
If Shane never had to tell another person he was autistic again, he would die a happy man. Despite the deep seeded belief that anyone who laid eyes on him immediately saw that he was different- weird, he refused to say why. He didn’t want people to think less of him, or think that he couldn’t be a good, strong hockey player because of it.
If his team mates thought he was just a kill joy who hated parties and socializing, he was okay with that. They didn’t need to know that the noise and people in clubs made his ears hurt and his heart race. They didn’t need to know that he thought about every single word he spoke in front of a group of his peers, because no matter how hard he tried, he felt so out of place, like every sentence was clunky and poorly timed. No, they didn’t need to know that and Shane liked it that way.
But for some godforsaken reason, Shane had this… urge to tell Rozanov.
Every time he did something ‘autistic’ he wanted to justify it, explain to him that he wasn’t just weird, that there was a reason for it. He stupidly wanted him to think he was cool, not just… whatever he was.
He didn’t think that Rozanov thought he was weird, in fact, he was sure he found his quirks to be endearing, but years of childhood bullying and broken friendships had left him with a voice in his head telling him there’s no way the Russian doesn’t think he’s a freak.
He sure as hell feels like one.
----
It was a hard loss against Boston. 3 of the team's members were out with food poisoning, everyone was tired from the game against Toronto the night before, and to make matters worse, Hayden took a stick to his face and skated off the ice needing stitches.
6-1 Boston.
And now Shane was doing press conference next to Rozanov, stuck in a suit that was too tight around his wrists and neck, sitting in front of a sea of people all shouting at him for answers to questions he couldn’t process. The lights were too bright, the distinct smell of arena rubber was clouding his nostrils and everything was all just too much.
The only saving grace was that Rozanov seemed to sense his discomfort. He answered the majority of the questions, speaking for him when he couldn’t fight the right words over the noise in his head.
“I, um, well, it was obviously hard… 3 people down, and uh,” god his tongue felt too big for his mouth and all he could focus on was the reporter in the front who was chewing gum with her mouth open. He was making a fool of himself and he knew it, but it was too much. He needed to go home, get out of this stupid suit and listen to his loons.
“I think what Hollander is trying to say is playing with less people because they are sick is hard on team spirit and makes players tired faster, Boston would be in same position if we ate bad eggs too.” Shane looked at Rozanov as he answered, wishing he could convey with his eyes just how thankful he was for the respite. Instead, he gently moved his hand so it rested on his thigh, squeezing softly in appreciation.
Shane felt Rozanov's shoe touch his, a silent ‘you’re welcome, I see you’
The press conference ended soon after, and Shane could not run out of the building fast enough, ignoring everyone who called his name, even Rozanov’s.
He couldn’t even bring himself to feel bad
He needed to get home.
----
The minute he got in the door he stripped. Shoes off. Tie, shirt, pants, boxers, they were all tossed in different directions. He threw on a baggy t-shirt and sleep shorts, changing his socks into clean ones.
The whole time he was running his fingers through his hair, picking at any imperfections he found on his scalp. It was a self soothing behaviour, one that sometimes left his head covered in self inflicted scabs, but he couldn’t stop.
Fuck he was overstimulated and not the good kind.
Just as he was about to crawl under his weighted blanket and listen to loon sounds through his fancy noise cancelling headphones, there was a knock at the door.
He would ignore it. Whoever they were, they would leave soon.
They knocked again but with more urgency this time.
“For fucks sakes” He swore under his breath, getting up and heading to the door.
He opened it prepared to read them the riot act when he saw who it was.
“What the fuck are you doing here! Get inside!” Shane practically yanked Rozanov in, pissed and even more overwhelmed now that there was someone inside his house that he had to talk to.
“Hollander, you look like you have a panic attack, you ran away so fast, I just wanted to check-” His voice was laced with genuine concern as he took in the state of him and his house. It was very unlike him to leave clothes unfolded around, let alone thrown on the floor in haste. “Are you okay, like seriously?”
Shane looks around the room, fingers still digging through his head as his foot scratches his leg. He looks like a baby flamingo, hopping around on one foot like this.
“No, I’m not okay. It was too much! Too much!” He’s embarrassing himself, humiliating himself but right now he doesn’t care, Rozanov can think he’s weird, can make fun of him, call him names, right now he just wants everything to stop feeling like it’s consuming him from the inside out.
He hears him take off his coat and shoes, taking the time to put them away properly.
He can hear footsteps, can hear Rozanov get closer but it still doesn’t prepare him for the arms that wrap around him.
“No! Don’t touch me, stop-” He immediately flinches away and scratches at the part of his body that was touched, still feeling the sensation. He didn’t mean to yell, it’s that touch is just another thing to overwhelm him and he can’t deal with it right now. He sees that Rozanov looks scared now, not hurt, but like he doesn’t know how to help and it’s distressing him.
“I won’t touch you, Hollander, but what can I do? You want me to leave?” He looks at the door hesitantly, and it hurts Shane to see him so unsure of himself. The one thing Shane has always admired about Rozanov is his ability to seem confident in every situation, it’s jarring to see him like this.
The thought is the crack in his racing mind that he needs to ground himself.
“No, no you can stay just- follow me” He doesn’t give Rozanov much time to think before he walks into his bedroom.
He decides to do what he was going to do before the Russian so rudely showed up.
He hauls his 40 pound weighted blanket out of his closet, gets under his quilt and carefully places it over top. He makes sure the weight is evenly distributed before settling down.
It’s at this point where he looks up and sees Rozanov leading against the door frame, still unsure of what to do.
“You can come in, just get under the covers and don’t touch me or breathe too loudly until I put my headphones on” Rozanov nods in understanding and decides to listen. He crawls under the covers on the other side of the bed, careful not to disturb Shane who has finally started to settle down.
Once Rozanov is settled, Shane puts on his headphones and plays his favorite 45 minute loon call youtube video and then slides his arms under the blanket so his entire body is held under the weight.
The compression is his favorite sensation. Sometimes he likes to imagine what it would be like to have Rozanov to blanket him in his body instead. It would feel nice, like he was being crushed in the best way possible.
He allows his thoughts to quiet as he listens to his favorite bird. He can feel the stress leave his body by the second. For the first time all night, that too much feeling is fading.
He takes several deep breaths.
In for four, hold for four, out for four.
Finally, after his body has stopped feeling like it’s going to crawl out of his skin, does he open his eyes.
He'd almost forgot that Rozanov was there, but he is, propped up on his hand staring at him with what Shane can only describe as fondness.
“Well hello again Hollander” He says softly, like he’s afraid he’ll send Shane spiraling if he speaks too loudly. And Shane, he never thought this far ahead. He doesn’t know what to do or say, How does he explain what Rozanov just witnessed?
He can feel himself start to spiral again.
“Hollander, I can hear you thinking from here. May I touch you now?” Shane looks at him, looks at how sincere he is and nods. Because yes, he’d quite like to be touched by him now.
Rozanov gently maneuvers the both of them so that Shane is tucked under his arm, held tightly in his grasp. It’s even more grounding than the blanket. He allows himself to relax into his hold, turning over and throwing his arm over Rozanov's chest and just holding him like he’s his lifeline.
"Loons huh?"
"Fuck off Rozanov" Shane laughs in response, burrowing deeper into the man under him.
They stay like that for hours, days it feels like. Shane doesn’t even realize he’s fallen asleep until he wakes up to the sunrise being spooned by him.
He hates how much he loves it. He can’t love it. Can’t love him.
Eventually though, his bladder forces him to crawl out from under Rozanov, much to his displeasure. In the shower he scrubs himself clean and thinks about what he’ll say. How to explain his behavior. He knows Rozanov wouldn’t be cruel if he told him the truth, that he was autistic. But he wasn’t sure his reaction would be positive.
Before he can think too much about it he feels two warm arms wrap around him, a kiss planted on his shoulder. It’s just so… domestic.
He can feel himself getting hard.
Wow, domesticity, what a turn on.
“Fuck Rozanov” He whines as his hands move down towards Shane’s dick. They still haven't exchanged more than a few sentences since he showed up last night but that’s okay, this is what they know best.
Shane fucks into his hand and his ass brushes Rozanovs own hard dick, both men hissing at the contact. They just continue like that. Shane fucking his fist and Rozanov rutting against his ass. It only takes a few minutes of that before they’re both coming.
It was quick and messy and exactly what they needed to relax for the conversation Shane knew they had to have.
----
They’re sitting on his couch watching some bad soap opera when he finally speaks. There’s an overtone of vulnerability that he hates to hear in his voice “So, I’m autistic…” He looks up to find Rozanov looking at him with confusion written all over his face. Maybe he’s only familiar with the word in Russian. But before he gets the chance to explain it, Ilya responds. “I know that”
And what!?
“You thought I didn’t know” he says more than asks after realizing that Shane was genuinely shocked. “I thought was obvious, but um, thank you for telling me?” He looks at Shane and must panic because he goes on, “I just assumed you thought I knew because, well, is obvious to me.”
That pisses Shane off.
“It was obvious to you? What the fuck is that supposed to mean?” Memories of kids calling him weird flood his brain. All the insecurity he still holds onto forces him into thinking that Ilya thinks he's weird too. Was it really that obvious? Did everyone see how out of place he always felt? How every his confidence, his sense of self was all an act?
His hands find their way back to his head, this time digging into the skin, picking away at it.
“Hey, hey, nothing like what you are thinking. Look, I had friend back in Russian, Ivan. He was like you. He needed his routine, He would cry when class got too loud. He hated being around people, and he was obsessed with Cold War Russia information. It was all he talked about. I just saw lots of sameness and assumed you were like him- autistic.” He paused for a moment and let his words sink in.
“Can I touch you, give you cuddle?” Shane nodded, not knowing what to say and also being so grateful that he asked before going in for it. He also grabbed his hands to stop him from picking and through he appreciated the sentiment, he freed his hands and went right back to his head.
That isn’t going to be something Rozanov can change.
He thought about all the things Rozanov said about his friend Ivan. Shane also needed his routine and Rozanov has spent enough days with him to notice how important it is. He also knows how much he hates going out, how feel like he’s always letting his team down by never celebrating with them. Even how his voice is more monotone than most- emotion isn't second nature for him. As for a special interest- hockey is his without a doubt.
Looking back, it must’ve been pretty obvious, especially if he was already familiar with autism.
“So you don’t like, think I’m a freak?" He asks, voice small.
Rozanov looked at him like he was crazy, but in the way that only happens when someone says something so unbelievable.
“I think you are a freak in the sheets, Hollander, but no, not a regular freak.” That pulled a laugh from Shane.
“A freak in the sheets huh? What about you Mr "get on the bed and touch yourself while I drink vodka and watch you"? That was freak behaviour" He rolls over so they’re face to face just so Shane can kiss him. “But you really don’t think I’m weird?”
“Shane Hollander, you are the most boring person I have ever met, but I promise you, I do not think you’re weird” He leans in and pecks his forehead and then his nose, and then his cheek until he’s reduced Shane to a pile of giggles. The only thing he can focus on though, is the fact that Rozanov called him, Shane.
“Shane… I think I could get used to hearing you call me that" Shane watches his face turn a beautiful shade of pink, clearly unaware that he’d just shifted them to a first name basis.
“Do me now” And his eyes are so big and vulnerable that the only thing Shane can do is obey.
He bends down and kisses each eyelid, one at a time, gently and like he’s made of glass. “Ilya Rozanov, I think you are much softer than you let yourself be” Ilya gasps and grasps Shane’s head, tangling his fingers in his hard and he smashes their lips together in a bruising kiss.
They continue to kiss and cuddle and just be impossibly close to each other before Ilya eventually has to leave. Shane wants to cry as he walks him to the door. It’s silly, but he’s never felt so loved and seen by someone. Ilya doesn't care that he’s autistic, hell, he already knew and didn’t care.
He doesn’t think he’s weird.
He doesn’t think he’s too much.
Shane doesn’t even realize he’s sobbing into Ilya’s shirt as they stand in his hallway hugging. But they’re tears of release, of love, of the self hatred he’s carried for years, loosening its hold just enough to let him imagine a world where it’s not so all consuming.
"Is okay moya lyubov"
Ilya just holds him and Shane swears he feels his chest heaving in small sobs too.
Eventually they pull apart and say quick goodbyes between kisses and Ilya has to leave before Shane can beg for him to stay. He watches him go rushing down the stairs wiping his eyes.
It’s painful but god if this isn’t the most settled he’s felt maybe ever.
Ilya Rozanov doesn’t think he’s weird
Ilya Rozanov doesn’t think he’s too much.
And Shane just might love him because of it.