Chapter 8

"Okay, we've got cups—"

"—and confusing Chinese beer—"

"—yeah, we don't actually know what we bought—"

Yulien frowns as Danny and Matt finish spreading their purchases out on the desk. "Is that gonna be enough? For all of us?"

"The Brits are bringing their own stuff," Matt informs him. "Bro, can you get some ice?" he asks, tossing the bucket to Danny.

"Yes, sir." Danny heads out into the hall, smiling when the door closes behind him and he can still hear his teammates getting ready for the party. Their coaches hadn't so much agreed to it as they'd made two things clear—no girls, and no complaints from the hotel—so as far as everyone was concerned, that meant full steam ahead.

Normally he'd hurry to the ice machine as fast as he could to get back to the action sooner, but tonight he takes his time. He's still feeling a little bummed about the all-around final on Thursday: a fall on pommel horse had knocked him down to twelfth, six places worse than last year. And today he'd watched from the stands as Matt took fourth in the high bar final, knowing he could have had a shot at a medal if he hadn't fallen in qualifications.

He's already started seeing the complaints online. On the USA Gymnastics Facebook post announcing the all-around results, the top response is why doesn't Danny ever hit at international meets??—and people are still debating days later. On the Instagram post, someone complained, ugh it's so hard being a Danny fan, followed by a crying emoji, and several people liked the comment.

He's trying not to let it get to him, although he can't help thinking they're right—this is his third time at a major international competition, and his third time failing to medal in anything. But he just won that second national title at home, so why can't he replicate his domestic success overseas? Is it the time difference? The change in his training routine? Or some weird, subconscious issue he's not even realizing?

His thoughts carry him all the way to the ice machine, where he decides to stop being a downer and focus on the positives. Team USA got bronze, which is the best they've done since Beijing, and his scores were part of that. He's pretty sure Kohei Uchimura smiled at him in the lobby yesterday. And today, he'd gotten to watch Sasha in the vault final.

Sasha hadn't medaled—his vaults weren't as crazy as some of the other competitors'—but Danny had still enjoyed seeing him perform. He had a quiet, calm confidence about him, waiting patiently for the judges' signal without any of the hops or arm swings other gymnasts usually did; if he was nervous at all, he hadn't shown it. Instead, he'd stepped onto the runway, taken a moment to study the vault, and then he'd performed the most freaking beautiful Tsukahara Danny had ever seen.

Two and half twists in the air, smooth as silk, with so much height he'd practically floated down to the mat. Stuck the landing, of course, with perfect form, his chest up and his arms extended in front of him like he was an illustration in the Code of Points. And he'd been so nonchalant about it, too—he'd just folded his arms down to his sides and bowed to the judges, cool as you please, before walking back for his second turn.

It was honestly kind of hot.

"Okay, buddy, calm down," he mutters to himself as he fills up the ice bucket. Just because he's bi, doesn't mean Sasha is. Or would even be interested if he were. Although he does respond to all of Danny's texts. With, like, one-word answers. He'd said ha ha ha once. That has to count for something, right?

"My man," Matt says when Danny returns with the ice. "All right, let's get this shit going. Yo, Yules, where's your speaker?"

Soon, rap music is blasting through the room and the alcohol is being passed around, although no one's completely sure what they're drinking. Whatever it is, it gets the job done, and Danny's feeling nice and tipsy by the time the Brits arrive.

"James!" he yells, spotting the vaulter and clapping him on the shoulder. No, screw that—he wants a hug. "Sup, man?"

James stumbles into the sloppy embrace, but he just laughs it off—clearly, the Brits have been pregaming too. "Danny! Thanks for having us—that's Marcus, and Charlie"—his teammates nod as they walk past—"and, well, whatever, you already know everyone, and also is it okay if I invited Jan and Sebastian?"

"Hi," says one of the Germans, holding up a case of beer.

Danny grins—this is exactly what he loves about international competitions. "Hell yeah, come on in! The more the merrier."

And as the Germans join the festivities, he gets a crazy idea…

*

"What do you think?" Kirill smirks at Sasha, holding up a hanger with a button-down shirt that has two medals draped around its neck. "Looks good, right?"

"Yes, the girls will be all over you," Sasha deadpans from his bed. "You can buy them drinks with the gold."

"Absolutely not." Kirill lifts up the medal he won on floor and kisses it, then lays it carefully on his nightstand. "They can have the bronze." He looks at the vault medal, disappointment flashing across his face before he sets that one down, too. "What are you wearing?"

Sasha groans. Somehow, Oleg found a Russian-owned nightclub in Nanning, and most of the team is going out, but he's been trying to think of an excuse to stay behind. He's never really liked dancing, and it seems even more pointless now that he knows he isn't attracted to women.

"Okay, I'll pick something for you." When Sasha doesn't object, Kirill heads over to his drawers and starts pulling them open. "Where's the white polo? You brought that, didn't you?"

"Uh… somewhere." Sasha gestures unhelpfully at the drawers, then lies back and closes his eyes while Kirill rummages through his clothes. A moment later, something soft thumps onto his chest, and he squints down at it. "Seriously? All white?"

He holds up the shorts Kirill chose and gives him a skeptical look.

"It's a good color on you," Kirill assures him. "Trust me."

Sasha still feels a little dubious, but he has to admit Kirill has an eye for these things. Unlike Sasha, who tends to throw on workout clothes and call it a day, Kirill's always been more careful about his appearance—no doubt thanks to his mother's critical gaze. He was the first person on their team to get a proper-fitting suit, the first one to start wearing sneakers for fashion instead of function; and just a few months ago, he was featured on a Russian sports blog as one of the top twenty best-dressed Olympians in the country.

Somewhere along the line, he started making suggestions for Sasha, and now whenever they go out, more often than not Kirill's dressed them both. Sasha doesn't mind—he can tell Kirill enjoys doing it, and this way he doesn't have to worry about looking like an idiot.

The downside is, he usually gets a lot more attention from girls whenever he wears one of Kirill's outfits.

"Oh, come on," Kirill says when Sasha sighs and drops the clothes back onto his chest. "We're done! We can have fun now, even you." He jumps onto Sasha's bed, purposefully landing hard enough to make Sasha bounce several inches off the mattress.

"Fuck off," Sasha says, although he's laughing. But he still doesn't get up—the hotel bed is very comfortable, and the longer he lies there, the harder it is to imagine moving.

"Okay." Kirill shrugs, sliding off the bed. "Think about it. I'm gonna take a shower."

"Mmhm." Sasha closes his eyes again. A few minutes later, the sound of running water murmurs through the bathroom door, and he feels himself relaxing further and further into the comforter. There's zero chance he's getting dressed and going to a club; he might actually fall asleep right now. What time is it, anyway?

He checks his phone and notices he has a new message from Danny. As it blinks into focus, a jolt runs through him, and suddenly he's wide awake.

Danny:What are you doing right now

While Sasha's frozen in place, staring at the screen, two more messages appear.

Danny: Party in my room

Danny:Want to come???

Sasha glances at the bathroom door, but it's still closed—Kirill won't be out for a while. He looks back at the messages, his heart pounding, and doesn't immediately want to say no.

It would be a terrible idea. Kirill and his other teammates might be going out, but the coaches and medical staff probably aren't, and Sasha could run into any of them on his way to the party. And even if no one sees him, does he really want to be hanging out with a bunch of Americans? Considering how loud they were in the restaurant, he can only imagine what they're like when they're drunk.

But Danny's inviting him. After two years of random hotel encounters and trading texts, they've never actually hung out in person, and Sasha would be lying to himself if he pretended the thought had never crossed his mind. Of course, if they did meet up, he's sure he would regret it immediately, because Danny is annoying. He can't stop talking. He never stands still. And he's always smiling. How is it even possible to be that happy all the time?

So yes, a terrible idea. He should definitely say no.

And it's not like anything's going on between them, really—Danny seems to send him a lot of shirtless workout videos, but maybe he does that to everyone. Sure, there was that moment in qualifications when Danny squeezed his arm, and Sasha could have sworn something like interest flickered in his eyes, but there was also that heart-captioned Instagram photo with the pretty blond girl…

While Sasha's thoughts are firing in forty different directions, his phone lights up with another message.

Danny: Lots of people here

A minute later, Sasha receives a series of flag emojis: one for the US, one for the UK, and another that looks like Belgium, although Sasha's pretty sure no one from Belgium is competing at worlds this year.

The last one to arrive is a red, white, and blue flag with three question marks after it.

Sasha stares at his screen for several seconds, then jumps off his bed, walks into the hall, and calls Danny for the first time since they've exchanged numbers.

Danny picks up right away. He sounds a little flustered, although maybe that's because he's practically shouting over all the noise in the background. "Hey! Sasha! How are you?"

"Are you trying to send me Russian flag?" Sasha asks him.

"What?"

"This is not Russian flag."

In the pause that follows, Sasha hears someone yell, "Drink it, bitch!"

"It isn't?" Danny finally asks. "Wait, then what was it?"

"France."

"Fuck. Sorry. No, hang on, man, I'm on the phone—Sasha, hold on a sec, sorry, I'm going outside."

Sasha waits while Danny walks through what sounds like a rock concert. Finally, a door opens and closes, and the noise abruptly stops.

"Sorry," Danny apologizes again, sounding a little breathless. "That's better. Wait, don't you guys have the stripes?"

"Not up and down. They are…" Sasha's forgotten the word for sideways. "Left to right."

"Oh. Okay, well, if I send you the Russian flag, will you come?"

Sasha hesitates, looking at the door to his and Kirill's room.

"You can bring your teammates if you want. We have tons of alcohol."

Sasha tries to imagine what Kirill's expression would look like if he ever found out Danny had invited him to a party. "They are going out," he replies, keeping his voice lowered. "Oleg found nightclub."

"You're not going with them?" Danny asks curiously.

"No. I do not like dancing."

Danny's laughter vibrates in his ear. "That does not surprise me at all."

"You like dancing," Sasha says, and then he blushes, feeling like he should explain how he knows that. "I saw you in qualifications."

"Oh, yeah." Danny laughs again. "Hey, we're just standing around half the time, right? Might as well make it fun."

That's another thing Sasha doesn't understand about Americans—why everything always has to be "fun" for them. He refrains from mentioning this to Danny.

"But, look, we're not dancing," Danny says, pressing his suit once more. "I mean, like, there's music and some people are, like, dancing by themselves or whatever, but you don't have to if you don't want to. It's us, the Brits, and, like, two random German guys, so they're gonna teach us some of their drinking games. I think. Or maybe we'll just keep playing beer pong."

Sasha glances again at the door to his room, wondering if Kirill's gotten out of the shower yet. "I don't know," he says, even though he should be giving an excuse. Because going to this party would be stupid and dangerous, and nothing about it sounds remotely appealing except for the fact that Danny will be there.

"I really want to see you," Danny blurts out.

Sasha draws in a sharp breath, Danny's words racing like a shiver down his spine. There's something lost in translation, he tries to tell himself—there's no way Danny meant it to sound like that.

"Okay," he replies, and he already knows he's making a mistake, but I really want to see you is still ringing in his ears and overriding all his common sense.

"Okay? Like, you're coming?"

Bad idea, bad idea."Yes."

"Yes!" Danny's voice rises, and Sasha winces, imagining someone overhearing him. "Awesome. Okay, I'll text you the room number. Come whenever you want, we'll be here for a while."

"Okay," Sasha says; and after they hang up, he stares down at his phone, wondering what he's just done and if it's too late to take it back.

While he's standing there, he gets another message from Danny: the room number and the Russian flag.

Danny: Found it

The next thing Sasha knows, he's grinning like an idiot, and—fuck, he's going to do this, isn't he.