Chapter 10

There's a blurry line somewhere between tipsy and drunk, and Danny's walking it. Or, more accurately, stumbling over it, Sasha at his side as they leave the party. Sasha had claimed he was fine to make it back on his own, but then he'd tripped into the door, and Danny had insisted on going with him. Not that he's really in any shape to be escorting someone, but hey, safety in numbers, right?

It took them a while to head out, since Danny had to hug everyone goodbye, and then he'd hugged Sasha a couple of times, too, even though Sasha was going with him. But now they're on their way, and Danny has no idea where the Russians are staying, so he just has to hope that Sasha hasn't forgotten.

For some reason, Sasha doesn't want to use the elevator; instead he pulls Danny into a stairwell, which is quiet and dimly lit and full of concrete stairs that Danny's not certain he can navigate at this stage of his alcohol journey. But whatever, it's probably fine, and now he gets to spend more time with Sasha.

"What floor are you on?" he asks, hoping it's the ground floor. Or the basement. Or something below the basement.

Sasha answers him in Russian, then frowns. "Sorry. Four."

"Oh." Danny snickers, because he's mature like that. "I thought you were saying ‘shit.'"

"What?"

Sasha's looking at him like he's lost his mind, but Danny knows what he heard. "Say ‘four' in Russian."

"Chetyre…" Sasha repeats warily.

"See?" Danny grins at him. "Shit-teary."

Sasha's appalled expression is priceless. Danny starts giggling as he mutters the words to himself, clearly in denial, his eyes growing wider and wider as he switches from Russian to English and back again. "Wow," he finally says, looking at Danny in amazement. "You are crazy!"

For some reason, this is the funniest thing either of them have ever heard. The stairwell echoes with their laughter as they double over, holding onto each other for support. "Shit-teary," Danny whispers into Sasha's shoulder, and Sasha laughs so hard he almost trips down the stairs. Danny has to quickly haul him back up, wrapping both of his arms around Sasha to keep him steady.

"Chetyre!" Sasha exclaims, and that's it—for the next three flights of stairs, neither of them can stop saying "shit" or "four." Danny can barely see or breathe, he's been laughing for so long; he has no idea how they haven't fallen down the stairs yet, and he doesn't care because he's still holding Sasha and Sasha hasn't once tried to pull away.

Somewhere around the tenth floor, Sasha grabs his stomach, and on the eighth he stops and grimaces. "Too many stairs," he complains, leaning against Danny and closing his eyes. He looks borderline nauseous, but when Danny suggests the elevator, he shakes his head. "Stay here."

Since "here" is a stair and Danny's feeling a little dizzy himself, he glances around for a better option and realizes they're not too far from the landing. "Okay, let's sit over there," he says, hoping neither of them pukes on the way.

Somehow, they make it to the landing without incident; but when they get there, Sasha staggers against the wall and then abruptly sits down, almost taking Danny with him. His head knocks into the concrete and he lets out a startled yelp, gasping something in Russian.

"Oh, fuck, are you okay?" Danny drops down next to him, ignoring the complaints from his kneecaps. His alarm grows as Sasha winces and grabs the back of his head, squeezing his eyes shut against the pain. "Shit, hold on, let me—"

Sasha's eyes fly open when Danny touches his hair, and he jerks away, looking frightened. "What are you doing?"

"Sorry!" Danny's heart does a cliff dive into his stomach as he pulls back. No homo—message received, loud and clear. "I just wanted to see if you were bleeding."

Sasha stares at him, confusion and suspicion warring on his face. As the seconds pass, long and horrible and silent, Danny realizes how badly he's fucked up—because it's one thing for Sasha to be straight, but what if he hates people like Danny? What if he starts freaking out, loud enough for someone to call security on them? And Danny has no idea if gay rights even exist in China, because like a fucking idiot he didn't think to look it up before he came here—

"Okay," Sasha says, turning his head so Danny can have better access. "Thank you."

Danny's almost sick with relief. He releases the breath he's been holding, quietly so Sasha can't hear, and tries to pull his thoughts back together. After that close call, his first instinct is to avoid tempting fate again by just quickly glancing at Sasha's head, not even touching him. But it would be too easy to miss a cut or a bump that way, and he knows he can't do that to Sasha.

His hands are shaking, so he stalls a little by switching to a more comfortable position, sitting next to Sasha instead of kneeling on the concrete. Then he takes a deep breath and cautiously reaches out again, sliding his fingers through Sasha's hair and skimming over his scalp.

Sasha shivers, then giggles. "It feels like massage."

"Yeah?" Danny's never had to check anyone's head for anything, not even lice, so he doesn't actually know what he's doing; but he's pretty sure it's better to be thorough, so he settles on a back-and-forth motion, working from Sasha's neck up to his forehead.

"Mmhm." Sasha tilts his head back, making it easier for Danny to reach. His eyes are closed, and he seems… oddly content? As if he's enjoying this?

Danny is so confused.

Like, okay, Sasha's kind of drunk and so is he, and they just spent a bizarre amount of time laughing over the number four so nothing's really making sense right now, but why would Sasha pull away from him and then, like, basically melt into his hands a few seconds later? Is that normal? Do straight guys do that?

Well, sure, Danny probably would have done the melting thing back when he thought he was straight. But considering how that turned out…

Fuck, now he's even more confused.

He's also still stroking Sasha's hair, which is very thick and very soft, like the nicest blanket he's ever touched.

And he kind of never wants to stop.

But that would be even weirder than this already is, so he draws back, letting his hand fall to his side. "I don't see anything," he tells Sasha, swallowing. "I think you're okay."

Sasha twists his neck to look at Danny. "Okay? I will not die?"

In spite of himself, Danny laughs. "No, you're definitely not dying."

"Okay." Sasha slumps back against the wall, sliding down a few inches. "But also I am not moving," he warns, and his eyelids flutter shut as if he fully intends to fall asleep right where he is. Without his usual serious expression, his features seem to soften, and Danny feels something small and quiet lodge in his heart.

Fuck it.

"Do you like Lady Gaga?"

Sasha slowly opens his eyes. It takes him a moment to puzzle out the question, which feels like at least an hour to Danny.

"I don't know," he finally says, shrugging. "She is fine. Do you?"

Danny almost throws his hands up in frustration, but then it occurs to him—does he even like Lady Gaga? He thinks he put one of her songs on a running playlist once. And he has a vague memory of dancing to her at a party in college. But if he's being honest with himself, no, she's really not his go-to.

So much for that gay codeword.

"Yeah, she's okay," he mutters.

His disappointment must have shown in his expression, because Sasha starts laughing at him. "You are very weird man. Why do you ask about her?"

"Yeah, yeah." Danny ignores that last part, opting to distract Sasha instead. "Hey, do you want to watch some of those Alexei Nemov videos?"

Sasha happily agrees, and Danny pulls out his phone. Yulien had talked him into installing some sort of app to get around China's YouTube ban; he doesn't have a clue what a VPN is, but according to Yulien it's "not really that illegal," and it works most of the time.

"He is gymnastics god," Sasha sighs as they start watching one of Alexei's high bar routines.

Danny would be more inclined to give that title to Blaine Wilson, personally, but he has to admit that the Russian is really fucking good. He makes the high bar look like an art form: power and beauty all at once, handstands hollowed to perfection, his body floating through each release like he's never going to come down again. Danny can see why Sasha would admire him. "Is he your favorite gymnast?"

"He is everyone's favorite," Sasha replies, his eyes still following Alexei around the bar. "But Kirill likes him best. He loves Alexei."

Curious, Danny asks, "How long have you and Kirill been friends?"

Sasha pauses the video. "Since we were ten years old," he tells Danny. "It was my first time to train at Round Lake, but Kirill was already there. I gave him a little competition so he liked me. We were friends after."

"Is he always, uh…" Danny tries to think of a nice way to say kind of an asshole. "Intense? Or is that just with me?"

Sasha looks like he knows exactly what Danny meant instead. "Kirill is very… how do you say, motivated? To be best." He goes quiet for a moment, fiddling with the hem of his shirt, and then glances back up at Danny. "He is good person, but he has a lot of pressure. His parents…"

He trails off again; and while it's possible he just doesn't know how to say it in English, Danny gets the feeling that this isn't a subject Sasha wants to pursue.

"Gotcha," he replies. "Let's watch some Blaine Wilson videos."

"Who?"

"Blaine Wilson?" Danny's legitimately offended right now. "Dude, he's only, like, one of the greatest US gymnasts of all time. He was at Athens! With Alexei!"

Sasha gives him a skeptical look. "I don't remember this. Did he win medals?"

"Yeah, the US got silver in the team final! We beat you guys!"

"So he has… one medal?" Sasha shrugs, unimpressed. "Alexei has twelve."

"Okay, first of all, medals don't mean everything. There are so many gymnasts who, like, just because they didn't win an Olympic medal or, like, a worlds medal, doesn't mean they're not still amazing. Like, Blaine won five national championships in a row, do you know how hard that is? And second of all…"

Danny trails off, because Sasha's starting to smile—like he's trying not to laugh—and suddenly Danny can't stop staring at his lips. What was second of all again?

"Yes?" Sasha raises an eyebrow. "Congratulations to Blaine Wilson?"

Danny kind of loves it when Sasha gets sassy with him, but he can't be allowing this disrespect.

"Okay, Sasha, you know what? You're gonna watch him, and then you're gonna apologize. Like, look at this high bar routine—" He pulls up his go-to video, the one he always starts with whenever he's telling someone about how awesome Blaine is. "This was at worlds in 2003. I was like nine and I begged my parents to take me, cause it was in California that year, and the crowd went nuts when he stuck the landing. It was epic."

"It was okay," Sasha says after they watch the video. "Bad handstand at beginning."

"What?" Danny yelps. "Are you serious?"

But Sasha's mouth is twitching at the corners, so Danny relaxes—although he pretends not to notice, because now he has an excuse to show Sasha more of Blaine's routines.

"All right, fine, if you don't like that, here's his rings…"

Usually, Danny can make it through two or three videos max before the other person's eyes start glazing over—but Sasha keeps watching, even though he makes a point of finding at least one deduction per routine. Danny doesn't mind, now that he knows Sasha's only teasing; he also doesn't mind how every time he presses play on another video, Sasha moves a little closer to him so he can see the screen better.

Before long, Sasha's head is drooping against Danny's shoulder, his eyes half-closed, still sleepily critiquing each new video. It's taking everything Danny has not to put his arm around him, especially because he's starting to think Sasha wouldn't mind. Like, they're practically cuddling right now, which seems very not straight—but does that mean Sasha's gay, or bi, or just drunk? And how is Danny supposed to tell the difference?

While he's trying to puzzle it out, he gets distracted by the sight of Blaine doing a planche, his arm muscles straining as he lifts his legs off the floor and spreads them into a straddle. It's a really nice view of his ass, and Jesus, how did it take Danny so long to realize he wasn't straight? No wonder he got such a squirmy feeling in his stomach when he saw this on TV. He's pretty sure he even has a photo of it somewhere on his bedroom walls…

Suddenly, he sits bolt upright. It's all laid out in front of him, clear as a conditioning circuit on the whiteboard: exactly what he needs to do to find out if Sasha likes men.

He is a fucking genius.

*

Danny's so funny, thinking Blaine Wilson is a great gymnast.

Sasha will concede that he's a good gymnast, especially for an American. He's just not a great gymnast. He's not Alexei. Anyone can see that, except for Danny, who keeps showing Sasha these videos that only prove Sasha's point. Flexed feet? In flairs? Alexei would never.

But he doesn't want Danny to stop trying to convince him, because he doesn't want the night to end, doesn't want to feel the sudden cold when Danny pulls away. Danny's shoulder is actually a very good pillow, and Sasha thinks he'll just stay right here, maybe forever if Danny lets him—

And then Danny sits up straight, dislodging Sasha in the process.

"What?" Sasha complains, annoyed.

"Oh, sorry!" But Danny doesn't lean back, so Sasha can't relax again. "I was just thinking…"

He seems oddly anxious all of a sudden, his blue eyes wider than usual.

"So, I was like, kind of obsessed with Blaine when I was younger? Like, I actually wore out my tape of the Sydney Olympics because I kept skipping to his routines and watching them, like, over and over again? And I had all these posters of him in my room—well, I still have them, but yeah, it was a lot. And, um, I had this one picture that was, like, my favorite…"

Danny starts searching for something on his phone, and Sasha wonders if he's tilting the screen away on purpose.

"Um, it was this one," Danny finally says, showing him.

Sasha's mouth runs dry when he sees the picture, and not just because Blaine Wilson is almost as attractive as Danny, with walnut-brown hair, a hint of stubble, and dark eyes that girls would probably swoon over (or something, Sasha doesn't know enough girls to be sure). No, it's because he's shirtless and posing for the photographer, sprawled on a couch and gazing at the camera as if…

As if it's an invitation.

Sasha quickly averts his eyes—this isn't the sort of thing that's safe for him to linger over with Danny right there. He doesn't understand why it's Danny's favorite picture, but maybe as a little kid Danny had wanted a six-pack like his idol; maybe he hadn't even realized there was anything suggestive about the photo.

"He's pretty good-looking, right?"

Danny asks the question casually, almost like Kirill or Ilya when they're talking about a male celebrity, shrugging their shoulders as if they don't have eyes and couldn't possibly judge for themselves. But as Sasha's pulse quickens, he notices that Danny's free hand is tapping restlessly against his shorts, fingers twitching with no discernible rhythm; and there's nothing nonchalant about the way he's watching Sasha now, his body trembling like he's cold, his smile several shades too bright.

He knows.

The thought crashes over Sasha like a wave of ice water, sweeping away the fuzzy contentment he'd felt just a few minutes before. Suddenly he's several degrees closer to sobriety, all those beers he drank turning to acid in his stomach. Is this a trick? Is Danny going to tell everyone that Sasha's gay, or threaten to if Sasha doesn't do something for him?

Danny's looking at him expectantly, almost hopefully, and Sasha can't speak. Everything he's done tonight comes rushing back to him, from the moment he'd nearly kissed Danny during Twister to their giggly descent down the staircase—where yes, he had been drunk, but he had also been using this as an excuse to drape himself all over Danny. How could he have thought Danny wouldn't notice?

Because obviously he had. Was that why he'd touched Sasha's hair earlier? To test his reaction? It was exactly what Sasha had been afraid of, and why he'd pulled away—but Danny had claimed he was just checking for injuries, and Sasha had allowed himself to feel safe again, even moaning a little as Danny's fingers ran through his hair.

He was so fucking stupid.

"I… I go now," he manages, even though he's not sure how he's planning to move when he can barely breathe. "Good—"

"Sasha, wait." Danny grabs his arm, and Sasha hates himself for how quickly he gives in, warming under Danny's touch when he knows he's about to get burned. "I'm sorry. I was just—fuck. Sorry. I'm like totally screwing this up right now. Um, I probably should have said this first, but, uh… I had a huge crush on Blaine when I was a kid."

Sasha frowns—he was bracing himself for something completely different, and now he's lost, his English scrambling to catch up. "You… you had what? ‘Crush'?"

"Yeah. Um. A crush is like…" Danny swallows. "Well, basically I wanted to kiss him."

Sasha doesn't know what stuns him more: the fact that Danny just said that, out loud, or the fact that he was looking at Sasha's mouth when he did.

But no, Sasha must have misunderstood. The word "kiss" can't mean what he thinks it means… can it?

"So… Yeah. I like men."

And if, for some reason, Sasha had still been doubting his English, the nervousness in Danny's eyes would have needed no translation at all.

"You like men?" Sasha echoes, floored. This is… not at all how he was expecting the conversation to go.

Danny nods, then exhales, his fingers fluttering against his legs. "Yeah."

Sasha doesn't know what to say. There's a part of him that understands how brave Danny was to tell him this, and that the door is now wide open for him to confess the same secret; but another part of him still can't accept that Danny's gay, because it seems too good to be true.

And then he remembers the blonde from Danny's Instagram photos.

"But you have girlfriend," he says slowly, even though he's not so sure about that anymore.

Danny gives him a puzzled look. "No, I don't—oh, you mean Allie? No, we broke up a couple months ago. I mean, I liked her, she's awesome, but she was doing this internship thing and I was training, and… I don't know. She didn't really think there was a point if we weren't actually seeing each other."

"So you like girls." Sasha's voice is steady, but disappointment wraps around him like a weighted blanket.

"I like both. Girls and guys." Danny pauses, watching Sasha to make sure his words have sunk in; then he glances away for a moment before meeting Sasha's eyes again. "And I like you."

Sasha goes perfectly, exquisitely still as he finally understands what Danny has been telling him all along. It's like catching his Tkatchev on the high bar for the first time, months of frustration and confusion evaporating the instant he soared through the air and found the bar exactly where he needed it to be. Now he knows why Danny invited him to the party, saying I really want to see you; now he knows he wasn't imagining that look in Danny's eyes when he touched Sasha during qualifications.

This is the part where he should summon his courage and tell Danny that he feels the same way. That he can't stop thinking about him, even when they're half a world and eleven time zones apart, and that the first thing he does now in the mornings is check his phone in case Danny's sent him a new message. That he's watched those damn workout videos over and over again, and jerked off to them an embarrassing number of times, shame flooding through him with every release (okay, maybe he should keep that part to himself).

But he can't even open his mouth, let alone speak; the words are dying in his throat one by one, strangled by all his fears. What if—although he doesn't really think so, not anymore—what if this is a trap? Or what if it's not a trap, but a dream or a drunken hallucination, and the sound of his voice brings him crashing back to reality?

He has no idea how long he's been staring into Danny's eyes, wanting and hoping and afraid. The silence between them is excruciating, and he knows it's even worse for Danny, can see him starting to fidget as if he's about to say or do something stupid—

And then Danny leans forward and kisses him.

It's slow and gentle and not at all what he would have expected from Danny, his lips brushing tentatively against Sasha's as if asking for permission. Yes, Sasha wants to shout, fucking yes already—but every muscle in his body has gone numb, paralyzed with disbelief. The only thing that registers is Danny's mouth on his own, and the faint taste of all the alcohol they've consumed, one of so many reasons why this is a bad decision.

As if he's just come to the same realization, Danny abruptly pulls back, and all that's left of their kiss is the roaring in Sasha's ears.

*

Sometimes, when you're learning a new skill in gymnastics, you just have to send a prayer and chuck it.

Which is why, after telling Sasha he likes him and seeing… well, not much, but the tiniest glimmer of something in Sasha's eyes, Danny decides it's time to throw caution to the wind. Because Sasha still hasn't said a word, but he also hasn't pulled away—and that doesn't strike Danny as someone who's completely uninterested.

He really hopes Russian body language doesn't have a different alphabet, too.

Keeping his eyes on Sasha's for as long as possible, giving him plenty of time to back out, he closes the gap between them. He's never kissed a guy before, and he's about ten times as nervous as he's ever been with a girl, but it's surprisingly familiar—Sasha's lips are just as soft as Allie's, and the taste of them makes Danny's stomach tighten in the exact same way, that upside-down rollercoaster sensation of the world falling apart around him.

Well, there's a lot more stubble, but Danny can't say he hates it.

He's so caught up in the adrenaline rush, it takes him a few seconds to realize that Sasha isn't returning the kiss. Like at all. His lips are motionless beneath Danny's, and the only part of him that's moving is his chest, which is rapidly rising and falling, his breathing shallow and unsteady in Danny's ear. He isn't pushing Danny away, but he also isn't participating—and as far as Danny's concerned, that's a no.

He jerks back, mortified, and looks at Sasha, trying to assess the damage. Sasha stares at him with wide eyes, his lips still parted from their kiss; he hasn't uttered a single word since Danny put all his cards on the table, and it's really starting to freak Danny out.

"I'm sorry," he says, wishing he could go back just ten seconds in time and stop himself from fucking this whole thing up. "I shouldn't have—"

Sasha's lips crash against his, cutting him off mid-sentence. Danny's so surprised, he doesn't realize what's happening at first, but at some point the pieces click together and he starts kissing Sasha back. The result is fumbling and awkward, with bumped noses and bad timing, but Danny doesn't care—because it's also Sasha's answer, and it's everything he had hoped for and more.

He's about to deepen the kiss when Sasha draws back, breathing heavily. His eyes meet Danny's, fear and desire flickering in their depths. "I should… " He licks his lips, and it's all Danny can do not to reclaim them. "I should go…"

He's clearly nervous. Danny doesn't know for sure, but he has a feeling this is also Sasha's first time kissing a man. He remembers Matt's warning, that not every country is safe for someone like them, and he hopes he hasn't made things worse for Sasha when he returns to Russia.

"You don't have to," he replies, resisting the urge to reach out and touch him—whatever Sasha does next, it needs to be his decision. "You can stay, if you want."

Sasha hesitates, his eyes darting to Danny's mouth and then back up again. Just when Danny thinks he might be leaning forward, there's a distant banging noise above them, and footsteps echo down the stairwell. They both jump apart; with one last frightened look at Danny, Sasha scrambles to his feet, bolting out of the stairwell before Danny can say anything.

The door slams shut behind him, and Danny's left sitting there on the concrete, his heart racing like he just sprinted down a hundred vault runways.