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The first time Shane Hollander made something move with his mind, it was an accident.
“I like trouble,” Ilya had said.
And then there was a thump.
There had been a picture frame hung up to the right of where Ilya had him pressed up against the wall. And now it was on the carpet.
Ilya paused his descent of kissing down the side of Shane’s neck.
“Ha. Uh, sorry,” Shane said, and immediately wanted to walk into traffic. Why did he apologize? He hadn’t done that, had he? Had he? He had felt something electric zap up his body when they had started to kiss, and then that feeling just got big, bigger than his body, and then-
“Sorry?” Ilya’s brow furrowed in confusion.
“Never mind,” Shane said, rushing to kiss Ilya again, because he wanted to, but also because it was a surefire way to stop himself from word vomiting any further.
A week later, Yuna and Shane both stared at the tipped over sugar bowl on the table.
One minute she had been talking to him about possible brand deals she was looking into, along with yet another reminder that a lot of kids will look up to him- and then the sugar bowl had tipped over. It suspended for a brief second, mid-tilt before clunking over, spilling a small mound of sugar on the table, the spoon falling halfway out with a tiny clink against the porcelain.
“I-“ Shane started, then stopped. Because I, what?! Am a freak? Am going crazy?
“I was beginning to wonder if it skipped you,” Yuna said thoughtfully. “Don’t worry, it won’t transfer over to hockey,” she had assured him. “It’s more like… small inconsequential things. I don’t know the mechanics of how it works. My mom didn’t know how it works and her mom didn’t know how it works. But stress is a trigger. Heightened emotions are a trigger. But you can learn how to control it, eventually. Like a muscle. Yoga helps, actually.”
“Eventually,” he mouthed silently.
“It’s not a big deal, Shane.” She covered his hand with hers. “It’ll come in handy. I never had to stretch to grab a diaper that was just out of my reach when I was changing you. I would just visualize it in my hand, and then it would just sort of jump those last few inches.”
Shane braced his hands behind his neck and sucked in a big breath. “Useful for changing my future baby’s diapers, got it,” he wheezed.
“It’s not so bad, honey,” she said sympathetically, and patted his knee. “Try not to do it so suddenly around Dad though. He startles easily.”
The second time it happened in front of Ilya was when Shane invited him to his place for the first time after a game against each other. (Another accident. Fuck. He really needed to do more yoga.)
“Come here,” Ilya had instructed, looking extremely edible in Shane’s bedroom.
“No, you come here,” Shane had countered.
And then they were finally kissing again, deep and needy, their hands on each other’s face and in each other’s hair and-
A faint rustling sound, and they broke apart and both turned their heads to the bed just in time to see a pillow drop to the floor. Followed by another one, unceremoniously cartwheeling itself to the end of the comforter before following the first one to the floor.
Shane stared at the pillows. Why the fuck did he let the designer talk him into so many goddamn pillows?
Ilya stared at the pillows and then slowly moved his gaze to Shane.
“So,” Shane began.
“Yeah, so,” Ilya agreed.
“Fuck off. Okay. Okay. It happens sometimes. Nothing big. Sometimes I can control it. And sometimes I can’t. Just when I get-,” he felt his cheeks heat, “overwhelmed, maybe. When something feels bigger than my body.”
Ilya was quiet for a few beats. “Bigger than my body,” he repeated. His eyes bore into Shane’s, and Shane held his breath, defiantly meeting his gaze.
“Hollander, I am from a place that is over a thousand years old. Very bloody history. Believe me when I say there I things I have seen and heard that I just say “Okay” to, and then move on. I will add this to that category.”
“That’s it?” Shane asked incredulously.
Ilya shrugged. “It doesn’t affect hockey, does it? You can’t make puck go in net with your mind?”
“I’d rather die,” Shane scoffed.
“Please do not,” Ilya said blandly. “But okay, then. No big deal.”
“No big deal,” Shane repeated. “Okay. No big deal.”
To lose control so visibly in front of Rozanov was slightly mortifying, though. He vowed to do more yoga, more meditation exercises. He could keep this in check. Eventually.
And it continued like this for months, then years.
Ilya was no longer surprised by things falling over. It gave him a deep sense of satisfaction, actually, that he made Shane Hollander lose this small bit of control. Bigger than my body, he thought dizzily every time it happened.
And then, at his house in Boston, lya told him to Stay, and made him a tuna melt, and then they said each others’ names, and Shane spiraled so fast he could barely breathe.
The amount of panic and shame Shane felt was so all encompassing that it crowded out the low buzz of the current that lived just under his skin. And then it just- stopped. Like someone flipped a breaker. He couldn’t even move a paper straw wrapper. He reached for any kind of emotion- but all he got was a feeling of dead air.
Until Tampa. Until after they had a conversation, a real conversation, and then there were soft murmurs against skin and the urgent removing of clothes. And then, even though the bed was nowhere near touching it, the clock was suddenly on the floor.
“Shane,” Ilya had looked at the clock and then back at Shane, eyes shining.
“Yes,” Shane had answered, nodding, a confirmation that what he was feeling in his chest and heart and body was big enough to move objects, that he had reached full capacity and there was nowhere else for it to go.
And this time, he wasn’t afraid to let Ilya see it. I would move mountains for you, if you let me.
“I could marry Svetlana.”
Shane gave him an incredulous look.
“She would do it-“
The stack of three books on the coffee table clattered to the floor.
Ilya’s eyebrows rose.
Shane’s tips of his ears burned. It was helpful in a way, to let this speak for him when words failed. But it was also mildly embarrassing. What if Ilya didn’t feel as strongly as he did?
“So, no?” Ilya’s eyes tracked Shane’s face.
“No,” Shane said, resigned that his heart was already written all over the knocked over books. “We can figure something else out.”
“Okay,” Ilya said softly.
It is hot and sunny and perfect in Ibiza in July. They are having coffee out on the terrace of their rental, Ilya absorbed in between trading glances between his New York Times crossword and the ring on his husband’s finger. He feels smug knowing there is now an inscription on the inside, one he had done right before their wedding. Shane’s head is tipped back, eyes covered with dark sunglasses that make him look even more devastatingly handsome.
Behind his sunglasses, Shane tracks Ilya’s coffee mug as he moves it across the table, untouched. It’s cheap entertainment for him to see Ilya have his eyes on his crossword and blindly grab for his mug, then see his momentary confusion spill over into fond exasperation.
“Funny, kotik,” Ilya says, lips trying not to turn up.
He leans over, tapping Shane’s ring and then pressing a warm kiss against his husband’s eager mouth. “Bigger than my body,” he whispers.
“Bigger than my body,” Shane repeats firmly, his forehead against Ilya’s.
“It’s like trying to wrestle a crocodile,” Shane huffs, gently but firmly moving his son’s lower half back onto the changing table after he wildly kicked his chubby legs halfway off of it.
“You were the same way,” Yuna answers cheerfully from where she was hanging up some new clothes in the baby’s closet.
“He’s terrifyingly strong. His favorite thing to do while Ilya holds him is to dig his little feet in and try to climb up his entire torso. Like a baby mountain climber,” Shane says, pride evident in his voice.
Yuna finishes hanging up the clothes and turns to see Shane with one hand on the baby’s chest to keep him from rolling again and another hand reach out towards the diapers. He leans closer, fingers close but not quite able to reach and then- the diaper is in his hand.
Yuna smugly makes a noise of satisfaction.
“Mom,” Shane warns. “Please do not be insufferable about this.”
“I’m not insufferable about anything! Just maybe remembering a certain conversation where you asked for a paper bag to breathe into. Looks like it turned out okay, huh?”
Shane tries to stop his grin, then gives up. He picks up his son and presses a kiss into his dark hair.
“Yeah, Mom. It turned out more than okay.”