Chapter 21

Sasha slips into Danny's room wearing a white t-shirt, grey sweatpants, and a smile that turns into a frown when he realizes Danny's balancing on one leg.

"What are you doing?"

"Um… staying off my foot?" Danny's attempt at sounding casual is immediately ruined by the awkward hop he has to do to shut the door, and Sasha doesn't look pleased. But before he can say anything, Danny pulls him in close, wrapping his arms around him for the first time since the American Cup.

"What—"

"Shh, I'm hugging you." Danny squeezes tighter and takes a deep breath, filling his lungs with Sasha. It's soap and shampoo and something underneath, something that's just him, and fuck, Danny doesn't know how he'd lasted seven months on texts and phone calls. He can't believe he'd even made it through this past week, seeing Sasha everywhere but not being able to touch him.

"We do not have to hug always," Sasha points out, but when Danny shushes him again, he sighs and puts a hand on Danny's back. Which is almost like returning the hug, except Danny has a feeling he's only doing it to keep them both steady.

"Okay, now I'm good," he says after a minute, letting go of Sasha even though, honestly, he wouldn't have minded staying there for longer. "Wanna come in?"

But Sasha's looking down at Danny's foot, his eyes narrowing as he takes in the fresh bruises. "Why is it worse?" he asks suspiciously.

"Oh." Danny gives him a sheepish grin. "I, uh, kind of did my double front on p-bars."

"What?"

"Well, I didn't mean to. I was just, like, really into my routine…" Danny trails off, because Sasha seems very unimpressed by this explanation.

"Sit down," he says, pointing at the bed.

"I'm fine—"

Sasha's eyes flash. "Sit down."

"Okay, okay. Jeez. Uh… after you?" Danny asks hopefully, because he's been wanting to see Sasha's ass in those sweatpants ever since he walked through the door.

Sasha just looks at him, and eventually Danny realizes he's not going to win a staring contest against a Russian. "Okay," he groans, hopping over to the bed on his good leg.

Sasha hovers behind him the whole time, and then not only does he make Danny put a pillow under his ankle, but he also insists on the ice pack, even though it's not as cold as it used to be. Danny does what he's told, because bossy Sasha is hot, but also a little scary, and there's clearly not going to be any kissing until he's satisfied.

Finally, Danny's propped up against all the pillows, the ice pack is melting on his ankle, and Sasha's at the foot of the bed, watching him to make sure he doesn't move.

"Come here," Danny says.

Sasha looks uncertainly at Danny's outstretched hand, then takes a few steps forward.

Danny bites back a laugh. "Dude. Just get on top of me so I can kiss you."

Sasha's cheeks turn the color of a winter sunset, but he climbs onto Danny's lap, awkwardly, glancing over his shoulder as he straddles Danny's thighs.

"You are nowhere near my ankle," Danny points out, and Sasha flushes again. He's barely putting any of his weight on Danny, still not quite making eye contact, and it crosses Danny's mind that maybe he's embarrassed about being in the "girl" position. Which, like, they're both guys, so it shouldn't matter… but yeah, he can see why Sasha might be uncomfortable.

Hoping this is just one of those things where it's weird until it isn't, he wraps his arms around Sasha's waist and pulls him in for a long, distracting kiss. After a few seconds, Sasha starts to relax against him, and when they come up for air, his cheeks are almost back to their normal color.

"Hi," Danny says, grinning at him.

Sasha makes one of his huffing noises, which usually means he thinks Danny's being ridiculous, but he's smiling, too. "Hello."

Danny almost goes in for another kiss, but he finds himself getting sidetracked by Sasha's hair, which is still damp from the shower and starting to curl at the ends. It's longer than it was at the American Cup, a few stray locks hanging over his forehead; Danny can't resist touching one of them, wrapping the soft strands around his finger.

Sasha watches him, bemused. "What are you doing?"

"Is your hair curly?" Danny asks, twirling his finger when Sasha doesn't seem to recognize the word.

"Yes? When it is long. And when I do not…" Sasha mimics combing out his hair and smoothing some sort of product into it.

"Hm." Danny nudges the curl away from Sasha's face, only to smile when it falls right back. "You should wear it like this more, I like it."

Sasha gets all cute and flustered, like he always does whenever Danny compliments him. "Bad for gymnastics," he says, blushing; and when he kisses Danny, it's clearly meant to shut him up. But Danny doesn't mind having something else to do with his mouth instead, so he goes along with it. They can work on the whole compliment thing later.

Hoping to solve another problem—the fact that they're still wearing clothes—he reaches for Sasha's shirt, but Sasha pulls back, looking serious again.

"Your parents…"

Not the people Danny wants to be thinking about in the middle of a makeout session, but okay. "Yeah?"

"They do not… they don't know about…" Sasha hesitates, searching for the right words. "About this?"

"No, they don't," Danny swears. "Sorry, I should have told you."

Or at least sent a heads-up text when he'd noticed Sasha at the buffet table the other day. But he'd been so excited about finding a sneaky way to introduce Sasha to his parents, it hadn't occurred to him until afterwards that maybe he should have checked with Sasha first, especially since Sasha had looked a little freaked out when Danny called him over.

Trying to make up for it, he says, "My mom really liked you, though. And so did my dad, obviously. But my mom's, like, a super fan now. You and Kohei."

Another blush starts to creep up Sasha's cheeks. "She is very nice. Both of your parents are." But then his expression turns guilty, the light in his eyes fading. "I am sorry for what Kirill did to them. I did not want—"

"Hey, it's okay," Danny says quickly, before Sasha can work himself up again. He'd already messaged Danny as soon as the Russians finished breakfast; it was the longest text he'd ever sent, mortified and apologetic and increasingly difficult to read as his English started lapsing. "Seriously, they had no idea."

Sasha still looks worried, his eyes scanning Danny's for reassurance, and Danny can't help but smile: he loves that Sasha cares this much about what his parents think.

"Promise," he murmurs, sealing it with a kiss.

That last bit of tension loosens from Sasha's limbs, and he exhales, finally letting his full weight rest on Danny. "I told Kirill we are friends. And I asked him to not… to not to be rude to you."

As far as gestures go, it's not exactly roses—but Danny can tell that this was a big deal for Sasha, that he'd been nervous about saying even that much to Kirill. And the fact that he'd taken the risk anyway, standing up to his best friend in the process, means a hell of a lot more than the nicest, most expensive flowers Danny's ever bought for a girl.

"What?" Sasha asks, because Danny's grinning like an idiot. God, he was so overthinking the Kirill issue.

"Nothing. But thank you." Danny kisses him, then leans back and raises his eyebrows. "So, now that we're ‘friends'…"

Sasha's laugh turns into a stifled gasp when Danny's hands slide under his shirt.

It's like the first practice of the college season, getting used to the equipment again after a summer away; muscle memory takes on a whole new meaning as Danny retraces abs and obliques with his fingertips, running a lazy circuit around Sasha's waist. "I think we should take this off," he murmurs, tugging at Sasha's shirt, and the words have barely left his mouth before it's gone, Sasha dropping it somewhere on the floor.

"Yours, too?" he asks, and Danny grins, happy to oblige. Then it's back to business, hands roaming free while his mouth lays a trail of kisses from Sasha's chin to his collarbone, following the map he'd made in March of all the weak spots in between.

This does some very interesting things to Sasha's breathing, and while he doesn't go so far as to actually speak, he does tilt his head back, offering up more of his throat. His eyes are closed, lips parted; Danny keeps sneaking glances at him, trying to memorize the sight.

By the time he turns his attention to the space under Sasha's ear, alternating kisses with gentle bites that won't leave a mark, Sasha's all but squirming on Danny's lap. One of his hands has drifted to the back of Danny's neck, his fingers running distractedly through Danny's hair; he doesn't seem fully aware of what he's doing, but Danny's sure as hell not complaining.

"Is this okay?" Danny asks, even though the answer's obvious—he just wants to hear Sasha's voice.

The "mmhm" he gets in response isn't exactly what he'd hoped for, but then Sasha ducks his head, pressing a shy kiss against Danny's shoulder. It's sweet and sexy all at once, his lips catching on the edge of Danny's collarbone and raking across his skin, and—yeah, this is definitely getting filed away for a solo session.

"You can do that whenever you want," Danny says, in case Sasha needs encouraging.

Sasha turns beet red as he kisses Danny again, this time on his other shoulder. Danny hums in appreciation, and for a moment he's tempted to see where else Sasha might kiss him; but he's also very eager to get this show on the road, and judging by a glance at Sasha's sweatpants, he's not the only one.

"Okay, don't freak out," he says, and right as Sasha looks up at him, he flips them over.

The ice pack goes flying, and Sasha yelps as he lands on his back, his face the picture of indignation. "Danny!" he gasps, trying to sit up again. "Your ankle—"

"It's fine." Danny gestures to his foot, which he's lifting a few inches above the bed—easy enough to manage on his hands and knees. "See? No weight on it."

Sasha looks very unhappy about this arrangement, but when he opens his mouth, Danny kisses him. There's some muffled grumbling as Sasha's pushed back down onto the mattress, but it doesn't last long, his final "you should not—" disappearing into a sigh as Danny stretches out on top of him.

Danny's not sure if he presses down first or if Sasha raises his hips, but holy fuck, he'd forgotten how good it felt grinding against each other at the American Cup. It's all coming back now, Sasha whispering something in Russian as he pulls Danny closer, the friction between them so perfect it's almost painful, Danny's cock throbbing in his boxers with every thrust.

And he wonders: Could we just keep doing this? Would that be weird?

But no, shit, he needs to focus, because he has other plans for tonight and he's about to forget all of them. So he forces himself to slow down, reluctantly lifting his head from the crook of Sasha's neck.

"What?" Sasha whines. He's still trying to rub against Danny, his cheeks flushed, his eyes fever-green; and it's so fucking hot, all Danny wants is more.

He kisses him again, hard, hoping Sasha feels it tomorrow like a bruise. Waits until Sasha's gasping, fingers digging into Danny's back; then he stops, just so he can look at Sasha when he murmurs, "I really wanna go down on you."

And Sasha stares blankly back at him, not even a flicker of interest on his face.

Shit. Something definitely got lost in translation there. "Um… blowjob? BJ? Oral?" Danny tries, but neither of those seem to register, either. Fuck. Would it totally kill the mood if he pulled out his phone and googled "Russian word for blowjob"?

"Can we…" Sasha shifts beneath him, a note of desperation in his voice.

"Yeah, sorry." For a dark moment, Danny thinks he might have to stoop to charades, but then he gets a better idea. "Okay, you know what? I'm gonna kiss you, and you tell me if you want me to stop."

Sasha seems confused, but he doesn't object, so Danny heads south, pausing at all his favorite landmarks along the way: the dimple on Sasha's chin, the notch at the base of his throat, the smooth plane of his sternum. As he moves further down Sasha's chest, he starts glancing up between each kiss, making sure everything's okay; and it's not long before Sasha realizes what's happening, his stomach muscles jumping as he sucks in a sharp breath.

But of course, he doesn't say a word, and Danny has no way of knowing what those wide green eyes are thinking. "Can I take these off?" he asks, running his thumb along the elastic of Sasha's sweatpants. "Or—"

Sasha nods, lifting his hips to help. They make quick work of removing his sweatpants and trunks, and then Danny settles himself between Sasha's legs, pressing feather-soft kisses up along the insides of his thighs. By the time his mouth closes over a hipbone, Sasha's trembling from head to foot—and while Danny's pretty sure it's just first-blowjob nerves (oh man, does he remember those), he pulls back a little, giving them both a second.

Because he's feeling some of those nerves, too, although not in a bad way. It's more like pre-competition jitters, the kind where you've got your boys around you, jokes flying, pump-up music flowing, and your hands are still shaking because you want to perform your best out in that arena. And he wants to make this good for Sasha, wants to make him gasp and say dirty things in Russian, if he can just figure out how to get him there.

"You okay?" he asks, rubbing his palms over the goosebumps on Sasha's legs, and Sasha flushes as he nods. "Is this your first…"

Sasha hesitates, then nods again. He looks embarrassed, but even though Danny wants to tell him there's nothing to be ashamed of, he knows that'll only make Sasha feel more self-conscious.

"Yeah, me, too," he confesses instead. "I don't really know what I'm doing. So I'm just gonna, like, go for it, and, uh… please tell me if it sucks, okay?" He takes a deep breath, wraps his hand around Sasha, then realizes what he just said and snickers. Because he's in middle school. "Wow. Sorry. No pun intended."

Sasha clearly has no idea what he's talking about, and now's not the time to explain, so Danny just grins at him and dives down, taking as much of Sasha into his mouth as he can. Which, it turns out, isn't a whole lot; but Sasha doesn't seem to mind, judging by his sharp inhale as he shivers, spreading his legs a little wider. So Danny pulls back up and tries again, slowly, getting used to the stretch and the taste of Sasha everywhere, sweet and a little salty on his tongue.

And he thinks: Holy shit, I have a dick in my mouth.

And then, as the saliva hits and he swallows, and Sasha makes the tiniest noise, somewhere between a whimper and a moan: Okay, wow, this is awesome.

It gets even better, listening to the changes in Sasha's breathing as he finds a rhythm, his hand and mouth gradually working in tandem. He doesn't have a gameplan, just a vague idea of doing what he knows he likes until he figures out what Sasha likes instead, and after some trial and error—including a couple of accidental teeth scrapes—he manages to copy one of his favorite moves from Allie, gliding his tongue up the underside of Sasha's shaft before teasing him with light, fleeting circles around the tip.

It's basically blowjob plagiarism, but with Sasha's thighs quivering on either side of him, Danny doesn't care all that much about integrity.

He learns early on that Sasha doesn't want any eye contact, because the first time it happens, Sasha blushes and turns his face to the ceiling; and the next time Danny looks up, his eyes are closed, his cheeks still a faint red. So Danny starts paying attention to other clues, like the unsteady rise and fall of Sasha's ribcage, or the rustling of the comforter as he fidgets, and he's mostly sure that Sasha's enjoying this. Like, eighty-five percent.

But the thing is, he hasn't said a word in… actually, Danny doesn't even remember the last time Sasha spoke. And the longer he's bobbing his head up and down in complete silence, the less certain he feels, until finally he has to stop.

"Is this okay?" he asks, pulling off.

Sasha opens his eyes, blinking down at Danny in confusion. "Yes?"

"Yes as in, like, it's good, or yes as in, like, it's okay but it could be better?"

Sasha stares at him for several seconds. "What?"

"Just—you're really quiet, so, like, if this isn't working for you, can you tell me? Or like, tap me? Or something?" Danny asks. "Cause, like, I'm just doing what one of my girlfriends used to do, so if you want something different, like, more hands or less hands, or, like, I don't know, if you want me to touch your balls—"

"Less talk, please," Sasha says in a strained voice.

Danny might have been a little offended if Sasha hadn't looked so hard, his own dick hurt in sympathy. Sensing an apology's not going to help, he bends over to make it right, hearing Sasha's groan of relief as he wraps his mouth around him again.

Each stroke feels less clumsy than the one before, and it's getting easier to juggle everything he's supposed to do at the same time, like breathing through his nose and keeping his lips over his teeth and swallowing some of his spit but not all of it. Whenever he can, he glances up at Sasha, whose eyes are squeezed shut, his hands clenched into fists; he's wound up so tightly, all Danny wants to do is pull him apart.

And then he gets an idea.

Remembering the trick Sasha had shown him at the American Cup, tugging his foreskin over the head of his cock (which is like next-level jacking off, and Danny's still jealous), he decides to try it with his mouth. He has no idea if it'll work, but he goes for it on his next pass anyway, sucking the extra skin between his lips and… oh hell yes, it does work. Feeling pretty damn proud of himself, he draws the skin up, then brings it down again, licking at the exposed head.

The second his tongue connects, Sasha convulses underneath him, hips thrusting up before Danny has a chance to react. It's way more dick than he was expecting, and his eyes water as he pulls back to cough.

Sasha says something frantic in Russian before switching to English, bright red and mortified. "Sorry! Sorry—are you okay?"

"Yeah, I'm fine," Danny manages, trying to catch his breath.

Sasha grabs a water bottle from the nightstand and pushes it into his hands, still apologizing. Once Danny's able to swallow a few mouthfuls, his throat hurts a lot less, and he mostly just feels bad for Sasha, who looks like he wants to crawl under the comforter and die.

"It's okay," he says—he's been there before, and he knows Sasha wasn't doing it on purpose. "Don't worry about it. Was that, like, too much?"

"I—no," Sasha mutters, flushing. "But—"

"Okay, so we're good." Danny smiles at him, no harm no foul, and puts the water bottle back on the nightstand. "Come on."

It takes some more convincing, but eventually Sasha lies down again, watching nervously as Danny starts over. Danny keeps a hand on his hip, just in case, but Sasha doesn't move at all—he's as stiff as a high bar on the wrong settings, his muscles trembling from the effort of holding himself in place.

"Sash, relax," Danny finally says, because he's not sure if Sasha's even breathing at this point. "I've got you, okay?"

He squeezes Sasha's hip, and… well, maybe "relax" isn't the right word for the tiniest amount of unclenching that Sasha does, but at least it looks like the oxygen's flowing again. Danny goes easy on him, building momentum from one sigh to the next, until he can tell Sasha's getting close, legs shifting restlessly against the comforter as his head falls back on the pillow.

The first time Danny tries his new trick again, Sasha shudders but manages to stay still; the second and third times, he starts shaking all over; and on the fourth, he taps Danny on the shoulder, gasping, "I—Danny—"

"You're almost done?" Danny guesses.

Sasha nods, clearly assuming Danny wants to pull back—but while Danny appreciates the warning, he's all in on this blowjob, and he's going to finish it.

"Okay, cool, go for it," he says, the last part muffled by Sasha's dick.

A few seconds later, Sasha arches off the mattress, gasping as he comes. And while Danny knows what to expect—he's tasted himself more than once out of curiosity—he's still startled by how much of it there suddenly is, thick and salty and sliding down his throat. It's not his favorite kind of protein shake, that's for sure, but it's also not that bad once he swallows, and it's totally worth it to feel Sasha twitching in his mouth.

He kisses his way back up Sasha's torso, grinning at how different he looks now, loose-limbed and disheveled, eyes soft and unfocused. "Thank you," he mumbles when Danny reaches his neck, just before they're face to face again.

"Yeah, of course." Danny smiles, then runs his thumb over Sasha's lips. "Can I kiss you?"

Sasha seems uncertain at first, but a second or two later he nods and lifts his head, meeting Danny halfway. "Not terrible," he says after, and Danny laughs at how surprised he sounds. "Okay for you?"

"Yeah, thanks," Danny replies, appreciating that he asked. "I mean, not gonna lie, it was a little weird, but I feel like I just needed to, like, do it, and now I'm ready for next time."

He grins at Sasha, who turns the slightest shade of pink at the words "next time." Nudging Danny's uninjured leg with his own, he asks, "Do you want—?"

Fuck yes, Danny wants. He starts to climb off of Sasha, already tugging at his sweatpants, but then Sasha sits up and says, "Wait."

Shit. He'd jumped the gun.

"Oh, sorry! It's fine, we can just, like, cuddle or whatever." Danny's a little disappointed, obviously, but he can deal with a hard-on; if Sasha's not ready, he's not ready.

"No, I…" Sasha scratches the back of his neck, looking frustrated. "I don't know how to say…" Finally, he grimaces and grabs his sweatpants from the corner of the bed, retrieving his phone from one of the pockets. "Sorry," he apologizes as he types.

Okay, so, apparently it's not that weird to break out a translator in the middle of a hookup. Danny files this information away for future reference, then leans forward to see what's on the screen. At first, he only notices the Russian letters, all squiggly and confusing; but when he glances a little lower, there it is:

I don't want you to cum in my mouth.

Danny looks up at Sasha, who's turning bright red again but holds onto his gaze, waiting for Danny's reaction. And honestly, considering a few seconds ago he'd thought Sasha didn't want to go down on him at all, he just feels relieved. A couple of his girlfriends had always preferred him finishing in their hands, and as far as he's concerned, it's dealer's choice—so if Sasha's not comfortable taking a load, Danny can totally work with that.

"Yeah, no, that's fine," he promises. "I'll just, like, tap you on the shoulder so you can stop."

He demonstrates, making sure they're on the same page about the signal, and Sasha nods. "Thank you," he says quietly, before fixing Danny with a sharp look.

And that's how, two minutes later, Danny finds himself wearing nothing but that damn ice pack. Sasha's tucked a pillow underneath his ankle, warned him not to move; and now Danny is meek, obedient, and seriously fucking turned on as he watches his cock disappear into Sasha's mouth.

No kissing or unnecessary touching—Sasha's just going for it cold, with none of the hesitation or awkwardness that Danny might have expected from him. He figures out the hand-mouth coordination a lot more quickly than Danny, setting a deliberate, determined pace that has Danny gasping "oh, fuck, okay"; and then he starts doing this suction-y thing as he pulls up, cheeks hollowed, tongue flicking like fire at Danny's skin.

"Sash, have you done this before?" Danny blurts out when he catches his breath. "This is, like, really good."

And he gets this stupid mental image he didn't want, of Sasha and Kirill during one of their sleepovers…

"No," Sasha replies, but he's blushing as he ducks his head again.

Even with the distraction of a blowjob, it takes Danny about two seconds to guess why Sasha's so embarrassed. "What did you do, like, porn research or something? Or—wait, dude, do you have a dildo? Did you practice?"

There's a pause, and then—

"Not porn," Sasha mutters, avoiding Danny's eyes. "Google."

Danny bursts out laughing at the thought of Sasha trolling the Russian internet for sex tips. "That's hilarious. I love that you, like, actually did that."

Sasha apparently decides that the best way to deal with this situation is to ignore it, because he bends over and all but swallows Danny, which conveniently prevents him from answering the dildo question.

Danny grins to himself and decides to leave it alone—he doesn't want to tease Sasha too much on his first blowjob. "Seriously, though, that's pretty smart. What did you, like, go on Reddit? Do you guys have that?"

Okay, yup, Sasha's definitely ignoring him.

"All right, I'm gonna shut up now," Danny says, leaning back to watch.

Even without any eye contact from Sasha, it's still an incredible view, from the swell of his ass to the curve of his spine, back and shoulder muscles rippling as he balances himself while stroking Danny. Every time he dips his head, soft curls shake loose onto Danny's stomach, until finally Danny can't take it anymore.

"Can I touch your hair?"

Sasha glances up at him, raising his eyebrows, and that's when Danny realizes it's been about five seconds since he promised to be quiet.

"If yes, will you stop talking?" Sasha asks wearily, like he already knows the answer.

"No," Danny admits.

Sasha drops his forehead onto Danny's hip, takes a deep breath, and looks up with an air of resignation. "Yes. You can touch hair," he says, sighing.

Danny really does try to be quieter after that, but then Sasha starts doing the suction-y thing again, and he can't exactly help some of the noises he makes. It's just—it's a lot, Sasha's tongue and Sasha's hair, which feels like the inside of a brand-new hoodie, or Buddy's fur after he goes to the groomer, and Danny doesn't want this to stop, ever.

"Fuck, Sasha, this is so good," he says, along with a lot of other things he doesn't remember, because all that matters is Sasha, his mouth everywhere, his hair an absolute wreck, so fucking sexy when he's focused—

It's almost embarrassing how quickly he has to tap out, calling Sasha's name to get his attention. Sasha pulls up, letting Danny slide from his lips with a wet pop that almost finishes the job on its own; then his hands pick up the slack, hard and fast until Danny's gone, the ice pack thudding onto the floor as he comes.

He's pretty much useless after that, and Sasha takes care of the cleanup, leaving the bed to throw out the tissues. Seeing him hesitate when he's done, his eyes darting to his clothes, Danny grumbles, "C'mere. Wanna kiss you."

Sasha comes back and lies down next to him, inching over until their shoulders touch as if he actually thinks this is an acceptable form of cuddling. "What?" he asks when Danny starts laughing at him.

"Dude, seriously? That's not even…" Danny gives up on trying to explain. Grabbing the pillow Sasha keeps making him use, he drops it on Sasha's legs and rolls on top of him for a kiss.

Sasha dodges his lips. "What are you doing?" he asks, squinting over Danny's shoulder.

"I'm resting my ankle," Danny says innocently. "Sasha's orders."

Sasha stares at him for a moment, then shakes his head. "You are so weird."

"Mmhm. And now you can't move without hurting me."

"Oh my God," Sasha says in Russian, or at least that's what Danny assumes he's saying, because it sounds exactly the same. But when the pillow starts slipping between his legs, he carefully wiggles it back into place, moving his feet closer together so it doesn't happen again.

Which is fucking adorable, and now Danny really needs that kiss. He takes several of them, long and slow and perfect, until Sasha sighs and says, "I have to go."

"Already?" Danny looks at him in dismay. He'd had a whole plan—he was going to kiss Sasha, like, a lot, and then, somehow, he wasn't super clear on this part, figure out if Sasha wanted to be his boyfriend—

"I don't know when Kirill is back," Sasha explains. "Sorry."

Right. Because of course Sasha and Kirill are sharing a room.

Danny pushes away the uncharitable thought, reminding himself that Sasha took a risk just by coming here. "Okay. Yeah. Can we, um… can we hang out again? Soon?" They're already halfway done with worlds, and his heart starts to sink as he realizes just how little time they have left.

"I have vault," Sasha says, hesitating. "After?"

Danny tries not to show his disappointment. The vault final is at the very end of the competition, four whole days from now, so he basically won't get to see Sasha until they're packing their bags. But he knows Sasha has to prepare for his event, and if it were him, he'd want to focus, too.

"Yeah, sure." He forces a smile, swallows his feelings. "No problem."

Sasha refuses to let Danny accompany him to the door, but he does allow a goodnight kiss when Danny hits him with the puppy-dog eyes. Then he retrieves the ice pack from the floor, drops it on top of the pillow, and points at it. "Rest," he orders before turning away.

It sucks, watching him leave, but at least Danny finally gets to see what his ass looks like in those sweatpants.