Chapter 9

Danny's heading back to his room when he sees the notification.

Sasha:

He stops in his tracks, gaping at the screen. Sasha has literally never, not once, in their entire text history sent him a smiley face. Holy shit. That's a sign, right? Or maybe Sasha was just being sarcastic… but no, Danny's feeling good vibes on this. He's also feeling a little less than sober, which may or may not be relevant, but right now he's choosing to believe that things are lining up for him tonight.

As if confirming this, one of his favorite songs is playing when he gets back into the room, and when he starts dancing so does Yulien, and it's fucking awesome until Danny remembers he's actually on a very important, time-sensitive mission.

"Dude, I'm literally playing beer pong right now," Matt says as Danny yanks him away from the game table. "Can you wait like two minutes?"

"Sasha's coming," Danny announces.

"What?" Matt shouts over the music.

"Sasha," Danny yells back at him. "He's coming! I invited him. And he said yes and he sent me a smiley, look." He shoves his phone in Matt's face.

"Dude, what the—wait, you have his number?"

"Got it at worlds last year," Danny says proudly.

Matt gives him a look. "Okay, hold on, we're coming back to this." He returns to the beer pong table and leans over, shouting and gesturing at the others; a few seconds later, one of the Germans is taking his place and Matt's marching back to Danny. "Bathroom, dude. Now."

When the bathroom door shuts behind them, the noise from the party is dulled to a dim roar, and Danny can hear Matt very clearly when he says, "What. The. Fuck."

So then Danny has to explain a lot of things, which he tries to do quickly, because Sasha's probably on his way and he has other, more pressing concerns. "So yeah, we've been texting, and, like, now he's coming here, but, like… I have no idea if he's gay. Or bi. Or whatever. And, like, I don't know how to find out. Do I ask him? Is that weird?"

"Well, I'm not really the expert on gay etiquette," Matt says, raising his eyebrows, "but, like… does he know you're bi?"

Danny shakes his head. Matt's still the only person he's told; he hasn't even come out to his parents yet.

"Have you gotten, like, any vibes from him?"

"Well… he answers all my texts," Danny starts, but somehow this doesn't sound as significant when he says it out loud. "And he makes fun of me."

"He makes fun of you," Matt repeats, folding his arms across his chest.

"Yeah, he tells me I talk too much."

There's a long pause; Matt looks like he's slowly counting to ten in his head. "That sounds like pretty circumstantial evidence, bro."

"You weren't there when it happened," Danny says defensively. He really, really wants to be right about this. "It was, like, a moment."

Matt holds up his hands. "Okay, fine. It was a moment. Um… I don't know, maybe ask him if he likes Lady Gaga?"

"What does Lady Gaga have to do with anything?"

"I thought she was really big in the, uh, LGB… T… community…" Matt trails off, looking just as lost as Danny. "Okay, you know what, I don't know what I'm talking about. I think you're on your own, bro, sorry."

"Fuck." Danny starts pacing around the bathroom, nervous energy flowing through him; he feels like he's standing in front of the judges, waiting for their signal to start a routine he knows he hasn't practiced enough. Maybe he should ask Sasha about Lady Gaga. Maybe it's like a gay codeword—do those exist? Is that a thing he can google? But maybe they don't even listen to Lady Gaga in Russia…

"Okay, dude?" Matt steps in front of him and puts his hands on Danny's shoulders. "Chill. Like, I know you can't, but chill. You'll figure it out. Just be cool, get him some alcohol, and then maybe he'll loosen up and tell you he has a huge crush on Blaine Wilson."

"All right, fuck you." Danny pushes him away, but they're both laughing, which at least makes him feel a little better. "Okay, shit, how do I look? Do I look okay?" He checks himself in the mirror, making sure there aren't any stains or anything. Half of the guys at the party are just wearing their team gear, but Danny was one of the handful who had opted for normal, nicer clothes. Another sign that things are working in his favor… unless Sasha's in his team gear and Danny looks like he's trying too hard…

"Wow. I've never seen you this stressed out before. Like, even at the Olympic trials," Matt says, looking at Danny in amazement.

"I know!" Danny flexes his fingers in frustration. "Ugh, it's just… I don't know, he's a guy! I've only done this with girls!"

"Same shit, different equipment." Matt claps him on the back. "Stop freaking out, bro, you look fucking awesome."

"Okay, okay." Danny shakes his hands, trying to calm himself down. He can do this, right? He can do this.

"You good?" Matt asks, and Danny nods. "Go get 'em, tiger."

Danny heads to the door so he can do just that—or at least go get another drink so he can then go get 'em—but he's barely turned the handle when Matt clears his throat.

"Okay, wait, actually—"

Danny turns back around.

"I'm gonna say one more thing and then I'll shut up for real," Matt promises, "but, um… is Russia, like, okay with gay people? Or bi people?"

"Uh…"

"I mean, not that the US is, like, super awesome about it, but… some countries are even worse, you know? So… if Sasha's gay, maybe he can't tell anyone. Or if he isn't, maybe he's, like, a homophobe or something."

"No, he's not like that," Danny says, but how does he know, really? It's not like they've ever talked about it—all he has to go on is a feeling.

"Okay…" Matt doesn't sound convinced. "So like… still go get 'em, tiger, but, like, also scope out the safari first, you know what I'm saying?"

"No, but maybe?" Danny guesses, and then his phone lights up.

Sasha:Here

"Oh, shit, he's here, okay, good talk, I gotta go—" He bolts out of the bathroom, nearly knocking over one of the Brits—"Sorry, man!"—and pauses just in front of the door, taking a deep breath before he opens it.

And stares.

Because it's Sasha, which he was expecting, but also Sasha wearing all white, which he was not expecting. And white looks really good on him. It makes his hair seem even darker than usual, and holy fuck Danny wants to run his fingers through it, and beneath that his green eyes are sparkling, just like the sea glass Danny used to collect at the beach as a kid.

Fuck.

It would be really nice if he could remember how to speak right now.

*

Sasha's so paranoid about running into one of the coaches or trainers in the elevator, he ducks into the first stairwell he sees and climbs all the way up to the sixteenth floor where the Americans are staying. The whole time, he keeps his phone in front of him like a shield—if he does encounter anyone he recognizes, he'll lie and say he's looking for better service.

Luckily, he makes it to the Americans' floor without incident, and when he steps out into the hallway, he doesn't even have to check the room numbers—he can already hear the shouting. He knocks at the door, but no one answers, which isn't surprising given the music thumping in the room. Stepping back, he sends a text to Danny and waits.

A few seconds later, the door opens, and there's Danny—a smile dying on his face, looking at Sasha like he has no idea what he's doing there. Like he doesn't even remember inviting Sasha to the party. And he's clearly been drinking, but seriously? It was twenty minutes ago.

"Hi," Sasha finally says, annoyed. With Danny, yes, but also with himself, for agonizing over whether or not to wear the outfit Kirill picked. For combing his hair, and then undoing it, and then combing it again, trying to impress an American who had probably texted his room number to at least a dozen other people and told them all I really want to see you.

Danny takes several seconds to respond, as if he's still trying to figure out why Sasha's standing on his doorstep. Then a light seems to go on, and like the flicking of a switch, his megawatt smile reappears.

"Sasha! Hey!"

He pulls Sasha into a tight embrace, the kind you'd give a long-lost relative after not seeing them for forty years. "I'm so glad you came," he murmurs into Sasha's ear. "I didn't think you were gonna say yes."

What the fuck?

Sasha pats him on the back, feeling very confused about whether or not Danny actually wants him here, and eventually Danny lets go. They stand there for a few seconds, surveying each other; Sasha doesn't quite know what to think of Danny's salmon-colored shorts, but his dusk-blue shirt makes his skin gleam like gold, and it's very hard not to stare at the space between the undone buttons at the top.

"You look good," Danny says. His eyes dart up and down, assessing Sasha in a way he isn't used to seeing from other men; it's strange and exciting and terrifying all at once. What does Danny want from him? That's not how he looks at his friends, is it?

"Thank you." Sasha's throat is dry, and speaking feels more difficult than it should, but he manages to add, "You look good also."

"Thanks, man." Danny's cheeks seem redder than usual, although that could just be the alcohol. "All right, come on, let's get you something to drink and then you can meet everyone."

Hoping they can do those things in that exact order, Sasha follows Danny inside, trying not to wince at the noise. There's a dozen or so athletes crammed into the small double room; some of them are sprawled across the beds, watching television, while the rest are gathered around a table littered with red cups, beer cans, and playing cards.

"All right, that's Adam, Jake, and then Max and Marcus from the UK, and Jan from Germany," Danny says, pointing out the guys watching television. They all look up and wave, but they're too focused on the wrestling match to talk, which is fine with Sasha because he's already forgotten half their names.

Danny brings him to the table, where the others are having what seems like a passionate argument over an abandoned game of beer pong, although Sasha can't quite catch the details with all the different accents.

"Guys, this is Sasha Zakaryan," Danny says loudly, cutting the debate short. "He's from Russia. Sasha, this is Matt—"

"Sup, man." The older American who gave the speech at the restaurant leans over to shake hands; Sasha notices him winking at Danny for some reason.

"—and that's Yulien," Danny continues, ignoring Matt.

An unusually tall gymnast with dark, curly hair and thick eyebrows nods at Sasha.

"—and you probably know James—"

James Smith, the vaulter from Great Britain, gives him a cheerful wave.

"—and that's Paul, David and David, Reece, and Sebastian," Danny finishes, as if Sasha's ever going to remember that many names. He's actually a little impressed that Danny does.

"All right, Sasha, have you ever played King's Cup?" Matt asks. "Or Captain Dickhead, or whatever these guys are calling it."

"Kingsen," supplies one of the German gymnasts.

"Uh…" Sasha looks at Danny, but Danny isn't there anymore. What the fuck, he thinks for the second time in five minutes, feeling increasingly annoyed. If Danny was just going to ditch him, why even bother inviting him in the first place?

"Okay, so obviously it's a drinking game," Matt tells him, having to shout over the music, "and you do different things for different cards…"

Sasha's barely listening. He should have realized this was going to happen—Danny flitting around the room all night talking to people, never mind the fact that Sasha doesn't fucking know anyone at this party besides him. And now he's stuck with a bunch of strangers, about to play a drinking game in a foreign language, which is a spectacularly bad idea in so many ways he can't even begin to count them. God, why the fuck did he bother coming here? He should just leave before this gets any worse—

"Here you go." Someone nudges his arm; it's Danny, holding two beers in his hands and smiling as he offers one to Sasha. "I hope this is okay, I don't really know what it is."

Sasha doesn't want to admit, even to himself, how relieved he feels in that moment. And a little ashamed, too, of how quickly he assumed the worst of Danny. "Thank you," he says, trying to sound extra grateful as he accepts the drink.

"…and then queen is, like, you ask someone a question—"

Matt's immediately corrected by one of the Davids. "Queen's waterfall, mate."

"What? Ace is waterfall."

"No, ace is Captain Dickhead—"

"That's not a thing!"

"Sorry, what is this game?" Sasha asks Danny, feeling more confused by the minute, but Danny just shakes his head.

"Dude, I don't even know. I played it once freshman year and I still don't remember what happened after, like, the first few cards."

Considering Sasha has to sneak back down to his room at the end of the night, this doesn't sound like a game he should be playing, but maybe he won't have to: Matt and the British gymnasts are still arguing over the rules, and they're showing no signs of stopping any time soon.

"Just so you know," Danny says, leaning in so Sasha can hear him better, "when I get drunk, I start hugging everyone. So I'm probably gonna hug you a lot tonight, I hope that's okay."

The room suddenly feels several degrees warmer, although maybe that's just Danny's breath in his ear, the heat from his shoulder brushing against Sasha's. To avoid answering, Sasha asks, "What is the word for when you are not drunk?"

"Sober?"

"Yes, sober. How is when you are drunk different from when you are sober?"

Danny thinks for a moment, then concedes with a laugh. "I guess not that much," he says, grinning at Sasha. "I just really like hugging people."

Sasha reminds himself that this is hugging people generally, not hugging Sasha specifically. It isn't easy, though, when they're standing so close that he can see his own reflection in Danny's eyes. And it doesn't help that Danny's smiling at him as if they're the only ones in the room, as if there isn't a raging argument about drinking game rules happening less than two feet away from them. But Danny probably smiles at everyone like that, right?

"Oi!" James Smith yells, loud enough to get the room's attention. He must have wandered away from the table at some point during the debate, because now he's standing by one of the beds, holding up a laminated card from the nightstand. "Did you know we can get games from the lobby?"

"What, like Scrabble?" Yulien asks, grimacing.

James's face is shining from either excitement or alcohol or some dangerous combination of the two. "They have Twister. I've always wanted to play that."

"Bro, we are not playing Twister," Matt says.

*

"Left hand, blue!"

There's a collective groan from the eight gymnasts crammed onto the mat, followed by a round of shoving and swearing as they jockey for one of the six blue dots.

"Dude, get your ass out of my face!"

"Nice try, bitch!"

"Ah, shit, are you fucking kidding me, how the fuck am I supposed to—fuck!"

By the time Sasha remembers which color "blue" is, they've all been taken, and he has no choice but to place his hand on the dot Danny's using. According to the rules that were very hastily explained to him, they're allowed to share because they're on the same team, which is nice because it means Danny's touching him a lot.

"Right foot, yellow!"

"Other right," Danny whispers when Sasha puts his foot down.

"What?"

"Right," Danny says, reaching over to the leg Sasha isn't using and tapping the back of his calf. Since he's wearing shorts, Sasha can feel everything: the calluses on Danny's palm, the warmth left behind by his hand.

It's very distracting.

"Damnit," he mutters in Russian, switching his feet. Distracting or not, he had thought his English was better than this. Although, in fairness to him, he had started drinking the second it became clear that Danny expected him to participate in this bizarre game, and he's no longer exactly sober.

"Right hand, red!"

"Gotta be quicker than that," Matt says, snagging the dot Sasha was going for. "Guess you're just gonna have to share with Danny."

"Matt, I hate you," Danny calls over Sasha's shoulder.

Sasha hesitates, wondering if this means Danny doesn't want him on the same dot; but Danny gives him an encouraging smile, so he reaches forward and places his hand on the red next to Danny's. And sort of accidentally on purpose lets them touch, a thing he definitely would not have done before that second beer.

"Right hand, green!"

Everyone groans again, and when Sasha finishes translating "green" in his head, so does he—the green dots are on the opposite side of the mat as the red dots.

"Co?o, whose idea was this?" Yulien grumbles as he's forced to maneuver both under James and over one of the German gymnasts to find a dot.

"Mine," James says helpfully. "Isn't this awesome?"

"No!" at least three people yell at him.

Danny, who's on the edge of the mat, has it easiest—he just drops into a crouch and pivots towards Sasha, keeping his left hand on blue while his right switches to green. Sasha, caught in an uncomfortable downward dog pose between Danny and Matt, winds up having to twist his arm underneath him to reach for the green. He's almost there when Matt swoops in at the last second, sliding his fingers under Sasha's to get the dot first.

"Fuck! You asshole," Sasha complains in Russian. Now he has to stretch even further to get to Danny's dot—and he's flexible enough to manage it, but his shoulders are not happy. Why does it seem like Matt's doing this on purpose?

"Sorry, bro, I have no idea what you're saying," Matt replies cheerfully, and Sasha swears some more as he contorts himself into his new position.

Upside down, he notices Danny watching him with a huge grin on his face.

"What?" Sasha asks, completely baffled as to how anyone can be enjoying this game.

"You sound so different when you speak Russian, I love it."

Thank God Sasha's face is already red from being upside down for so long. He has no idea how to respond—what does Danny even mean by that? "I love it" like "Bro, that's awesome," or "I love it" like "I'm flirting with you"? Why is it so hard to tell what's going on between them?

He finds himself craning his neck to search Danny's eyes for clues, which is easy since they're barely inches apart. Danny looks back at him, still smiling, and tilts his head in a silent inquiry. As the seconds pass, Sasha realizes their hands are touching on both dots, and neither one of them is pulling away.

Then "Right hand, green!" is called again, and all hell breaks loose.

Later, Sasha learns that when the same instruction is repeated twice in a row, the players have to find a new dot; but right now, since no one's told him about this rule, he keeps his hand where it is, and so does Danny. He's vaguely aware that a lot of people are shoving each other behind him, but none of it seems to matter, because Danny's face is just a breath away from his, and all the alcohol in his system is making him want to close that gap even more.

Then Danny's eyes widen, and someone yells, "Oh, come on!", and that's the only warning Sasha has before at least two people topple sideways into him, knocking him forward onto Danny.

"Oh, shit—" Danny tries to catch him, but then he loses his own balance and falls backwards. The room disappears in a windmill of arms and legs; Sasha rolls over and lands face-first in the crook of Danny's neck, wincing as someone else crashes onto the backs of his knees.

"Yulien, I'm going to fucking kill you," Matt says in a muffled voice.

Sasha tries to move, but his right arm is wedged against Danny at an angle that makes it impossible to prop himself up without pushing down on Danny's ribcage. He starts groping for the floor with his left arm, attempting to find a place that isn't Danny or someone else's body.

"Ugh," Danny groans. The hollow of his throat hums against Sasha's cheek, and Sasha goes very still, trying not to breathe. "Sasha, are you okay?"

"Mmhm," Sasha manages, lifting his head a fraction of an inch so he's not speaking directly into Danny's skin. This is a mistake—because now he can see the curve of Danny's collarbone, the place where it disappears under his shirt. And suddenly all he wants to do is pull the blue fabric aside and press his lips to that exact spot.

He can practically taste Danny, and it's terrifying. What if Danny can somehow see the urge in his eyes, or hear it in his shaky breaths? He can't let that happen—he has to move, now—he finds the floor and pushes, hard, slipping his legs out from under whoever landed on them, standing up so fast his head spins and he stumbles against the bed.

"Whoa, dude, are you sure you're okay?" Danny asks. He's sitting up slowly, watching Sasha with concern.

"Yes, okay." Sasha rubs his legs, grateful for the excuse to avoid Danny's gaze. His fingers are trembling from how close a call that was; another second on top of Danny and he doesn't even want to think about what might have happened.

"Worst fucking game ever," Matt says, brushing himself off. "Who wants another beer?"

"Yes," Sasha replies firmly.