Chapter 7

"What the fuck was that?" Kirill asks when Sasha returns to the group.

Sasha shrugs, hoping the fluorescent lighting in the arena is strong enough to wash out any redness in his cheeks. "No idea."

Kirill frowns, suspicion lingering in his gaze. "How does he even know you?"

Sasha hesitates. He's never told Kirill about apologizing to Danny in London, because as far as he knows Kirill doesn't remember making fun of him that night. He also hasn't mentioned seeing Danny in Antwerp, or the fact that they've exchanged numbers, and he definitely hasn't mentioned any of their text conversations.

"We ran into each other a couple of times at worlds last year," he finally says. "I think he thinks we're friends."

It feels kind of shitty, talking about Danny like that—but the other option is telling Kirill why Danny thinks they're friends, which, as far as Sasha's concerned, is not an option at all.

His excuse passes muster, and Kirill snorts before changing the subject. Soon, the voice over the speaker announces that it's time to rotate, and he and his teammates head to rings, which the American men have just vacated for vault (not that Sasha's paying attention).

Kirill's the first one on the apparatus, but Sasha hangs back, choosing a spot towards the end of the line. He's not sure he can focus right now, especially when he can still feel Danny's arms around him. Apart from his family, the only person who's ever hugged him like that is Kirill, usually in a state of intoxication; but even though they're barely friends, or whatever they are, Danny didn't seem to think twice about embracing him in front of everyone in the arena.

That's what he does, though. Remember London? Yang Hak-seon? He didn't even know the guy and he hugged him. It doesn't mean anything.

But then he'd squeezed Sasha's arm… and was Sasha imagining things, or had there been more than just admiration in his eyes?

Only that doesn't make sense. Sasha knows he's put on muscle mass since the last time they met, but he's still smaller than Danny, and probably most of Danny's teammates, too. So why would Danny compliment him? Unless he's just being nice—like when you tell someone you like their haircut, but you don't actually care, you just feel like you have to say something to not be rude.

"Zakaryan!" one of the coaches snaps.

Sasha realizes he's been standing there like an idiot while the rest of his teammates take their turns on the rings, and now he's the only one left. Mortified, he hurries forward, almost tripping over the mat.

Coach Yuri is not pleased. The lines around his mouth tighten, and his grey eyes survey Sasha coldly; he makes no move to fix the rings, which are still tangled from the last person's turn. "If you're training, you're training," he scolds Sasha. "If you're in here"—he points to Sasha's head—"you're wasting my time. Which is it?"

"I'm training," Sasha answers, furious with himself.

"Good. Then I want to see it." Only then does Yuri raise the hook in his hand and separate the rings so that Sasha can take his turn.

Sasha stands under the rings, waiting to be boosted up; but when Yuri moves behind him and puts his hands on his waist, he pauses. "What was the American saying to you?"

Sasha's breath catches in his throat. "He said hello. And something about Rio. I didn't really understand him."

For several long seconds, Yuri doesn't reply. Sasha lifts his eyes and sees Kirill, watching them with a worried frown, but he doesn't dare make any other movement.

"Now is not the time for distractions," Yuri finally says. "If he bothers you again, let me know and I will handle it."

Sasha doesn't trust himself to speak, so he just nods. This seems to satisfy Yuri; he tightens his grip on Sasha's waist, allowing him to jump up to the rings. Sasha barely remembers what he does after that—he thinks he manages a passable set, but after he dismounts and walks off the mat, all he can hear is Yuri's warning. Will he get Danny in trouble, even if Sasha doesn't complain?

Focus,he orders himself. That's the only way for this to blow over—if he can make it through the rest of podium training without another lapse in concentration, Yuri will forget about Danny and find something else to criticize.

So he takes a deep breath, and he doesn't allow himself to look at the Americans again. After rings, they have vault, parallel bars, and high bar, and Sasha puts in solid work on all of them, making sure to prioritize his form and landings. Even with his recent upgrades, he won't be able to match Kirill or some of the others on difficulty—but his execution scores haven't gone unnoticed by the coaches, and he knows they're keeping an eye on him for Rio.

By the time he sticks his last high bar dismount, he's tired but pleased with his efforts. He drops onto the folding chair next to Kirill, who finished right before him, and downs the last of his water while he half-watches Ilya run through his routine.

"My parents want to take me to dinner after the team final," Kirill says.

Sasha looks at him in dismay. "They're not expecting us to win, are they?" he asks. After London and Antwerp, that seems like a tall order—Sasha would personally be happy with finishing on the podium at all.

"They shouldn't be, but you know how they are." A muscle twitches in Kirill's jaw. "They've been sending me shit the whole time we've been here."

He shows Sasha his phone; the screen is a solid wall of texts from his mother. You aren't hollowing enough in your handstands, the most recent one says.

"Jesus. They're actually here?" No wonder Kirill's been in a bad mood all morning.

"I think they're somewhere near the vault, that's when I got the most corrections." Kirill tosses his phone into his gym bag and groans. "They're coming to the team final, all-around, and all the event finals. My father says he wants me to make at least three of them."

Sasha winces. "Well, floor and vault, probably, right? And maybe high bar if you hollow enough in your handstands?"

It's a weak joke, and Kirill doesn't laugh. "Do you think you could come to dinner?" he asks, his eyes fixed on Ilya. He's trying to sound casual, but his tense shoulders give him away, and Sasha can tell he's hoping for a yes.

Being a buffer between Kirill and his parents is ranked pretty low on Sasha's list of favorite things to do outside of the gym—somewhere between a trip to the dentist and one of the stifling, God-awful galas they're always having with government officials—but he doesn't hesitate, because he knows what the alternative is. "Yeah, of course. If they'll let me."

Kirill exhales in barely disguised relief. "Thanks. You brought a dress shirt, right?"

Sasha nods. He always tries to wear the same thing as Kirill, so his parents won't make pointed comparisons about their appearances, but that doesn't stop the Kazakovs from comparing them in every other way. If they want to criticize Kirill, they'll praise Sasha and ask Kirill why he can't be more like him; if they're pleased with Kirill, they'll make subtle digs at Sasha, which Sasha suspects are a lot closer to their real feelings about him. To say it's fucked up is an understatement.

He finds his attention wandering over to floor, where the Americans are wrapping up. Most of them, Danny included, are milling around off the podium, peeling athletic tape from various parts of their bodies and tossing gear back into their bags. As Sasha watches, Danny wanders from teammate to teammate, chatting with everyone; he can't seem to sit still at all. At one point he cocks his head, listening to something, and then he starts dancing to whatever pop song's playing over the speakers.

No one on his team seems to think this is weird—in fact, somebody laughs and joins in. The way Danny's face lights up when this happens makes Sasha feel embarrassed for him, but also… kind of envious, if he's really being honest with himself. What's it like, to care so little about what other people think of you?

"What an idiot," Kirill says, and Sasha realizes with an unpleasant start that his friend is also observing the American team. "Didn't he choke in the all-around last year? Maybe he should be practicing instead of dancing."

"Yeah, maybe." Sasha's stomach squirms with guilt, and he's very glad Danny can't hear them right now. He's been nothing but nice to Sasha—maybe too nice sometimes—and Sasha's just letting Kirill make fun of him without even a tiny protest.

"If we don't beat them in the team final, I don't think I can live with myself," Kirill mutters.

*

The hotel restaurant is decorated in warm reds and yellows, with gauzy fabrics draped over the walls and throw pillows in every booth. Each element seems designed to relax the weary traveler, to make them feel as cozy and comfortable as if they were in their own home.

It could not possibly be a starker contrast to the atmosphere at the Kazakovs' table, which feels a lot more like the Arctic tundra.

And it doesn't help that the Americans are celebrating their third-place finish just a few tables over.

Sasha can see Kirill fidgeting under the tablecloth, keeping the upper half of his body still as his parents lecture them about what went wrong during the team final. As if they weren't there when Ilya and Oleg both fell on pommel horse, and when their other teammate Felix toppled out of bounds on his first floor pass.

Of course, that doesn't stop Vladimir Dmitriyevich and Irina Ivanovna from telling them anyway. Vladimir's dark eyes—the same as Kirill's, but without any warmth—glower at his son across the table, and every time his right hand makes a sudden movement, Kirill's leg twitches next to Sasha's.

Yet if Vladimir's the one who needs to be watched at all times, Irina—a former rhythmic gymnast with sleek, platinum hair, hooded blue eyes, and a thin mouth that Sasha's never once seen curved in a genuine smile—is no less capable of cruelty.

"I've never been so humiliated to be Russian," she says, sniffing at her menu. "Why should we even bother sending a team to worlds, if you're going to flop around like fish on the pommel horse?"

"Ilya Baranovsky should be ashamed of himself." Vladimir stares coldly at Kirill, as if it's his fault by association. "He didn't even try to stay on the horse. There's no excuse for such a pathetic performance."

No excuse, Sasha thinks, except for the fact that Ilya had reinjured his elbow during practice the day before, and instead of adjusting the lineup, their coaches had told him to stop complaining.

Luckily for Sasha and Kirill, neither of them had contributed to Russia's woes that day—their routines had been solid, with Kirill posting some of the team's highest scores on floor and vault. As a result, most of Vladimir and Irina's complaints (which last well into the main course) are targeted towards their teammates, their coaches, and the judges, with Sasha and Kirill emerging relatively unscathed.

As Irina continues to insist that the Chinese scores were inflated, Sasha sneaks a glance at the American table. Not that he needs to—they're the loudest diners in the room, and he can hear almost everything they're saying. For the past five minutes, they've been having a spirited debate with their coaches about whether they should be allowed to throw a party after event finals, a matter that appears to hinge exclusively on the drinking age in China.

"Come on, Coach, we're all over eighteen here," Danny says, grinning at a white-haired man across the table from him. "We'll keep it clean. No puking, I promise."

"We'll talk later," the coach replies, but in a way that sounds like he's already resigned to letting it happen, and an excited murmur ripples across the table.

As Sasha's wondering why Americans are so weird about drinking, Vladimir clears his throat.

"Kirill, we've heard from your coach that Vadim Petrovich was impressed with your performance in qualifications." He folds his napkin and lays it across his lap, as if underlining the importance of his words. "He'll be watching the rest of the competition. And when we return to Moscow, he would like to see you in person."

Kirill straightens, awe and confusion mingling in his expression. "He wants to see me?"

"Your father just told you that," Irina says with a touch of impatience in her voice. "And I hope I don't need to remind you that he's on the Olympic committee, so you better impress him during the finals. Vadya always likes to support the best athletes."

"What about Sasha?" Kirill asks swiftly. "He qualified for vault, too."

"In eighth." Irina's eyes flick to Sasha, as if daring him to have a reaction. "You qualified in first. And Sasha didn't qualify for floor."

"But—"

"Besides, Vadya prefers supporting Russian athletes."

And there it is.

Kirill goes rigid with anger, a red flush creeping up the back of his neck. "Sasha is Russian."

"Half Russian," Irina corrects him with a paper-thin smile. "Isn't that right, Sasha? Your father was Armenian?"

She already knows the answer, which is exactly why she's asking.

"Yes," Sasha replies, because what else can he say? It wouldn't be the first time someone's had a problem with his last name, but mostly he tries to ignore people like that. He's heard enough stories from Kirill about his parents' connections to know that he wouldn't want to meet this Vadim Petrovich anyway.

"Sasha's lived in Moscow since he was two years old." Kirill's gone as red as the drapes in the room. "He doesn't even speak Armenian. He's just as Russian as—"

He breaks off, but only because Sasha's reached under the table and grabbed his thigh, hard. However Kirill was planning on finishing that sentence, he knows it's not going to end well, and he doesn't want Kirill getting in trouble for his sake.

As an unpleasant silence descends upon their table, the Americans burst into applause. It looks like they're giving speeches—one of the coaches has just sat down, and an older gymnast whom Sasha vaguely recognizes from London is standing up.

"Thanks, Coach," he says cheerfully. "I just want to give a shout-out to Danny for that absolutely bodacious Kasamatsu—"

The athletes hoot and holler, pounding on the table with their fists; at no point do any of them seem to register that there are other diners in the restaurant. Danny takes it all in with a broad grin, as if being showered with praise is his favorite thing in the world. It probably is, Sasha thinks, annoyed and also unable to stop staring at his smile.

Meanwhile, the older gymnast is still going. "And don't even get me started on Yulien's floor routine—"

More fists on the table. "Sticks on sticks, baby!" Danny yells, and that sets them all off again.

"Well," Irina sniffs, looking at the Americans like they're something the cat's left on the carpet. "At least they have a reason to celebrate."

If there was ever a part of Sasha that was thinking he might, one day, ever so casually mention to Kirill that he and Danny are sort of talking to each other, it slinks into a corner and dies when he glances at Kirill. His friend is watching the other table with nothing short of hatred in his eyes, and if Sasha isn't mistaken, most of it is fixed directly on Danny.

As if determined to make the worst impression possible, Danny wolf whistles when his teammate sits down, then jumps up to make a speech of his own. "Matt forgot to mention his high bar routine," he points out, thumping Matt on the back. "Everything but the kitchen sink"—Sasha's not sure he's heard that correctly—"and did he take a single step on that dismount? Did he, boys?"

"No!" his teammates shout.

While Irina's flagging down a waiter, Kirill leans over to Sasha. "Why don't they just suck each other's dicks while they're at it," he mutters, and the words land like bricks in Sasha's stomach. He thinks Kirill didn't mean it in a homophobic way. At least, he really hopes so.

Forcing a smile, he says, "It would be a lot quieter," and Kirill nearly chokes on his wine. Recovering, he glances at his parents, making sure they're still in conversation with the waiter; then he brings his fist to his mouth, doing an impression of someone—Sasha's pretty sure it's Danny—trying to talk around a blowjob.

"Bro," he whispers in muffled English, "so—mm—big!"

And, okay, it's kind of funny. They both start giggling and trying to keep quiet about it, which only makes them giggle even more, their faces turning bright red as their shoulders shake. But when Irina casts a disdainful look at them and they stifle their laughter, Sasha is left with the mental image of Danny's mouth on someone's dick.

Specifically, Sasha's dick.

It's a good thing his cheeks are already flushed, because otherwise they'd be a dead giveaway. Dinner with Kirill's parents is absolutely not the appropriate time to be having these thoughts, but now that they've started, he can't stop seeing it. Can't stop feeling it. Danny's head bobbing up and down, his tongue swirling over Sasha's skin—and he probably would be talking, too, somehow, which would mean lots of vibration…

Fuck.Fuck fuck fuck, he is not getting hard in a restaurant with Kirill's parents less than three feet away from him.

"I hope the two of you aren't behaving like this in practice," Irina says once the waiter leaves. The sound of her voice effectively kills Sasha's arousal, thank God. "Well, Sasha, you can do whatever you want, but Kirill, your father and I expect more from you. Especially on Saturday. Vadya…"

The Americans are cheering again about something, and Sasha sighs. As annoying as they are, he kind of wishes he were sitting at their table instead.