Chapter Text
As a child, Shane would tic. He’d stomp his foot, throw his head back in a way that was so forceful it would leave him with headaches, and sometimes, the one he hated most, he’d make these forceful throat noises, abruptly stopping airflow while he spoke mid-sentence or even mid-word.
His parents hated it. They tried not to make their embarrassment or concern obvious, but it was, and Shane didn’t blame them. He could see the way his dad didn’t look at him when he’d tic in public, just staring straight ahead, clearly nervous about the way people were perceiving his son. His mom would often gently pull his hands together and hold them still or place hers on his thigh, grounding it in place, reminding him to “breathe through it.”
As he got older, he learned to manage. He developed techniques. He taught himself to lock his jaw until it ached, to dig his nails into his palms, to force the pressure back down into his chest until the urge passed or at least quieted enough to ignore. Hockey helped too. The constant movement gave the energy somewhere to go, and sometimes he could release the tics in a way that was less obvious, like stomping his leg and hitting his hockey stick hard against the ice so that others could mistake his involuntary movements for excitement or passion for the game. He’d mask shoulder movements as rolling the tension out after games.
Eventually, he reached a point where masking became such a second nature to him that he didn’t even have to think about it. Sometimes, in moments of high stress, the ticcing would return, but it was never unmanageable. Never noticeable.
That was until he joined the Centaurs. The urges were stronger, and the suppression felt more intense. The ache in his jaw grew throughout his games and practices. He often carried ibuprofen with him. Shane never did well with change, so he assumed it was just an adjustment period. That he needed time to settle into his new team, get comfortable around all his new teammates, and adjust to this new routine.
The worst of it was always the middle of the night. When his brain finally didn’t have much to focus on, no game or teammates, all the built-up suppression caught up with him then. The pressure he’d forced down into his chest, the tension in his locked jaw, the movements he’d convinced his body to ignore, it all screamed to be released.
On nights that he was alone, mostly before switching teams, he’d fall into bed and give in. He would stop fighting. He’d snap his head against the pillow, kick his feet, and let out a symphony of humming and throat noises. His body releasing everything he’d forced it to hold back.
When Ilya was around, nights were easier. He had something or someone to focus on. Sure, there were times where he’d make an odd movement or noise, but he was always able to play it off.
Ilya started noticing things. He noticed the tension Shane held before he even realized he was clenching.
“Your jaw,” Ilya murmured, brushing his thumb across Shane's cheek. “Let it go, moya lyubov.”
Shane forced his mouth to relax.
“Sorry.”
“No ‘sorry.’” Ilya searched his face. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine.” Shane looked away. “Just stressed about the game.”
One evening, while they were watching a movie, Shane rested his head against Ilya’s shoulder. Halfway through, Ilya reached over and took Shane’s hand. It was balled into such a tight fist that his knuckles had turned pale.
Without saying anything, Ilya gently peeled his fingers open.
Small, crescent-shaped indentations marked the center of Shane's palm.
Ilya traced them lightly with the rough pads of his fingers before looking over at him.
“Why do you do this?”
Shane instinctively pulled his hand back.
“Sorry—”
Ilya caught it again.
“No ‘sorry,’ Shane.”
“It’s just stress,” Shane said finally.
“A lot of stress recently?”
Shane hesitated. “I guess.”
“Too much change?”
Shane swallowed. His throat felt thick.
“Yeah... maybe.”
“I know you don’t love change.” Ilya lifted Shane’s hand and pressed a kiss to his palm. “But is just stress?” he asked quietly. “Nothing more?”
“Yeah,” he whispered. “Just stressed.”
Ilya nodded, but his thumb continued absentmindedly tracing the indents in Shane’s palm.
There was one night before a big home game, with Ilya sleeping peacefully beside him, where it all got too much. Where he couldn’t hide it anymore. His eyes were closed. He was trying to sleep, Ilya’s arm draped over his stomach.
The pressure was intense. He had been trying to lie perfectly still, trying to ignore it, hoping it would disappear.
It didn’t.
His shoulder jerked suddenly.
The mattress shifted.
Ilya stirred, lifting his arm off him.
“Shane?”
Shane froze.
“Sorry,” he whispered immediately. “Go back to sleep.”
“Are you okay?”
“Yeah.” Shane dropped a kiss onto his forehead. “Just a cramp.”
Ilya frowned.
“A cramp?”
“Yeah.” Shane forced a small laugh. “Probably didn’t drink enough. I’m gonna get some water.”
Ilya stared at him skeptically before whispering, “Okay. Wake me up if does not go away.”
Shane nodded. “Sure.”
“I’m serious, Shane,” but his eyes were already closing.
Shane slipped out of bed and made his way to the kitchen. Water might actually be a good idea. His jaw was tight, almost as if it had been wired shut. His chest was heavy. His hands were tingling with that uncomfortable familiarity.
He opened the cabinet to grab a glass, but, unable to contain it anymore, his arm jerked. At first, it felt good, a strong relief. His arm flinging forcefully.
Until it became too much.
His head snapped back. His shoulders jerked violently. His leg stomped down hard against the hardwood floor.
Fuck.
The sounds he spent all day swallowing filled the room until his throat felt raw.
No, no, no.
His body moved through tic after tic, each one leaving him more exhausted and never fully satisfied. He immediately knew his body would be sore in the morning.
He gripped the edge of the counter, breathing hard, tears began burning his eyes.
He hated this.
He hated that after all these years, after all the control he worked so hard to build, he could still end up here.
So small. So not in control of his own body.
He didn’t hear Ilya make his way downstairs.
“Shane?”
He froze, his body going still for just a moment.
Ilya stood there.
The shame hit hard.
“No.”
It came out as a whisper.
“Shane—”
“No, no, no.”
Ilya couldn’t see this. No one was ever supposed to see this.
His head jerked back again.
And again.
Ilya's face changed immediately.
Not disgust.
Not confusion.
Concern.
“Oh, Shane...”
The tears came fast and hard.
“I’m sorry,” Shane choked out as his head jerked back again.
The sobs were loud and intense, interrupted by the occasional harsh grunt as he kept flinging his head back.
Ilya stepped closer, gently but firmly placing his hands on Shane’s shoulders.
“Is this okay?”
In the midst of all the movement Shane managed to nod.
Ilya began squeezing his shoulders and the back of his neck.
“Shhhhhh.”
Eventually, when the ticcing calmed, though the crying did not, Ilya pulled him into a hug, whispering in his ear, “You are okay. You are safe. I love you so much.”
“I didn't want you to see this,” Shane mumbled into Ilya’s shoulder.
“I know, sweetheart, but it’s okay.”
“I thought I could control it.”
His voice cracked.
“I thought I was past this.”
Another urge surged through him.
He lifted himself off of Ilya, his hand moving before he could stop it.
His fist hit hard against his chest.
Once.
Then again.
Ilya reacted immediately.
“Shane.”
He reached forward and gently caught his hand, stopping the movement before it could continue.
Shane sobbed harder.
“I’m sorry,” Ilya whispered, his voice breaking. “I’m so sorry, sweetheart, but I can’t let you hurt yourself.”
“I hate this,” he cried.
Ilya pulled him carefully back against him, still holding onto his hand.
“I know,” Ilya whispered into his hair.
“I hate that you had to see.”
“I know.”
“I didn't want you to think I’m—”
“Shane.”
Ilya pulled back slightly, cupping Shane’s face with his free hand.
“Never, Shane.”
Shane closed his eyes.
“We do not have to talk now. But this is not something you will do alone anymore, okay?”
“Ilya—” His voice cracked.
“Okay, Shane?” His voice was firm.
“Okay,” Shane whispered.
Ilya pulled him back into a hug, holding him for another minute.
“Want to go back to sleep?”
“Yes, please,” Shane whispered.
“Okay. Let’s go up and I will bring you water and heat pack for your neck.”
“Thank you,” Shane croaked.
Shane was exhausted. His legs felt weak, his throat was raw, and his neck was already beginning to ache from the force of the movements.
With Ilya’s arm secured around his waist, they climbed the stairs slowly.
When they reached the bedroom, Shane slipped beneath the blankets and immediately curled into a ball on his side. His eyes squeezed shut.
“I will be right back,” Ilya whispered before planting a kiss on his temple.
Ilya disappeared for a moment and returned with a glass of water and a warm heat pack.
“Sit up for just a second, moya lyubov.”
Sliding a hand under his shoulder, Ilya helped him into a seated position before handing him the cup. Shane took the water, drinking slowly before setting it on the nightstand.
Ilya helped lay him back down, placing the heat pack carefully against the back of his neck.
“Better?”
“Yeah, thank you,” Shane whispered.
Ilya climbed into bed beside him, pressing himself against Shane’s back and holding him close.
For a moment, Shane lay completely still.
Then, quietly:
“I’m embarrassed.”
“You don't have to be.”
“I still am.”
“I know. But is okay.”
Shane swallowed.
“I’m sorry you had to deal with that.”
Ilya pulled him closer to his chest.
“No more sorrys tonight.”
Shane held the hand that was draped over his waist.
“Okay.”
“I’m here,” Ilya whispered.
Shane closed his eyes.
“I know.”
“You’re safe.”
“I know.”
Ilya kissed the back of his head.
“I love you.”
Shane’s eyes burned again.
“I love you too.”
With the arm around his waist, Ilya’s thumb swiped gently across his stomach.
With a sleepy voice, so clearly filled with exhaustion, Shane mumbled, “Please don’t let go.”
“I won't.”
Eventually, Shane’s breathing became slow and steady.
The heat pack warmed his neck.
And for the first time in a while, his body began to relax.
“Goodnight, sweetheart,” Ilya whispered.