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His shoulder aches faintly as he's slammed into the door. Misha would roll his eyes and wonder why he ended up in this situation if only his brain had any time to work at all. But he has so little time for that, because Ilia instantly presses his whole body against him and kisses him.

And his brain immediately shuts up. Misha vaguely realises he should at least lock the door, because Ilia certainly won't bother — he already seems to be in a much better place than where they still need to stay low-key. And where Misha's the only responsible adult who cares about other people seeing them. His hand blindly stumbles to the lock behind his back and turns it with a quiet click.

Ilia hears it, surprisingly — for a second, he stops trying to devour Misha's tongue. He steps back until Misha can see his shining eyes in the dim light — they seem completely dark now.

"Good boy," he says, and Misha rolls his eyes. "Maybe I wanted them all to s—"

The best way to shut him up is to kiss him again.

It's not that Misha was actually against his endless physical affection; on the contrary, unfortunately or not, he fell into Ilia Malinin's clutches and heart not against his will, but due to a very obvious and powerful desire. And he continues to find himself caught in his trap time after time — even though he makes no attempt to escape. Perhaps it's Stockholm syndrome or something else, because being with Ilia Malinin is a challenge in itself. And then whatever this is.

The skirt rustles against their jackets as Ilia stands on tiptoe to gain some height. Misha feels an unpleasant shiver run down his neck at the thought of taking off his shoes: it's not right to have them on. Although it seems like this idiot doesn't give a damn — like in porn, he'd fuck not only in socks but in boots too. If only he could take off his tights through them.

This is absolute fucking bullshit. Only Ilia could come up with something as insane as this. And Misha doesn't know whether to shake his head pitifully, like the woman in the old meme over the boy in the mud, or to admit his own kinks so Ilia can laugh at him for the rest of his life. Although, of course, it's fixable: he can strangle him with tights right after.

When Misha saw him on the ice, he couldn't believe his eyes. At first, his stunned brain decided that Alysa had suddenly cut her hair and went completely bleached, but that would've been too easy. When this Alysa landed a quadruple lutz, the realisation that had been obvious from the very beginning, but which he had strenuously denied, finally dawned on him.

Only Ilia — or maybe Misha was biased — would have the nerve to perform a back flip in a dress. Actually, to skate in a dress at the Gala. Although now Misha thinks, what else did he expect from him? After such a crushing failure in the free skate, he could've skated naked, and it wouldn't overshadow so many headlines with his pained face dangerously close to the ice. Although that's probably debatable. He just watched, dumbfounded, as Ilia bowed, and the skirt slid up his thighs. Misha's mind was completely blank. Ilia bowed toward his side of the rink, and while he clearly couldn't see him because of the blinding spotlights, Misha could swear he saw his lips curl into a smirk. He sure showed off today.

It was hard to think about anything but him after that. As luck would have it, Misha had only the couple of minutes during the Ice Dance pair to catch his breath — his favorite silly suit had suddenly run out of air. His vision was blurring, and all he could think about was tights on these thighs, calves, then bare strong arms, collarbones. This waist, cinched in a tight corset. Enough, Mikhail, enough. No more thoughts of Ilia Malinin. We'll save some time for that later.

But it was really hard not to think about him. Even during spins, these thoughts wouldn't leave his mind, clinging tightly to the convolutions of his brain (so that's why there were fewer and fewer of them!). When Nika and Luka were kicking him, Misha hoped that his obsession with Ilia Malinin would fall out onto the ice, along with his thighs, tightly holding on to him or better yet, actually locking around his neck. But then everyone would see them — such dirty thoughts on the white clear ice. Fuck. Misha probably does talk to Ilia too much. Why was all this bullshit creeping into his head?

Of course, Ilia did another back flip. Of course, Misha devoured him with his gaze — to be fair, not only on that back flip. His neck was clumsy in the panda suit, and if he'd really been staring the whole time, it would have turned into a "with sunglasses on nobody can tell where I'm looking" picture. So, for the sake of everyone else, he had to turn his head and nod to everybody passing by. In the end, he almost got distracted and was able to enjoy the Gala of his Olympic Games. Where he'd won. He's a gold medalist. For real.

And then Ilia skated right in front of his face, without even looking at him, and all his progress went down the drain. Ilia sped up, and the dress flapped around him. Ilia jumped, and the skirt swirled around him.

Misha should've been really ashamed of himself. And yet: now, in the room, while the door was being wiped clean with his back, he could slip his hand under Ilia's jacket and cup his ass through the layers of this damn skirt. Just like he couldn't do it out there on the ice — because, well, everyone would look at him weirdly if he started touching their star right in front of the cameras. Or is Misha their star now, too? Not clear yet. In any case, it's not for nothing that they've been bouncing from room to room for years now during competitions. It would be stupid to screw it all up over some dress.

Although Ilia, as it turns out, couldn't care less. And provoking Misha right there at the Olympics is more important to him than keeping them secret. Surely this wasn't a covert PR strategy or a political statement. Misha would bet on the US team having one brain cell (it's not clear how everyone agreed to this, but okay), even though Alysa's performance, which Ilia was originally supposed to do, was profound and personal. Not just for Ilia, but for all of them. So Misha still hopes to see it someday. Maybe on an indoor rink with paired headphones on, while Misha leans his back against the boards. Maybe at another Gala. Or even in this room, just move the furniture first. Or outside under the windows. Misha wants to look at him anytime, but if Ilia was wearing these baggy pants and a hoodie today, he wouldn't feel the same. Not even close — because when they work together to finally unbutton and pull off Ilia's jacket with the striped flag, the dim light through the curtains in the distance — they are still standing in the hallway by the door, by the way — bounces off his collarbones.

Misha's mouth feels completely dry. Ilia's jacket falls to the floor: he knows it from the rustling sound, not because he has even a single thought in his head. He should take off his own jacket with the more beautiful flag — Misha is objective, of course, why would you think otherwise. Yeah. Think about the flag of Kazakhstan. Not about Ilia. Definitely not think about his collarbones and thighs. And if Misha kisses him again, it's only to stop looking at all of this.

Ilia's lips are chapped. Bitten, rough from their endless kisses, crusted a little at the edges. Ilia, of course, tries to keep them hydrated — and not because he himself thought of this, but it's all pretty pointless. Misha absentmindedly wonders if his father has even a single clue why Ilia always has a red, bitten-looking mess instead of lips at competitions, while at home everything's fine? It's the local climate, no doubt. Or maybe he does have his own suspicions. The main thing is to keep everyone from thinking it's him — though when Ilia, in all his amazing glory, cuts himself on his braces, the only thing that can save him is a lie about making out with the knife. However, Misha wouldn't be surprised if Ilia said shit like that with a straight face. His style.

Why does he blame only Ilia, though? Things aren't much better for him. He already chews his lips from worry and anxiety, and when Ilia doesn't let them heal, things get even worse. One day, they'll definitely rub their tongues together till they bleed — or that'll happen to other body parts — and it certainly won't be funny. That's apparently what Ilia's goal for these Olympics is, judging by the way he's scraping his fangs against Misha's tongue.

Will they ever move from this door? Ilia stands there like a monument, his entire body pressed against him, and Misha is left with two options: push him toward the bed, which almost certainly ends with them falling to the floor, or grab him under the hips and carry him there. It's difficult to reason in their situation, but Misha concludes that the latter option will simply cause his legs to give out from exhaustion, forcing them to have sex on the floor get up, and walk to the bed on their own. Which actually is possible without falling in the first place.

"Илюх, (Ilyukh,)" he whispers hoarsely against Ilia's lips. His voice is barely audible in the five millimetres Ilia allows him to pull away before kissing him again. "Пошли. Мы не можем ебаться у двери. (Let's go. We can't fuck here.)"

Ilia either hears him somehow or feels the vibrations of his voice with his mouth: he breaks away from his mouth only to say:

"Skill issue."

Misha kennot deal wid dis as he would tell Ilia if he was given a say. Ilia would probably be content with jerking each other off right here at the door (with dirty hands, mind you!), but would probably whine afterwards that he didn't get enough. And Misha, completely exhausted after the last few days, isn't sure he'll be able to give him his best performance without passing out after his first orgasm.

Where did Ilia get all this energy? From his own brilliant idea with the dress? Okay, come to think of it, that's the only reason Misha is still awake. The adrenaline from the Games, from his victory, may still be holding him up, but it's still a poor substitute after a week of terrible sleep and constant stress. Well, Ilia clearly found a way out of this situation, but even with their limited energy, they still need to make it to the bed. Preferably, stop at the bathroom on the way.

Although Ilia doesn't seem to care about this either (does he care about anything at all? even a little?). Well, it seems that it's Misha's destiny to be a responsible adult. So that this creature doesn't get who knows what from the door handles and stair railings of the Olympic Village.

"Илья, (Ilia,)" he says again, a little more sternly this time. "Мне жаль тебя расстраивать, (I'm sorry to upset you,)" he's not, "но нам нужно помыть руки. (but we need to wash our hands)."

Misha can almost see Ilia rolling his eyes, can almost hear him tsking and calling him a slob. Somewhere on the same level of probability is Ilia completely ignoring his words — but he does neither. He whines softly against his lips, kissing him lightly two or three more times, and then obediently pulls away.

Misha is speechless. The weight on his hips and chest instantly vanishes, the rustling of the skirt disappears, and instead of dark blue eyes, he sees just as dark, shaggy nape, which quickly dives down when Ilia (think of it!) picks up his own jacket to toss it across the room into the corner. He kicks his sneakers there, too. Well, that's something.

Misha, walking wobbly behind him, squints against the bright light in the bathroom. Ilia has already turned on the faucet and is carefully washing his hands under the loud running water.

While he's busy with this, Misha's gaze darts around. First, he glances at the open shower door where yesterday— he immediately hears rapid breathing in his ears, the scalding water on his shoulders, the wet curls sticking to his fingers— no, Misha, we won't think about that now. To be on the safe side, he averts his gaze to the mirror above the sink, but doesn't catch a return glance, only his own, exhausted, surrounded by pale skin and the dark eye bags under. He doesn't look like a champion at all, like a champion who was promised mountains of gold, a car, and an apartment in Almaty that still needs a million-dollar renovation. Maybe he should sell the medal, he thinks jokingly. This dumbass clearly wants it. Would he buy it? Or can one only earn it? Well, that's easy: in Misha's humble opinion, he earned it long ago. And Ilia would say something about not trying hard enough, would turn it into a joke, straddling his hips. Then it wouldn't be quite so funny, both because Ilia on him evokes far from funny thoughts in his head, and because this medal now hangs between them like a bone of contention. Or rather, would hang. Probably. Misha dares to hope that they've moved past this. Back on that first night, when Ilia burst into tears in his arms, sobbing quietly, burying his nose in his shoulder. But all these thoughts are unlikely to leave his own head anytime soon, and if Ilia, pushing off from the ice, only flies upward, Misha has nothing left to prove to himself for now.

Yuck. Was it actually a better thing to think about?

Ilia finally catches his gaze in the mirror. He cups some water in his hands and rinses his mouth. His upper lip lifts in his usual asymmetrical smile — and something in Misha's chest relaxes. They hold eye contact until Ilia spits and turns to him, wiping his mouth with his hand.

"О чем думаешь? (What you think about?)"

And really, what is he thinking about?

"Ты похож на девчонку, (You look like a girl,)" Misha says, and immediately wants to slap himself on the forehead. Of course he does: he's wearing a dress, damn it. Why wouldn't he? From Ilia's look, it's clear he's also completely unimpressed.

"Да ладно. (Not surprising.)"

"Нет, правда, (No, really,)" Misha continues, pushing away from the doorframe. He steps forward — and maybe it's a mistake, because he's stepping right into a trap, but he's exactly where he wants to be. Ilia moves back just a millimetre, not even trying to pretend to let him through to the sink. The faucet is still running. Yes, this is how the planet's fresh water resources are wasted. Although Misha would rather feel sorry for the wallets of those paying the utilities here, if such a concept even exists in the Olympic Village. They used up a week's worth of shower water in a single night yesterday. Anyway, Misha needs to wash his hands, but his tongue refuses to obey him: "У тебя волосы длинные, я сперва подумал, что это Алиса подстриглась. Еще немного отрастишь, и совсем будет не отличить. (Your hair is long; at first I thought Alysa got a haircut. If you grow it out any longer, you'll be completely indistinguishable.)"

"Мне бы было красиво... (Would I look cool with—) bangs?" Ilia asks, hesitating a bit. Misha honestly doesn't remember the meaning of the last word other than its well-known synonym for sex, but the way Ilia glances at the hair on his forehead suggests it. "Как у Алисы. (Like Alysa's.)"

"Лучше бы спросил, пошли бы тебе полоски, как у нее. А еще лучше сразу в красно-белый ебануть. (What you should've asked is whether you'd look cool with stripes like hers. You should do it in red and white, though.)"

Ilia pouts.

"Ответь. (Answer.)"

Misha exhales. He pushes him away gently with his shoulder, suppressing the urge to bury his nose in the hair above his temple. To grab him with both hands and pull him close. After all, it's he who sent them off to wash their hands.

"У тебя красивые волосы, (Your hair is beautiful,)" he replies, not quite to what Ilia asked. "И глаза красивые. Ресницы. И в этом платье... особенно сзади... Я бы, в общем, дал бы тебе место в женской одиночке. (Eyes too. Eyelashes. And in that dress— especially from behind— I'd actually think you should give women's skating a try)"

The water is cold, and Misha turns the faucet handle with the little flame on it to the right. Ilia is silent, and he looks up at him.

Well, you can't give him that many compliments at once. He gets so full of himself — now he's staring at him from under his furrowed brows. Then he leans in, resting his cheek on Misha's shoulder.

"А в парном? (And pairs?)" he asks. "Подкинул бы меня? (Would you hands-to-waist hold me?)"

"Если бы смог поднять, (If I could lift you,)" Misha jokes. The image of him holding Ilia tightly by the waist above his head sends shivers down his spine. Even though it's impossible—they'd never represent the same country.

"So you say I'm heavy."

"Not heavy— well, yes," Misha breathes out, giving in. "Я бы тебя сейчас не удержал. (I can't hold you now.)"

Ilia is probably offended by this. He's offended by a lot of things these days, and he's not shy about showing it — after all, Misha's the cause of about a hundred nervous breakdowns Ilia had in the last few days, whether he intended it or not. And being the witness to this is even kind of comforting: knowing that Ilia trusts him enough to be weak.

"Ладно, (Okay,)" Ilia says finally, turning his lips to the fabric on Misha's shoulder.

"Ты похож в этом платье, знаешь? (Do you know who you look like in that dress?)" Misha says quickly, trying to distract him from his unpleasant thoughts. "На маск лесбиянку из рилсов, которую заставили надеть платье. Вот это ты. Со своими плечами, руками, ногами. (Like a mask lesbian from reels who was forced into a dress. That's you. With your shoulders, arms, legs.)" He hears a quiet chuckle. "Нет, правда! Если бы ты был девушкой, ты бы так и выглядел. Как редизайн персонажа, где он такой же, только с сиськами чуть побольше. (No, I'm serious! If you were a girl, you'd look like that. Like a character redesign where they're the same, only with slightly bigger boobs.)" Ilia openly laughs into his shoulder. "Ну правда же! (Don't you say I'm wrong!)"

"Если бы... если бы я... я бы носил платья, как Алиса, (If— if I— I would wear dresses like Alysa,)" he says, and Misha can tell from his tone that he's smiling. "Красивые. И чтобы ты на меня смотрел. (Beautiful ones. And I'd want you to look at me.)"

Misha snorts.

"Я и так на тебя смотрю. (I'm already looking at you.)"

Ilia's nose moves up his shoulder until it touches the bare skin of his neck. Misha's breath catches in his throat. Ilia is surprisingly obedient — he gives him more than a second to wash his hands and doesn't even resist.

"Я знаю, (I know,)" a whisper into his skin. "Я поэтому... (That's why I—)"

"И оделся в платье? (Put on a dress?)"

"Ага. (Mm-hmm.)"

"Я так и знал, что это не глубокое высказывание, а ты просто хочешь внимания, (I knew it wasn't you making a bold woke statement, you just wanted attention,)" he smiles. There's no point in scrubbing his hands of invisible dirt anymore, even though a nervous shiver of anticipation runs down his spine. So he shakes the water off his hands and turns the faucet off.

Ilia, apparently, wants all athletes to quit, not just the figure skaters. His next world record will be in speed — because before Misha can close the cold water completely, his face is grabbed tightly in Ilia's hands and pulled toward him, as if they hadn't seen each other for a month, rather than spent the last week glued to each other. However, it's clear they'll never be satisfied with being close. After all, their time together is finite and severely limited. And until that happens, Ilia will pounce on him greedily, and Misha will cling to his hands so tightly that Ilia will hiss into his lips.

He can only thank god — a different god, not the one Ilia pretends to be on the ice — that it doesn't occur to him to slam his head against the doorframe again. That he still maneuvers Misha gracefully enough, backwards, as they stumble over each other's legs into the hallway. A map of the room looms in the background of his mind — in case of a fire, run this way and that, and roughly the opposite direction to the bed. Ilia spins him around by the shoulders while Misha finds balance with his hands on his waist. The fabric wrinkles beneath his fingers, and for what must be the last time today, he feels a pang of guilt about Alysa, whose dress they're desecrating. But then Ilia bites his lip, licking every little cut and nerve, and all rational thoughts fade completely.

Misha, unexpectedly, crashes into the bed with the backs of his knees. It would be difficult to stay upright even under normal circumstances, even when he isn't pushed forward so relentlessly, and now his head is spinning mercilessly. He falls onto the mattress and bounces lightly, the hot palms on his shoulders slipping into the darkness — and, opening his eyes, Misha sees Ilia standing over him in the gloom.

Their legs touch, and the expression in Ilia's eyes is invisible in this light. But now the moon, shining through the thin curtains and gaps between them, paints his torso, face, and arms in dim streaks; one of these streaks runs across his collarbone and up his neck. Misha swallows loudly, following it with his eyes. Ilia tilts his head slightly to the side, and a faint smile touches his lips, bitten almost to the point of bleeding, swollen.

"Like being manhandled by a girl?" he asks, and Misha's blood drains even further, which doesn't help him understand a language that's already not his native tongue. Is Ilia talking about himself now? Holy shit.

His voice is unresponsive, and at first, only an incoherent wheeze comes from his throat.

"Принял правила игры? (Accepted the rules of the game?)" he finally manages to say.

"Тебе вроде хотелось, (You seemed to want to,)" Ilia answers. His smile widens. "В женской одиночке. Я. (In women's singles. Me.)"

Misha's mouth goes dry again. He props himself up on the elbows to regain some sense of space.

"И как бы ты катался в женской одиночке? (And how would you skate in the women's singles?)

"Just as amazing as it is now. Imagine женщина прыгнула бы (a woman jumping) the quad axel первой в мире? (first in the world?)"

How is he even speaking in such a state? Obviously, not very well, but still.

"Все бы охуели. (Everyone would be shocked.)"

"Exactly. Imagine I'd do много других вещей (many other things) I did as the first and only."

Misha doesn't want to tell him that he probably wouldn't have succeeded. After all, women actually do jump quads too now, so why wouldn't Ilia Malinin from another universe jump seven quads, the first in the world? He'd almost like to see everyone go nuts over it.

"Ты слишком высокого мнения о себе. (You think too highly of yourself.)"

"А я неправ? (Am I wrong?)"

Unfortunately, Misha has no smart answer to that. Unfortunately, the man in front of him really is the best figure skater in the world, having set way too many records. Unfortunately (or fortunately), Misha absolutely fucking loves him.

"Прав, (You're not,)" he admits.

Ilia puts his knee on the bed, and Misha closes his legs. The tights cling to Ilia's thigh, but even through their fabric and his own pants, Misha can feel his warmth. Or maybe he's burning up — Ilia leans a little closer.

"I wouldn't wanna be a girl," he says quietly, barely moving his lips. Misha eagerly catches their every movement. "Because— тогда бы мы вместе побеждали, (then we would win together, I think, but—) I don't want to lose to anyone кроме тебя. (but you.)"

Misha's breath catches in his throat, and he struggles to draw in a breath. Ilia doesn't meet his eyes; his gaze drops and glides across the bed, as if he hadn't just made the confession of a millennium. Ilia Malinin — lose. Lose to him, Misha. Проиграть кому-то кроме тебя. (Lose to someone other than you.)

Misha can't stop himself.

"Если бы ты был девчонкой, ты бы взял мою фамилию? (If you were a girl, would you take my last name?)"

Ilia's eyebrows shoot up, and he finally looks up at him. Misha bites his tongue immediately, but it's too late.

"Это ты так предлагаешь на тебе жениться? (Is this how you tell me to marry you?)"

Выйти замуж, (Propose)^{)[note] ([there are gendered ways to say “propose” in russian, and ilia used one for the wife, while misha wants to correct him with the husband one])}, Misha corrects automatically in his head. The last thing he needs is to say it out loud.

"Нет, (No,)" he answers quickly, trying to defend himself. A strange expression instantly crosses Ilia's face — was it really unpleasant for him to hear that? Misha quickly corrects himself: "А ты хочешь ко мне переехать? Не знал, что ты фанат Казахстана. (Do you want to move in with me? I didn't know you're a fan of Kazakhstan.)"

Ilia smiles again.

"Не хочу. Давай ты ко мне. (No, I don't want to. You can to me. At least in )the US,хотя бы однополые браки можно. ( same-sex marriage is fine.)"

Misha's heart jumps into his throat. It bangs loudly against it — Ilia will surely hear.

They've been dating for almost two years, and even half-jokingly talking about marriage is scary and a little embarrassing, and it's a bit early for Misha. On the other hand, it's unclear what Ilia is thinking. What if he decides Misha doesn't love him? Or, on the contrary, gets scared and runs away?

"Мы же про тебя, если бы ты был девчонкой. (We're talking about you if you were a girl.)"

Ilia pouts.

"Твоя... нет, (Yours— no,)" he says, and Misha doesn't immediately understand what he's talking about. Right, his last name. "Ее… (It's—) hard to pronounce."

He hides a smile. Misha knows that his parents chose his mother's last name for this very reason, but he's deeply offended by this statement. Like, what do you mean, it's hard to pronounce? Ilia pronounces it just fine. Yeah, not perfectly, but he can do it. What is hard about it?

"But it's beautiful," he says, sitting up, now leaning on his palms instead of his elbows.

Ilia moves his knee further along the bed and leans even closer. His hand is now resting on Misha's shoulder, and he's practically sitting on top of him.

"Maybe," he says. His other hand slides up Misha's shoulder until it's on his neck. Ilia shifts his weight to one knee and places the other one on the bed, now sitting completely on top of him. The skirt, caught between them, wrinkles and tickles slightly. "Still hard to pronounce."

"Hard for you?" Misha jokes, because that's probably the last thing he'll be allowed to say before their next make out session. After all, not everyone has the diction of a ten-year-old.

"Это я (I'm) hard for you," Ilia answers with a strong Russian accent, and suddenly smiles as if he's been thinking about this joke for ages. The moonlight reflects off his teeth, bright white in the dim light. "И взял бы. Если бы ты попросил. (And I would take it. If you asked.)"

The way Ilia sinks his teeth into his lower lip and pulls Misha toward himself would definitely hurt — it would if Misha's ears weren't ringing and his hands didn't suddenly start to shake. Ilia kisses him casually, albeit forcefully, quickly, a little roughly — though he should've stopped and considered what he'd just said.

Although, of course, this is very much his style: to say something and then pretend it never happened. Like when they were falling asleep hugging each other in some hotel room — Misha can't even remember exactly when (he's apparently not much of a partner) — and Ilia, pressing his face between his shoulder blades, suddenly whispered "я люблю тебя (I love you)" in Russian and immediately began to snore. And Misha had to lie there like an idiot, his heart pounding and his palms sweaty, while Ilia slept peacefully, not giving a damn. And in the morning, he acted like he hadn't just dropped this bomb right on Misha's head. And when he was rightfully cornered, he shrugged and said, "я думал, ты уже спал (I thought you were already asleep.)" Just fucking nuts. But Misha is getting off topic.

Ilia very much tries to push him onto the bed. Misha clings to his shoulders with one hand, and his wrist is tickled by the puff sleeves.

His brain short-circuits again. He breaks away from Ilia's lips and buries his face in the crook of his neck to catch his breath. Ilia, surprisingly, doesn't pull him up by his hair or ears, only hugs his head, but Misha quickly realizes it's a distraction when he begins sliding up and down on his lap.

Misha groans low into his shoulder through his teeth. His other hand, balancing precariously, clings to his waist. Ilia doesn't obey him.

It's hard to find a zipper with tangled fingers, especially when Misha has no fucking clue where it is. His brain is working very poorly, but "undress-undress-undress" is the only word spinning in his head.

He knows how to take off his own clothes — it's a simple matter. Ilia's, however, are much more complex: in the best traditions of women's costumes, he's dressed in tights and a bodysuit. Yeah, they're definitely not designed for a quick wank in the hallway between performances.

Although Ilia doesn't seem to care at all — judging by his movements, he's perfectly okay with dryhumping to the point of madness. And only Misha, apparently, is busy trying to finally undress him: Ilia, fuck, isn't helping at all.

He's also intentionally distracting him: unable to reach Misha's lips, he leans over and starts kissing his temple, sliding down to his ear. When he tries to stick his tongue in, Misha yelps and twitches.

"Ебанутый что ли? (The fuck are you doing?)" although it's a rhetorical question. "Где у тебя тут... эээ... как это снять? (Where's— uh— how to take this off?)"

Ilia flashes his teeth and bites his ear.

"Все понятно, (Okay,)" Misha exhales, defeated. This was to be expected. "Сам будешь объяснять Алисе, почему у нее разорванное платье. (You'll have to explain to Alysa why her dress is torn.)"

This brings some awareness back into Ilia's eyes. He shakes his head, as if trying to shake off the arousal clouding his judgment.

"А ты не хочешь... (Don't you want—)" he falls silent almost immediately, biting his lip thoughtfully.

"В нем? (In it?)" Misha guesses. "Как ты себе это представляешь? (How would that happen?)"

Ilia looks down at himself, although from his position, this is not going very well.

"Никак, (Nohow,)" he finally admits. Exhales. "Молния... (The zipper—)"

He takes Misha's hand and pulls it behind him. Up, up, counting every thin stripe on the fabric. The zipper turns out to be in a small fold on the side. His fingers reluctantly catch it only on the second try.

"Зубами? (With your teeth?)" Ilia suggests, his style.

"Тебе придется слезть с меня. (You'll have to get off me.)"

"Ладно. (Okay.)"

The zipper gives way. Misha pulls it down for about half a centimeter when he realizes there are buttons on top. Double protection, damn it. The thought immediately reminds him of the condoms running out in the Olympic village, and he breaks into a slightly hysterical laugh.

"Что смешного? (What's so funny?)"

"Я усну, пока буду тебя раздевать, (I'll fall asleep while I'm undressing you,)" Misha doesn't answer his question. "Сколько часов ты это надевал? (How many hours did you spend putting this thing on?)"

"Not that долго. ( long.) Amber 'n Alysa помогли. Я даже (helped. I can't even) reach it сам. (on my own.)"

"Я уже понял. (I already got that.)"

The buttons slip through the loops with difficulty. Misha's fingers begin to ache. There are too many of these buttons: it feels like he's been sitting here forever, trying to undress his boyfriend so they can finally have sex. And now he'll get tired and pass out, and there will be no sex!

Apparently sensing his growing irritation, Ilia leans closer and finds the pulse on his neck with his lips. The stiffness in Misha's lower back instantly relaxes, and he tilts his head back slightly, giving him more room for his mouth. Now, however, his fingers are even more unresponsive.

After five hundred million buttons, Misha finally feels that there's just fabric beyond that. The zipper ends there, too. All that's left is to slide his fingers up and unzip it.

Ilia noticeably flinches when Misha touches his shoulder with his fingertips, just above the neckline of his dress. His palm tightens around the base of Misha's neck, and in response, Misha traces his neck bone, causing Ilia's back to arch. Like that.

The zipper slides almost effortlessly — a couple of times Misha has to hold the fabric down with his free fingers; Ilia doesn't care, we won't help — why would we? But when the zipper stops, Misha finally exhales and places his hand on Ilia's lower back. His wrist is numb and aching.

His fingers slip automatically into the gap between the unbuttoned back of Ilia's dress and his skin. They run lightly up his shoulder blade and continue on, reaching his neck. The muscles beneath his touch twitch slightly, relax, only to tense again — Ilia breathes raggedly, his lips leaning toward Misha's ear, and he begins to fidget again.

Ilia rises slightly to his knees, pressing his stomach against him. This causes Misha's hand on his waist to slide down, along the rough, itchy fabric of his skirt, until it rests on Ilia's thigh. It's warm, smooth, fleshy — Ilia shifts his weight to the other knee, as if by accident. Scratching his nails through his tights, Misha raises his hand, now under his skirt, until he cups his ass for the second time that evening. And if he hadn't been feeling dizzy relentlessly every minute for the last two hours, he definitely would've felt like that now: he's hugging Ilia with both arms, his dress slipping off one shoulder; Misha's lips are pressed to his collarbone. The ribbon around his neck tickles his forehead.

He should probably take that off, too. On the other hand, it would look funny if Ilia was left completely naked, but with a ribbon. Inappropriate thoughts immediately enter his head — how he'd like to tug at that ribbon, how it will leave reddish marks on Ilia's neck, as if from a nap. If it doesn't break, of course — Misha feels his face begin to burn, and he buries himself in Ilia's neck, mindlessly kissing it from his collarbone upward.

A low, quiet sound comes from the throat beneath his lips; Ilia swallows, his Adam's apple bobbing noticeably. Misha's fingers curl under the hem of his bodysuit, cupping it in his palm. Ilia tenses and then relaxes, apparently with effort — Misha bets he feels goosebumps running up and down his spine. He chuckles as he thinks about it and returns his hand from his far shoulder to his neck bone, slowly lowering his knuckles to the small of his back, exposed by the unzipped zipper. He opens his mouth and licks a long muscle from his collarbone — he only knows that because it instantly tenses, followed by a long, ragged exhale.

Ilia throws his head back, his hand flying from his shoulder into his hair, pressing on the back of his head. Misha pulls the ribbon back and slaps it across his saliva-slick neck; he continues up to his jaw, and now the muscle under his tongue twitches as Ilia swallows again. Misha bites on his chin. His lower lip. Ilia leans in, kissing him properly now, his tongue darting into Misha's mouth possessively, and the fingers in his hair tighten painfully, so much so that Misha almost winces. But this pain is even pleasant — when Ilia lifts his head with both hands, supporting his jaw with his thumbs, Misha groans for the second time that evening, dull, hoarse, and deep. From the movement of Ilia's lips against his own, he guesses that a smile is playing on them.

He can go fuck himself. His head is spinning mercilessly, shaking with arousal, and Ilia's laughing at him. Well, Misha can put up with that. After all, there will be plenty of chances to let loose on him.

A hand on Ilia's ass tugs, pressing him to Misha. He slides even closer, pressing his groin through his skirt into Misha's lower abdomen. It's hard to feel anything through the strained tights, and about thirty layers under his skirt, but Misha probably has an instinct for such things, or perhaps it's critical levels of delusion, but he thinks he feels the pressure of Ilia's cock against his stomach as he lightly rubs against it. Lightly for him — and it's not even enough for Misha anymore; he straightens his palm on Ilia's lower back, pushing, even though Ilia can't move any closer. But Misha wants Ilia to melt into him completely, for his ribs to open and swallow him, and for him to be such a tiny Ilia Malinin right there in his chest, right next to his heart. He'd jump his quads there and laugh so brightly with that asymmetrical smile of his. He'd hug Misha with his tiny arms. With the same force with which he now holds his face.

Ilia's thumbs stroke his cheekbones. Softly, slowly, in sync with their breathing and the way he kisses him. They slow down a bit — swaying lightly, gaining momentum. Misha strokes Ilia's back, brushing against the zipper — the skin beneath his hands is warm and smooth, bending like clay. Ilia breaks away for a moment to look into his eyes and whisper hoarsely:

"Залезь. (Get on.)"

And rises to his knees. Misha, with the weight off his hips, doesn't immediately realize what is wanted of him, and only when Ilia impatiently nudges his shoulders, pulls his legs up, and sits further down on the bed. As soon as he sits comfortably enough, Ilia crawls closer, a little awkwardly — the dress falls off his left shoulder, the puffed sleeve ending up closer to his elbow. He trips over his legs, almost rips off the short hem, their knees bump, and nervous laughter escapes Misha. He helps Ilia straighten his skirt, now heavily wrinkled and slightly slipped. Ilia settles back into his lap, and now Misha can cross his ankles for Ilia to slide even closer, clasping his own legs behind Misha's back. But Ilia doesn't do it.

He doesn't even kiss him, and Misha doesn't have time to realize what's happening — at first, he's sitting, helping Ilia get closer, and then he's lying with his head on the pillow with his arms outstretched, and Ilia steps over his leg, settling in the middle of the bed.

Misha's mouth has no words to say, no thoughts, head empty. He completely loses track of what's happening and what Ilia wants from him. He hasn't even taken off his dress. He simply holds the hem of it again, drawing ever closer until he's leaning on his hands on either side of Misha's face and looking down playfully. His hair falls like a curtain around his head, and Ilia bites a smile on his wretched lips, which are barely holding on by now. He fails to keep the smile off his face. And then he leans down — and those lips, rough, cracked, wet with saliva, touch Misha's neck under the jaw. There, where he'd kissed him earlier today: only more insistently, opening his mouth and using his tongue and teeth. Misha's moan gets stuck in his throat, and his right hand, resting on the sheet earlier, ends up in Ilia's hair. He doesn't even have enough consciousness to direct it or pull him closer — he just holds it while the curls tickle his fingers.

And Ilia leads the way. His lips slide down Misha's throat, then suddenly he bites hard just where his shoulder and neck meet. Misha doesn't have time to stop him (and, frankly, doesn't really want to) as Ilia sucks his skin through his teeth and scrapes painfully. His throat can only make a strangled, hoarse sound as his pulse pounds beneath the skin, and Ilia licks the bite wetly. Misha should actually wonder if he had taken any turtlenecks with him, but no thoughts can now be found inside his head.

The collar of his sweatshirt isn't big enough for what Ilia wants to do to him. And it becomes the first thing they take off today (besides their shoes and outerwear). Ilia pulls it up, hooking it by the hem, and Misha mindlessly raises his arms above his head, arching like a shrimp, wriggling out of it. He doesn't even see where Ilia throws it, and he doesn't really think twice. Misha is no longer in the mood to give a fuck.

In the t-shirt, the room feels cooler, especially on his shoulders and sides, but Ilia's hot mouth moves from his collarbone, following his skin, damp from his kisses, with his hands. He slides lower between Misha's legs, and his hair drips onto his forehead, tickling his skin, and the dress hangs down when he bends over, revealing his chest, the taut muscles of his stomach, trembling from his rapid, uneven breathing. Misha eagerly examines everything he's allowed to see; the dress gathers in folds on the front, and the sleeve finally falls, now onto Ilia's wrist. He throws it off completely, and now it looks more like a toga — an asymmetrical drape across his chest. Only the sleeve and part of the front now drag over his stomach.

Ilia, of course, isn't happy with the t-shirt either. He tries impatiently to take the strap off his shoulder until he realises he needs to pull it the other way.

"God," he whispers, his voice hoarse. "Take that off."

Misha wants to respond: так ты ж, сука, сидишь на мне и мешаешь. (But you're sitting on me, fucker, so you're kinda getting in the way.) But in reality, that would just be an incomprehensible set of sounds, and he, too, desperately wants to get rid of all his clothes — and, of course, for Ilia to finally un-this-fucking-dress. But Ilia isn't going to fulfil his wishes, it seems.

Thank goodness they're finally pulling his shirt off. It's even cooler now — Misha has a vague idea they didn't close the window all the way when they left, but if Ilia were to get up now, he'd have to cling to him with his arms and legs and beg him not to leave — and that would be downright pathetic. So Misha remains silent, like when he's going to be asked what the hell is that bruise on his neck tomorrow morning. Whatever. And the goosebumps that are rattling his shoulders — well, Ilia will kiss them and warm them. He's already kissing them.

His lips lightly scratch the skin, but it's pleasant, especially since his tongue immediately follows right after. Ilia, however, seems to be losing his patience too — though he's clearly arguing with himself about it, otherwise it's unclear why Misha is still wearing pants. And why is Ilia himself wearing a dress and tights, when they should have been touching bare skin long ago? On the other hand, if he weren't so worked up, they probably would have gone to sleep already.

Ilia always wanted to leave behind, as he puts it, lastin impreshn. So that Misha would go off to his Kazakhstan and think about him. To which Misha would reply: ты дурак, Илюх. Я в любом случае буду думать о тебе и скучать. (You're an idiot, Ilia. I'll think about you and miss you anyway.) But it'd still be hard to argue with that — because after the dress performance, Misha wouldn't be able to daydream about anything but him for a long time.

It's never anything but him. Always him. Even when they first met, Misha was immediately captivated by those blue eyes, the smile, and his light jumps. At first, he simply watched from afar, admiring and a little envious, and then Ilia came up to him, showering him with ice as he stopped with a sharp turn of his skates, and smiled as brightly and slightly awkwardly as he always did. And he said:

"Привет, я Илья Малинин. Хочешь, покажу четверной аксель? (Hi, I'm Ilia Malinin. Want me to show you a quad axel?)"

He fell. He fell again, again, again, but he stubbornly got up. And Misha watched, his own smile growing bigger and brighter. Then, with surprise, he suddenly realised that he'd completely stopped feeling envious. In fact, only a light, cheerful feeling remained inside. When Ilia, out of breath, admitted that his axel still needed work, Misha suggested showing off his own jumps. His jumps were worse, of course, but Ilia watched, clapped for some reason, and told him how to place his legs. Misha had his own coach; he didn't need help, but he listened. And for some reason, his jumps really did improve.

They kissed for the first time almost a year later, in a hotel room where Ilia took him to watch a movie (they didn't watch it). Misha's heart was pounding in his throat, and he was shaking with anxiety — and Ilia giggled, licked his chin, and lay down next to him, hugging him with both arms. And Misha didn't envy him at all, honestly. When Ilia jumped, his heart sank in his chest, and he wanted him to fly to the moon and land that fucking quadruple axel. Or even a quintuple — because the way Ilia was looking at him now, it seemed to Misha that he wouldn't jump, but rather fly over the ice, from the look in Ilia's eyes as he reached for him.

And when Ilia fell, he always got back up. And Misha, too — he always had plenty of tenacity. And they both loved skating as much as they eventually fell in love with each other — or even more. And Misha can't imagine loving anyone as much as he loves Ilia.

And then Ilia fell during his free program at the Olympics, and he got up, of course, but he was shattering into pieces in Misha's arms that same evening. Then Misha learned what it was like to be so frightened. Because when he stepped onto the most important ice of his life, he wasn't half as afraid as when Ilia stepped out there, and when Ilia fell. His heart was pounding, his hands were shaking, and when Ilia landed a few meters away, he didn't see his scores. He didn't hear the roar of the crowd in the stands. Only then did he finally realize he'd won, that Ilia, who'd been flying across the ice as if he'd actually grown wings, had actually fallen enough to miss out on the podium altogether. And when Ilia hugged him, holding him close, Misha wanted to cling to him and never let go, because he could already feel this fragile human being crumbling into tiny, sharp pieces of ice in his arms.

Then they molded a solid ice sculpture out of those ice pieces. Then Misha brought it to life with his own hands, like in Frozen, which Ilia forced him to watch when he found out Misha had missed that cinematic masterpiece (Misha missed it again because Ilia had gone for a kiss less than five minutes into it). And Ilia cried and cried and cried, apologising endlessly for it, because how could this be? Misha had won, and here he was, falling apart like a complete idiot, demanding attention, ruining his celebration. To which Misha thought, ну ты и правда дурак совсем, я же с тобой сижу не потому, что мне тебя жалко, а потому что я люблю тебя. (well, you really are a complete idiot. I'm not sitting here with you because I feel sorry for you, but simply because I love you.) He said this out loud, hugging Ilia and cradling him in his arms, and Ilia cried even harder.

He knows: Ilia doesn't want this to be the most vivid memory of him from these Games. That's why he started all this stupidity, that's why he's now sliding his lips over his chest and stomach, that's why he's saying both beautiful and dirty things to him. And Misha accepts his rules of this game, accepts his attempts to rescue himself from the depths he's fallen to. And yet: Ilia must, simply must know how much Misha loves him, how deeply he's in love with him — even if Ilia forgets it when he's not kissed and hugged enough between their meetups.

His hand finds its way back into Ilia's hair. He should be ashamed, actually, of himself, because even now he still wants to kiss — and he doesn't even want to look at the clock to see how long they've already been glued to each other. He's torn between the urge to pull Ilia's hair toward him and the desire to push his head down, where his pants are still too tight. Ilia kisses his stomach, which trembles with rapid inhales, and the coolness sends shivers down it. His muscles tighten even more; Ilia smiles against his skin.

He can't even be frivolously angry with him anymore — with the way he moves so slowly, the way he forces himself to maintain some semblance of composure. Misha knows him well enough to understand that Ilia is a millimetre away from breaking down, but he's steadfastly holding on to that millimetre. That's probably why he switches to him instead of focusing on his own pleasure, and it's not like Misha minds it, because they'll get to that later. And also — perhaps most importantly — Ilia, with his dress half-down between his legs, looks like something Misha will truly be thinking about for the days and weeks between their meetings.

He's a weak man. It's high time he admitted it. All of Ilia's little things work on him. It's probably embarrassing — it would be if Ilia wasn't just as swayed in response. He slumps almost stiffly until his face is above the fly of his pants, and Misha seems to stop breathing.

What did he think? That he'd give up all his strength after the first one? Now he feels like he could run a marathon and actually hold Ilia by his waist up in the air. If only he could keep looking at him with his dark eyes in the dim light and licking his lips. If only he could keep that imaginary image of Ilia's cheeks smeared with red lipstick, just to complete the look he tried to convey. Misha briefly wonders if anyone would notice they were kissing between their free programs and the podium.

He also wonders if they would've met if Ilia were a girl. Would they ever share a rink for training? Misha doesn't know many girls from other countries, and it probably would've happened either at the same competition (which is doubtful, since the singles don't run at the same time, even if he's coming there and leaving with women from his own country) or under the same coach. Which, he supposes, is also impossible, especially with a female version of Ilia. He wonders if he would've never fallen in love with her, or if he would have pined through the screen and from the stands when she launched into her signature axel?

What stupid thoughts. On the other hand, Ilia shouldn't have called himself a girl, and they wouldn't have existed. He shouldn't have worn the dress that's now catching its petticoat on his pants. He shouldn't have acted like fucking Ilia Malinin at all — and maybe Misha wouldn't have had to blush over his own thoughts. The ones where Ilia always skates in dresses, beautiful dresses, where Misha kisses the smudged, bright lipstick off his lips. Where he skates just as well, just as better-than-anyone-else-well, as he always should — where, in any universe, he's talented and beautiful to boot. Where Misha watches his skates not from the sidelines or the kiss and cry, but from the stands. Where they have matching medals around their necks (if you count out the million or so athletes wanting to claim that spot, besides him).

Ilia unbuttons his pants.

No. What was it he said? Я бы не хотел быть девчонкой? (I wouldn't wanna be a girl?) Yes. Fuck those matching medals, really.

There's nothing more poetic than splitting these medals between them. Knowing that they'll stand on the same podium, that if he looks up, he'll see a familiar and beloved smile. That they'll never share the same medal. That they'll be judged by the same system, that they'll be on the same rink, that when Ilia takes his turn (after him, of course), he'll be greeted by the furrows in the ice left by his skates. That Misha will sit and watch, wiping his sweaty palms on his knees. Sitting in his place, waiting for him to come out and take it. And sometimes, of course, there will be days like the thirteenth. When Misha will stay there, that place will rightfully be his. When his gold medal in the men's singles doesn't find its matching pair, when outskating Ilia Malinin will still mean taking that medal for both of them. And in reality, it will still be his medal — because Misha himself is his. It's that simple and stupid.

Perhaps, along with his love for this blue-eyed, smiling, and extremely awkward dork, came the gift of the ability to think all sorts of absurd, incoherent nonsense. Perhaps it's even sexually transmitted — Misha can't test this theory, because there were no other test subjects. Which, by the way, is actually surprising for him — because he still can't help but blush whenever Ilia undresses him, and Ilia himself seems completely indifferent. Then again, he's Ilia. It would be wrong to expect anything else from him.

Misha's hips jerk up as Ilia pulls down his pants, along with his underwear — and it gets even cooler until Ilia covers his legs with his body. But it also becomes very ticklish.

"Господи. Твое это платье... (Oh my god. This dress of yours—)"

"Что с ним? (What's with it?)"

"Щекотно, (It tickles,)" Misha admits.

"You can take it," Ilia tells him, and only the wrinkles around his eyes betray his laughter.

And the rest — fuck. Misha hits the back of his head on the pillow, his thoughts completely jumbled. What does he fucking mean, you can take it? Take what? The English language completely ceases to make any sense.

All life outside this room, this bed, Ilia at his feet, fades. There's only him — his hair in Misha's hand, his mouth lowered to his thigh, the skirt that still fucking prickles and tickles him. Ilia's hands bracing him on the bed. Misha closes his eyes until his ears start to ring, and then he inhales quickly, deeply, sharply — Ilia takes his cock in his hand and runs his tongue over the head.

Sparks of pleasure shoot through his stomach. Misha doesn't have the strength to look at Ilia because that would only make things worse. Much worse.

When he's going to see Ilia looking at him from beneath his furrowed brows. With his eyes glowing in the darkness. His soft hair falling over his forehead, its tips touching his own thighs.

Ilia doesn't usually initiate sex that often: usually, he only manages to get to aggressive kissing and friction through clothing. But now, it's as if he's really switched on. He probably really wants to leave Misha with an impression he won't be able to shake off.

Misha won't admit to him that it was completely unnecessary.

The lips wrap around the head wetly. The insides of Ilia's cheeks clearly haven't had time to be anxiously bitten off, even with all his anxiety, and he hasn't chewed them to the point of bleeding scabs. That's why the skin there is soft and tender; Misha closes his eyes and still can't look at him.

His hand tightens in Misha's hair. The tongue on his cock soaks it in saliva, making a slurping sound, and Ilia closes his lips, pushing the head inside. He releases again, smacking his lips, as if sucking on a lollipop. Misha's vision darkens.

When they first started dating — when Ilia first reached into his underwear and instantly became embarrassed, blushing to the roots of his hair, and almost ran away — Misha had no experience whatsoever. He had no time for it at all. And then they grew up together, glued together in their most vulnerable spots, got used to each other, accustomed to each other's expectations, wants, and desires. And Misha doesn't even know how he missed the moment, how Ilia went from a chronic virgin, embarrassed by any interaction, to this. Sure, he's still the most awkward person on the planet, but when it comes to the "embarrass Misha Shaidorov" challenge, Ilia is always first. Just like everywhere else.

His vast list of talents probably extends to sex as well. His parents would probably die of shame if Ilia, in his best efforts, told them about it. He generally loves to brag about his accomplishments — and Misha can't imagine how he even keeps to himself the fact that he can reduce him to a trembling, whining mess in just a couple of minutes.

Although right now it's a lie, bullshit, and provocation — they didn't make out tirelessly for the last half an hour just so Ilia could laugh at him! Misha wouldn't give him that pleasure.

Misha doesn't know why they still play rivals even here. He's not the only dumbass like that; there's another one! Although, of course, it's more fun this way. And it's less awkward when they're just talking nonsense instead of having deep, powerful confessions like in movies and TV shows.

Yes. Think about movies and TV shows. Not about Ilia's soft, warm, wet tongue. Not about his mouth, about his cheeks, which probably stretch when he thrusts his cock inside. Not about his hair, tousled by Misha's fingers.

Fuck.

Misha opens his eyes. The ceiling above him is blurry, the sheets crumpled by his free hand. It's sweaty, wet, and a little cold. But Ilia is lying on top of him, trapping his hips — Misha ignores his existence, at least visually, for now.

His legs are spread out all across the bed, his feet touching Ilia's, who's hunched over trying to fit without falling. His dress is everywhere, even on Misha's feet, and is probably hanging over the edge of the bed — it will be a marvel if it isn't already torn somewhere. Why did they even bother unzipping it?

Why hasn't Ilia taken it off yet? Is he too into the role? Misha would be lying if he said he didn't like it. He really does, even if Ilia isn't actually a girl. Even if his chest is flat and his hips aren't that wide. It's enough. And he looks so slutty with his dress falling off one shoulder, revealing his chest and stomach all the way to his waist— Oh, fuck. Misha has long been lost to humanity.

He finally looks down at Ilia from the ceiling, and this probably isn't his best idea, because Ilia, catching his gaze, smirks slyly and takes more than half of Misha's cock into his mouth, never taking his eyes off him.

Misha's heart sinks into his stomach, and his breath catches — it feels as if his heart has suddenly stopped. For a moment, he loses all sense of his legs and body; all sensation is concentrated on the hot mouth, the wet and dexterous tongue, the ribbed roof of Ilia’s mouth against the head of his cock. Ilia helps himself with his hand, guiding deeper and back, supporting him with his flattened tongue. His teeth lightly touch the delicate skin, but then disappear, leaving only a more tormenting sensation.

Misha's pulse is pounding wildly in his lower abdomen. Breathing is becoming increasingly difficult, as if there's too little room in his chest for his lungs. Misha almost chokes on his breath when he feels a hand sliding up his stomach.

It crawls slowly, not even teasing — and when he meets Ilia's gaze again, he realises that it's a very sincere and open gesture. Take my hand, hold on, you're not alone, and I'm here with you. Ilia's fingers reach out, reaching up, and Misha releases his grip on the sheet, clutching Ilia's hand instead. The grip is tight, crooked, probably painful — but Ilia doesn't wince, only squeezes his fingers back.

His hand is warm and so, so familiar. Misha has kissed these fingers so many times he can't even count them, held them in his palms, cradled them, placed them on his cheek, on his waist, on his shoulder. He's gotten to know these hands even better than his own — every line on the palm, every capillary under the skin. Ilia turns his hand over to interlock their fingers, and Misha clings to him like a drowning man to a lifeline. And he holds on, holds on, as meter-high waves wash over him.

Misha had been to the sea many times. He'd trained in Sochi, after all, but he'd never been there with Ilia. How would his hair burn from the bright sun? How would his nose peel? Would his freckles get even brighter?

How long will it take to dissuade him from having sex on the beach, because then the sand will get into the places it's not supposed to? How warm will his cheeks be when Misha kisses him on the small streets of the city, where, fortunately, probably no one knows them?

For some reason, even in moments like these, when the thoughts should completely disappear out of his head, more and more with every thrust, all Misha can think is Ilia-Ilia-Ilia, how much I love you. That probably is the answer. This love can't fit inside him, it overflows, and little Ilia in his heart jumps, spins, screams, whoops, because all these thoughts are only about him. Holding his hand, meeting his gaze, Misha forgets he needs to breathe. And Ilia licks his cock as if it were a lollipop from the overpriced stalls on the embankment there in that nameless city where they will walk and never feel any fear. Delicious and sweet — which Ilia will let him try and Misha will actually taste his drool instead of caramel flavour. But what's there to complain about — sticky, salty precum is dripping down Ilia's chin, and he licks it off with his tongue. Misha's hips tense, bucking up, and he can barely see Ilia's face anymore, his eyes fail him.

He squints again — it's beyond his strength. His brows furrow involuntarily, and a thin, pitiful whine escapes his throat. It would probably be embarrassing if it were anyone but Ilia — but it could never be someone other than him.

He doesn't see it, but he feels it — the fingers holding him in a ring, the soft, hot, wet mouth accepting him, not completely, of course, but the most important and sensitive part. The tongue gliding over the head, licking up the leaking precum. Ilia swallows around it, his throat contracting, and even though Ilia can't take it that far, the root of the tongue lowers, allowing his cock to slide a little deeper, and then sharply presses it back to the roof of his mouth. The head rolls at it as Ilia pushes it out of his mouth with his tongue.

His lips are still rough and coarse, but soft and tender inside — Ilia purses them like a duck, sucking on the head. Misha should wonder where his boyfriend learned such techniques — because he'd probably sign up for some stupid course without caring if anyone recognised him — but his thoughts are completely leaving his head. Through his ears, probably, like his brain would, or through his mouth, or his eyes — he feels saliva pooling in the corners of his lips, somehow difficult to swallow, and his eyes are starting to sting with tears. Too much, too much: it's impossible to bear. Ilia sucks in his cheeks, and they squeeze him tightly, warmly. Even through his very much shut eyes, Misha can picture him now — his face, distorted with pleasure at seeing him like this, of making him be like this; and how he looks with his usually very light, very warm eyes, the irises of which have now been completely swallowed by pupils.

His back arches, and suddenly his leg is on Ilia's hip, pulling him closer and closer — Misha tenses like a string, like the moment when he breaks free of the ice, taking off; and the world spins around him, spins around itself, and he falls, falls, falls, and it's unclear how to land this jump cleanly. But there's someone who always catches him — and if you hold on to his hand, no ice is ever scary. It's not scary to fall then, too — and Misha does fall, the world blurring before his eyes, one, two, three spins: on the fourth, he lets out a hoarse, deep groan, the ice accepts him, only instead of cold there is hot, sticky lava. He comes in Ilia's mouth, on his tongue, drops fall on his face. Of course, he doesn't see it then, but he feels it, he knows. His heart pounds in almost every part of his body, especially his chest and stomach. It's hard to breathe. Low notes of his voice paint his inhales and exhales, though he doesn't moan — he simply doesn't have the strength for it. When Ilia finally releases his cock from his mouth, suddenly it's cold, very cold, but the hand on his chest, which Misha still clutches painfully, sends sparks of warmth through his body.

When Misha opens his eyes, at first there's only a light, murky haze before them. Then outlines emerge — the ceiling, the wall, Ilia's puffy sleeve on his shoulder, Ilia himself. His smile, his white teeth, the equally white drops on his lips. He opens his mouth, probably to say something—

"Блять! (Fuck!)"

Not a moment of peace. Misha has to throw himself across the bed, almost jumping at him to stop the stream of cum from Ilia's mouth. He manages to do so just in time, and it doesn't paint the collar of Ilia's dress with a pearl necklace. Cursing, Misha wipes his chin with his hand.

"Илья, (Ilia,)" he says quietly, unable to do anything but whisper. "Илья... (Ilia—)"

Ilia smiles.

He probably would've said his name back if there wasn't cum on his tongue. So he swallows — Misha's ears are burning — and leans forward to kiss him. The taste of his mouth isn't the most pleasant, but it's not unpleasant either — after all, he tastes just like Ilia. Misha doesn't know how to describe it, it's just the most familiar and dearest taste.

And he doesn't feel like passing out right then and there, face down in the pillow, as he thought: because Ilia is still trembling above him, his cheeks burning. And because, breaking away from him, he pulls up Misha's dirty hand on his chin. And licks his fingers.

No, not even licks it — he shoves them all into his mouth, as if he hadn't already demonstrated its incredible capabilities. He sucks, his tongue darting between Misha's fingers. Misha scrapes his knuckles against the roof of his mouth, where his cock had just recently touched. Yeah — they both have no shame left. And to hell with shame — isn't it more fun without it?

With his two free fingers — the index and little ones — he grabs Ilia's cheeks, pressing on the tip of his tongue with his middle and ring fingers. He bends his knees until they stop, then squeezes Ilia's torso with them on each side. And it's Ilia who falls with his back onto the bed, his hair spilling across the sheets. Misha ends up on top of him, pinning his pelvis with his knees on either side. The skirt rides up, covering Ilia's stomach and arms. His eyes are wide open; when Misha removes his fingers from his mouth, he leaves it open.

"Ну что ж, (Well then,)" says Misha. "Твоя очередь. (It's your turn.)"

Ilia blinks and comes to his senses immediately. He rises onto his elbows, lifting his head toward him, stretching, his thighs tensing under Misha as he bends his knees.

"Я— (I—)"

"Ложись, (Lie down,)" Misha tells him. Okay. He'll be a better man than Ilia. "Что ты хочешь? (What do you want?)"

It's hard to read emotions and thoughts in someone else's eyes, when they brighten in the moonlight, their familiar blue almost white now. But on his face — Ilia's lips tremble, his gaze darting, he licks his lips, and clearly doesn't know what to say.

Finally he relaxes enough to smile:

"А не заметно? (Isn't it obvious?)"

When he rises up on his elbows, his collarbones jut out. The dimple between them becomes more visible; the second sleeve finally slides off his drawn-up shoulders. With a soft rustle, the top of his dress falls onto Ilia's stomach. He doesn't even lower his head, but Misha follows it with his eyes — pale chest, nipples taut from the cold, oblique abdominal muscles. He wants to lick him clean.

"Заметно только, что ты хочешь, чтобы тебя выебали. (The only thing that's obvious is that you want to get fucked.)"

Ilia smiles so widely that all his teeth are visible.

"Спасибо, что заметил. (Thanks for noticing.)"

It's chilly. His shoulders tingle, but Misha barely notices. The embers are smoldering inside him, and Ilia tirelessly stokes the fire. Especially when he licks his lips, his gaze greedily tracing Misha's body.

Misha wants to bite his lip off.

Actually against this thought, his face relaxes and he smiles softly.

"Как хочешь? (How do you want?)"

A displeased expression flashes across Ilia's face, and he impatiently rises from his elbows onto his hands.

"Блять, Миш. (Fuck, Mish.) How do you want? I'll adjust."

English doesn't work in Misha's head at all.

"Аладжас? Чего? Переведи. (Alajas? What? Translate.)"^{)[note] ([misha doesn’t recognize “i’ll adjust”])}

Ilia's face changes to a completely suffering expression.

"Подойти? (Approach?)" he tries. "Пре... при... адаптировать! Адаптировать. (Pre— pri— adapt! Adapt.)"

"Нет, (No,)" Misha says immediately. "Ты идиот, Илюх. Какое адаптировать? (Dumbass. The hell do you mean, adapt?)"

Ilia looks at him almost pleadingly.

"Миш, (Mish,)" he drawls.

"Илюш, (Ilyush,)" Misha answers in the same tone. "Что ты хочешь? (What do you want?)"

And now Ilia deflates, all his confidence deserts him. His shoulders hunch and he suddenly looks very small.

"Зачем бы я... надел это платье? (Why would I— wear this dress?)" he says slowly, clearly gathering his words, and then suddenly starts talking very quickly, switching to his native language: "Why, if I didn't want you to fuck me in it? And it's kinda not possible so now I feel like an idiot and I don't know what to do and this is probably our last night before we'll see each other again in like at least two weeks or even more and I will really, really miss you so much it hurts even now and I'm not sure you'll miss me just as much because I made everything about myself like I always do and—"

Misha takes his face in his hands, and Ilia instantly stops his jumbled words. He looks up at him with downcast eyes. Misha wants to kiss him — gently, slowly, so that he can finally understand how much he's loved, that stupid head of his. And then fuck him.

"Я не уверен, что все понял, (I'm not sure I understood everything,)" he admits, and Ilia starts to say something, so Misha puts his thumb on his lips. "Но что я понял, так это что ты и правда дурак. Хотя это не новость. (But what I understand is that you really are an idiot. Although that's not news.)" Ilia juts out his upper lip. "В смысле, я не (What do you mean, I not) will miss you?"

"I mean—"

This time Misha covers his mouth with his hand.

"Помолчи. Меня собирался спрашивать? Конечно, (Shut up. Were you going to ask me? Of course, )I will miss you.Что за тупость вообще. ( What the hell do you mean?)"

Ilia has the nerve to look guilty. Or maybe Misha's hand is making it hard for him to breathe.

"Так как ты хочешь? (So what do you want?)" he continues. "Чего ты хочешь? Ты. Не я. Потому что я хочу, чтобы ты хотел. (What do you want? You. Not me. Because I want you to want it.)"

As soon as Misha removes his hand, Ilia begins to mumble incoherently:

"I— I want. You. And I—" He closes his eyes. Licks his lips. When he starts speaking again, his voice is even quieter than before: "I want you to love me despite me being annoying and selfish and I'm even more selfish now and— Прости... английский. Сложно... сейчас сложно. (Sorry— English. It's difficult— it's difficult now.)

He continues to squint. Without his bright eyes, the room becomes completely dark. Misha slowly rises from him onto his knees — Ilia's eyes immediately widen, looking at him slightly frightened — and moves lower, between his legs, until the skirt of Ilia's dress has ridden up and is out of the way.

"I do love you," he says. Such things come easier in English, especially when Ilia himself speaks it — clunky, quiet, and hesitant, tired, when Russian is too difficult to formulate. "I do. And I— Блять, прости, с английским правда сложно сегодня. Дурак ты. Хорошо. Хорошо. (Fuck, I'm sorry, English really is hard today. You're an idiot. Okay. Okay.)"

Ilia clearly isn't expecting a push on the shoulder, so his arms give way and he groans helplessly. Misha reaches up toward him — or down, depending on how you look at it — and lies on top of him. Or almost does it, rather: he steps over Ilia's thigh with one leg, supporting himself on one arm. Ilia watches him, almost mesmerised. He seemingly automatically rises onto his elbows, but falls back down when Misha pushes him again, this time on the chest. This time he doesn't get up again.

What an idiot. My god. How difficult it is to be with him. How can someone so seemingly narcissistic fail to understand his own worth? Or is that what narcissistic personality disorder is all about? Misha should discuss it with his therapist.

But no matter how hard it is, Misha hasn't been jumping and falling for fifteen years for nothing. It's not for nothing that he can't do anything right the first time. It's always hard for him, but it's worth it — and in the end, he wins.

All the suffering pays off — all the work, all the sleepless nights. Literally: because when Ilia texts him, it's already very late in Almaty, and Misha needs to catch up on sleep before practice. And vice versa. Every time he has to use translator to understand yet another midnight puzzle, he's rewarded with a smile on the other side of the conversation. Even if he can't see it, he knows Ilia is happy to hear his messages. Never in his life has Misha been more certain that he is loved. Never in his life has Misha been so certain in his love too.

For this idiot. There's no other way to describe him. With all the love he has inside him. Why is he's like this?

And still, Misha wouldn't want anyone else.

Ilia stares at him, unwavering, as he leans in. Until Misha settles on top of him — and then lifts his head, reaching out to kiss him again.

And Ilia is clearly overcome. He whines, quietly, pitifully, tensely. His stomach under Misha's trembles and tenses; Ilia tries to arch up and squirms. His mouth is responsive, soft, hot — and how can he stop kissing him?

Misha should be proud of what a strong man he is. Because his lips slide down his cheek, ceasing to muffle Ilia's whimpers — a kiss under the jaw, then with his tongue down the neck. Ilia's hand instantly covers his own mouth, stifling all the sounds escaping it, and when Misha bites the skin just below his shoulder, the throat beneath his lips trembles and vibrates.

Beyond that is bare skin. The dress has slipped so low that his entire chest and stomach are exposed. Ilia breathes quickly, his body heaving, and the fabric of the dress scrapes against his skin — Misha is already naked, after all.

The way his neck and shoulders tremble when he kisses them wetly sends electric shocks down his back. Ilia bites his fingers, trembling, and, fuck, wasn't he the one who insisted on doing it the way Misha wanted?

Misha wants to hear him.

He takes Ilia's wrist, slowly pulling his hand away from his mouth. It gives way too easily, but then Ilia comes to his senses and pulls it back.

"Интересный ты, (Interesting,)" says Misha. "А как насчет делать так, как мне нравится? (What was about doing it how I want?)"

Ilia raises his eyebrows, looking at him pleadingly. As if telepathically conveying: are you really going to force me? When I'm already humiliating myself as much as possible all these Games?

Misha kisses his knuckles, and Ilia's hand clenches against his will, clutching at his fingers. Slowly, Ilia relaxes and allows it.

Misha removes the puff sleeve from the other arm. The entire sleeve, actually — now Ilia's torso is exposed, only the tights constricting his waist. The dress gathers slightly lower, Misha hooks it with his fingers, and Ilia obediently lifts his lower back and hips off the bed, supporting himself on his shoulders and heels.

The dress flies to the floor at the foot of the bed, Misha doesn't even glance at it. It's already worn out today, and now Ilia probably owes Alysa money. Misha is even willing to pay half of it for the occasion.

Now all that's left are the tights. And, well, that's more difficult. Looking over the work, Misha swallows. Ilia's legs are completely encased in thick nylon, which also covers his entire lower abdomen. He'll have to deal with this himself — Ilia looks like he's run out of RAM with the dress gone.

"Why did you throw it?" he mutters. "I—I wanted to pretend tha—"

He cuts himself off abruptly when Misha kisses his stomach above the elastic of his tights. And he's instantly overcome by the trembling muscles beneath his tongue, the trembling, ragged breaths. Ilia bites his lip anyway, but his twitching hand falls back onto the sheet. Good. Good boy. Obedient.

Misha wonders if he'll ever stop being surprised by the sensations he gets from seeing Ilia beneath him. He wonders if he'll ever get used to it. If his hands will ever not tremble with excitement, from the realisation of how much Ilia trusts him and how much he wants him.

"Хотел притворяться, что ты девчонка? (You wanted to pretend you were a girl?)" Misha asks, leaning against his stomach. He draws circles on Ilia's skin with his fingers: where his lips touched, where his tongue left a wet mark. "Чтобы было легче? Как будто это не про тебя? (To make it easier? As if this wasn't about you?)"

He doesn't look up at Ilia's face, but his cheeks are surely flushed and his eyes glassy. Misha has seen him like this many times — but it seems he'll never grow tired of the sight. He seems to be trying to breathe through his chest, but his stomach still moves unevenly; Misha runs his fingers up and down it.

Warmth spreads inside him. Not quite a hot sensation yet, but not far off it. In the dim light Ilia's skin is porcelain-like, pale, with patterns of bruises, cuts, and scars, both healing and not so healing. Misha strokes his thumb over a large yellow-purple spot under his ribs.

There's a mark cut into the skin under the waistband of the tights. Right above the navel. Misha scratches his stomach with his nails as he slowly tugs the elastic down. Ilia is clearly dizzy with excitement, judging by the way he swallows loudly and bucks his hips before pressing them back down onto the bed with obvious effort.

Sparks run up his spine. Misha realises he has a clear advantage now — Ilia, having lost control of what's happening, is barely fighting his desire, and his own head has cleared after his orgasm. So he can move more slowly, to torment and tease, lick and touch in ways that make Ilia leak and tremble even more.

His lower abdomen, down to his pelvic bones, is now fully exposed, and he's not particularly eager to move any further just yet. Ilia makes a quiet noise of protest when Misha stops undressing him, but Misha doesn't listen.

"А ведь если бы ты был девочкой, ты бы так и выступал, (And if you were a girl, you'd perform like this,)" he voices his earlier thought. "В платьях, юбках, колготках. С подведенными глазами. И я бы стягивал с тебя такие же колготки после каждого выступления. И потом у меня весь рот был бы в твоей помаде. И она была бы у тебя на щеках и шее. Ты бы мне позволил? (In dresses, skirts, tights. With eyeliner. And I'd pull those same tights off you after each performance. And then my mouth would be covered in your lipstick. And it would be on your cheeks and neck. Would you let me?)"

Now he's looking Ilia in the eye. Yeah. Now he seems to have broken him completely. Because Ilia's mouth is slightly open, his eyes are wide, and his cheeks are burning brightly. His ears too.

"А я бы хотел, (I'd like that,)" Misha continues. He doesn't know what comes over him when Ilia lies beneath him like that. Some kind of demon, no doubt; Ilia reveals previously unknown sides of him: he never thought he'd win the Olympics. "Ты бы дал мне стянуть с тебя платье прямо в коридоре? В раздевалке? Это была бы женская или мужская? А потом тебя бы пришли искать. И я зажал бы тебе рот рукой. (Would you let me pull your dress off right in the hallway? Or in the locker room? Would it be the women's or the men's? And then they'd come looking for you. And I'd cover your mouth with my hand.)"

Normally, this dirty talk straight out of those stupid erotic reels with motorcyclists would've made Misha's face twist and he'd skip it right away. But Ilia likes this — if it weren't for, as he says, dijital futprint, he'd repost it on a whim. Although, judging by his account, he doesn't really care what the people who still follow him for some reason think.

So it's no surprise that his stomach trembles under his hand, and Ilia unconsciously tries to rub himself against it. His palm rests on the elastic of his tights, his fingers mindlessly stroking the mark left by it just above. Misha moves his hand to the side until it rests on his protruding pelvic bone.

Ilia is strong; he can do a lot of things Misha wouldn't dare. His hips are narrow and powerful enough to burst a watermelon and even Misha's head. And when he tenses his abdominal muscles, breathing raggedly, Misha can't stop the want to trace them all with his tongue. Especially the oblique muscle he's currently stroking with his thumb. But it's even more fun when Ilia relaxes a little, and his belly softens. This makes him even more captivating — Misha can do absolutely anything with him. If Ilia were a girl, his lower abdomen would be more convex and slightly sloping — Misha knows this, because he's watched porn in his life — because inside there is an organ that literally creates a person.

If Ilia were a girl, he would have it.

A human being — out of the two of them. And it would have been there, in the stomach, under the waistband of those probably too-fucking-tight tights. While they were skating the free program at these Olympics — because the last time they had sex without a condom was just the night before. They were fucking out by then already.

Ilia is apparently thinking about something similar — if there are any thoughts left in his bright head. Misha leans down to kiss his stomach just below his navel, then catches the edge of his tights with his teeth, digging into the skin just below.

He probably doesn't feel very comfortable, maybe it even hurts — Misha has never worn tights before, and he doesn't know how it feels to be so aroused that you shake while you're wearing them. He should probably try it. Some other time.

Ilia lifts his hips, anticipating release, finally being touched where he wants it most. His stomach tightens beneath Misha’s fingers, and he squirms, trying to help. He seems to have truly forgotten his hands existed. It's a little funny how completely his brain shuts down.

So Misha reminds him of this.

And then — as if he'd been waiting for permission — Ilia buries one hand in Misha's hair, brushing it away from his forehead; with the other, he reaches under his tights and pulls the leg free of Misha's weight toward him. They slide asymmetrically down one side of his butt, down his thigh, until the elastic stops stretching. Then he tries to pull his other thigh toward him, whining when he can't lift Misha along with it.

Misha, however, manages to hook his fingers into the elastic and tug it down. With Ilia, even the simplest actions somehow turn into foreplay and teasing, because he has zero patience when it comes to the real deal. Along with his tights, his underwear slips a little in his haste — and these aren't standard boxers that continue down to his hips, but some kind of chastity belt (so they don't show under his dress, of course): it looks so ridiculous that it makes Misha laugh. Ilia is clearly muttering something under his breath.

He can't be laughed at like this, because he might get upset. And cry. Especially when he wants so badly that he's even put on a dress and tights. After all, he's done a good job (with his tongue) and deserves it. It's time to stop making fun of him.

Misha moves back a little, allowing — and slightly helping — the other leg of the tights to slide down his thigh, and freeing the first one entirely. When Ilia exhales and places his bare heel on his lower back, Misha reaches up, lying on top of him. Letting the hand on the back of his head slide down to his neck.

"Может, этого и достаточно? (Maybe that's enough?)" he says. "Быстро стянуть с одной стороны и даже не заморачиваться с другой. Все же теперь доступно. (Just pull it off quickly on one side and don't even bother with the other. Everything's within reach now.)"

Something resembling shame flickers in Ilia's eyes, but his pupils dilate even more, and he swallows impatiently. Let him endure it; he'd been desperately trying cringe dirty talk since their very first sex. He'd tried so hard that Misha almost kicked him out of the room because it was so incredibly awful. But Ilia would've been offended, so he simply kissed him and then clamped a hand over his mouth.

That's probably where the desire to be controlled comes from. Nineteen-year-old Ilia Malinin's eyes widened back then, but he instantly went quiet and shut up. He probably learned a lot about himself back then, but by now it should all have been ingrained in his mind — hence the corresponding reaction. Twenty-one-year-old Ilia Malinin reaches out to him, bending him over by the neck, and doesn't kiss him — he simply nuzzles his temple and presses his lips to Misha's cheekbone.

Misha uses one hand to pull his underwear down enough to wrap his fingers around his cock.

And now Ilia demonstrates the true range of his throat's capabilities. Because he immediately whines, quietly, pitifully, muffling himself with Misha's cheek. He arches — rather pointlessly, because the weight of the body on him doesn't allow it; he grinds his heel against Misha's thigh, pressing him closer. Misha desperately wants to tease him further, to make him beg and whine; to make him forget even his own name — if he still remembers it.

His hand slides naturally. It's wet — either from the arousal that had been tormenting Ilia all this time, or from the way he'd been sweating in those tights. Who cares, really. The main thing now is for him to throw his head back and tangle his fingers in Misha's hair. For him to whisper something unintelligible in which Misha could barely make out the sounds of his own name.

Almost like jerking off. Almost like when they haven't seen each other for almost two weeks, and Ilia writes about how much he misses him: in Russian, with about ten mistakes in a six-letter word. Like when Ilia sends a voice message in the evening (or morning for him), his voice hoarse from sleep and completely incoherent. Like when Misha, trying not to think about his own pathetic nature, cums while listening to those voice messages for the hundredth time.

The only thing that makes him feel like he's not completely gone is that he's not the only one. Ilia shivers beneath him when Misha wipes the leaking precum off the head, when he strokes his thigh with a wet finger. When he pulls away, Ilia stretches and whines again.

Mindlessly, quietly, eagerly. It's like this almost every time with him — it's as if he's entering some kind of subspace (Misha's read about it!), where he can't think of anything but Misha-Misha-Misha. His half-closed eyes glide over his face, always returning to his lips. The hand on the back of Misha's head moves mechanically up and down, tangling his hair, his fingers tickling the skin of his neck. Misha covers his cock with his palm, spreading the precum, and makes a couple of gentle, slow movements. Ilia breathes hoarsely through parted lips.

While his head is still working a little, Misha forces himself to move away. He rises up onto his elbows, then onto his palms. Ilia whines in protest and pulls him back, pressing his heel into his lower back. But if Misha gives in now, he'll definitely be unable to distract himself later.

"Илюх, (Ilyukh,)" he whispers, resisting the attempts to push him back down. "Илюх. Нам нужна смазка, (Ilyukh. We need lube,)" he stutters. They've understood each other correctly, haven't they? "Нам же... нужна? (We— need it?)"

Ilia doesn't immediately regain consciousness. He has to blink, take a few deep breaths, and then throw his leg off Misha.

"Если ты... (If you— )don't intend to порвать мне жопу. ( tear my ass.)"

"Не очень... хочется, (I don't really want to,)" Misha admits with a chuckle. "Снимешь колготки нормально? (Can you take off your tights fully?)"

He's certainly asking a lot. For Ilia, the connection between the impulses from his brain and the muscles in his arms and legs probably takes at least three working days. Well, Misha himself isn't doing so well: he needs to remember where he put the lube last time.

He finds it in his bag, in the inside pocket, tucked behind a small first aid kit (not in it, because that would only get him so many sideways glances from Alexey Evgenievich). And the condoms, it seems, are genuinely out. Or in another bag. But that's even funny.

Misha knows what answer he'll get if he asks. Ilia always misses him from the very first second after they separate — writing silly messages, usually in English, because it's faster. Sometimes he tries to say something in Kazakh through a translator, always including those rare words he's managed to remember. Misha's heart then sinks, yearning to get back to the airport, so the person on the other side of the screen can be with him as quickly as possible. So he can whisper the answer into his shoulder and lips instead of the phone's speaker. And even now, with a mere couple of meters between them, Misha feels as if every breath of air without Ilia is poisoned by the slowest and most painful venom in the world.

"No condoms," he says, just in case. Sharin is carin. Ilia blinks long and not very consciously; he raised himself on one elbow to look at him.

"You think I give a fuck?"

Amazing. Is there anyone who's surprised?

The two steps to the bed are much easier than the ones away from it.

Ilia immediately wraps both legs around him (his tights, by the way, are still there. but then again, it would've been strange to expect anything else) and his arms. He holds on so tightly that it's clear he won't let Misha go anywhere again. It's a good thing he has no intention of leaving.

The nylon rolls down Ilia's thigh into a ring. It slows down closer to his knee, and then Misha has to hook his fingers under it. It takes about half a minute to persuade Ilia to release his leg and to let Misha undress him. Finally, his other bare heel ends up on his thigh.

Why.

The ridiculous semblance of underwear is also difficult to remove — Ilia only wants to kiss him and hang on to him like a koala, instead of finally undressing properly. Finally, they manage to pull off the last of his clothes. Now they're both naked. Equality.

Misha wants to touch him even more now. To touch Ilia's hips, waist, ass. His back, which arches just for that. To kiss, kiss, kiss. With shameful, wet sounds. With fingers in his hair. Ilia constantly licks the braces on Misha's front teeth; Misha constantly shoves his tongue into his mouth in response.

Gradually, he slides lower, into the circle of legs and arms. His lips trail down Ilia's jaw, his neck. His chest. Ilia breathes heavily and raggedly, throwing his head back; his hair spills across the pillow, his Adam's apple visibly bobbing as he swallows. Misha examines it all greedily.

Opening the tube with one hand is difficult, but after a couple of fruitless attempts, he finally manages to flip the lid and awkwardly squeeze the lubricant into his palm. The tube is half empty. He should buy more, but that'll be back at home — this is their last night here, after all.

It sends a sharp pain through his chest. Phantom, like a broken heart, only sweeter, warmer. Their carefree time together will end, but Misha sees no point in missing and suffering ahead of time — Ilia is right here, beneath him, waiting to be fucked, and indulging in the melancholy that will be plentiful later would be stupid. After all, there's already another one like that here: it's surprising he's not crying from sadness yet. Well, there's plenty of time for that.

Someday they'll be able to spend more than a few days a month together. Misha is eagerly awaiting this moment, dreaming about it. He knows Ilia is too: but until they create a fantasy world where Ilia wins everything and lands a quintuple jump, moving the figure skating world forward, and Misha shows all the kids in his hometown — and his home country — what it's like to be not afraid; or to still be afraid, but to be who you want and do what you dream of, that's all they'll have. Kisses on each other's skin, hugs, late-night texts and calls. Silly TikToks that Misha ignores for days, only to receive angry messages about how little he cares about their flame child. Glances at each other before and after skates.

But it's more than he could ever ask for. More than he could ever want. When Ilia hugs him after victories, after defeats — when he stands on the same podium with him, or when one of them cries in a hotel room — it feels like the most real love in the world. And Misha knows it's love — even if he has nothing else to compare it to besides Ilia. Not the kind of thing they make movies and write books about, maybe, but those Hollywood screenwriters don't understand shit. Misha would spend every hour, minute, and second of their stupid films kissing Ilia and wouldn't regret a thing.

It was never something simple or understandable. It was never easy. Misha doubts they'll ever be able to talk about it honestly without him being banned from about half the countries in the world, including his own, and without being afraid to walk the streets. This is what he can envy — instead of easy jumps and pre-booked top spots (though it's now clear that even a reservation doesn't guarantee them) — the opportunity to be honest.

Although — he had already been thinking about this for about half his life — the most important thing, after all, is to be honest with yourself.

And the most honest thing he can say now is that he wouldn't want anything — or anyone — else.

Ilia shudders and hisses as Misha's cool, lube-slicked fingers touch him — first his crotch, pressing lightly, eliciting a soft, audible sigh — and then moving downward. Ilia invitingly drops one leg onto the sheet, relaxes, and, rubbing the lube with the pads (so it doesn't get too cold and uncomfortable!), Misha pushes one knuckle into him.

It's tight. Of course — it's been a few days since the last time, and they've been making do with just their mouths and hands, but on the last evening, they couldn't help but let loose. Especially since Ilia brought his dress and a half-assed role-playing game. A funny thought immediately pops into his head: if Ilia were a girl, he wouldn't have needed such a long and painstaking preparation. And they wouldn't have needed so much lube. And he wouldn't be so tight.

Adding more lube to his fingers, Misha doesn't hold back:

"Тебе нравится, когда в тебе так мокро? (Do you like it when you're so wet?)" he whispers, leaning over Ilia. His hair, now long, hangs down. They're so identical. "Как будто ты и правда девчонка. И когда начинает скользить свободно, когда уже можно тебя спокойно трахнуть, чувствуешь себя так? Когда в тебе хлюпает, когда переполняет и физически и морально? (It's like you really are a girl. And when it starts sliding freely, when I can fuck you without any problem, is this how it feels? When it's squelching inside you, when it's overflowing both physically and mentally?)"

Ilia doesn't blink. He stares, mesmerised, his eyes glassy again. He licks his lips — his lower lip bleeds. Misha wonders if it was he who bit off the barely healed scab, or if Ilia did it himself?

"Нравится? (Do you like it?)" he repeats. Ilia nods slowly, then disguises the nod as a stretch for his stiff neck. He still doesn't want to admit how strongly he's swayed. He still has the strength for it.

Well, the energy can be spent on something else.

The finger slips almost completely inside, and Misha feels the wet skin against his knuckle — the lube is leaking out, even dripping onto the sheet. Disgusting. He should be ashamed of what the cleaning ladies will think, but with Ilia around, there's no embarrassment at all, as if it all flows into him. In his flushed cheeks and ears, in his downcast gaze. In the way he clenches around even one finger. And Misha thinks of something even more stupid: there's a cloudy white lubricant, specifically designed to look like cum. How would it look on Ilia? Then, perhaps, his brain would completely short-circuit. His brain is already throwing up a multitude of overly indecent images — and, admittedly, he has more than enough memories to keep his imagination running wild.

Ilia's neck is still clean, free of hickeys (and that's happened!), and there are bruises on his ribs and hips from falls (not from falls once— a lot of times!), all the cum has long since been smeared and licked off his face (and there's been— ahem. anyway. Misha now knows how it falls off the skin — in flakes. he hasn't tested it on himself, though). And not just his face — he remembers how Ilia, cursing, tried to wash himself off in the shower in five seconds while his father was knocking on the door. They probably should've set alarms or at least washed up the night before, instead of passing out from exhaustion right after sex. Well, that's happened. At that moment it wasn't at all funny, because in his panic Misha had only one idea for his own salvation: jumping from the third floor into a snowdrift. And outside it was late spring already.

A strangled, raspy sound escapes Ilia as Misha pushes his finger inside him again, this time all the way. He arches his back, pressing closer, closer, closer. Sweat and precum run down his thighs, dripping from Misha's hand. It's all dirty — because he poured too much (he really doesn't need it anymore, where else would he use it?), because it literally leaks out of Ilia if he removes his fingers, because it flows down, down, staining his legs and the sheets. It looks downright dirty and filthy. It's good that Ilia can't see — he's squinting, but even if he weren't, he still wouldn't be watching. Misha knows: Misha was trying to make him watch. Ilia still hasn't broken his record for being that completely red-faced, almost steaming from his ears. Well, that only makes Misha want to invent new reasons for him to be embarrassed even more.

The second finger fits in with difficulty. Slowly, pouring more lube, as if he was actually turning the rusty gears of a machine that should definitely start working and perform exactly seven big jumps over the ice instead of a living human being trembling with anxiety. And now he is fixing this machine — and under his fingers it disintegrates into sighs and groans in different tones, just like his voice in his two languages, and yet it turns out to be that very same human. Trembling, nervously biting his lips, crying.

The first tiny, unnoticeable tear rolls down onto the pillow, and Misha notices it after the fact — when Ilia turns his head slightly, and a wet mark appears on the fabric. Not from saliva, but higher up, where he'd just hidden his face. Once upon a time, Misha would have rushed to him (and he did) and asked what happened, if it hurt, if he felt unwell, if he suddenly felt unhappy. Only after many months and intimacies did he finally accept the fact that Ilia was crying over the very act of caring for him. When he relaxed and let Misha do whatever he wanted with him. When he felt comfortable, safe, and pleasant. When he allowed himself to believe that he could be accepted like this — weak and loved.

And instead of frightening, now his tears even bring a little joy.

It's still hard, of course, to see the person you love cry — how his eyes gradually turn red, how he bites his lip, how tears slowly begin to paint his cheeks in sparkling stripes like glitter. And then he looks even more like a fucking girl — not so much because he's crying (Misha would be genuinely ashamed of the stereotypes if any thoughts hadn't left his head a couple of hours ago), but because he shines. Especially in the moonlight. Although the tears aren't flowing yet. But it's clear they will later.

Ilia, contrary to all of Misha's expectations and all of his own show-offs, is quite quiet in bed. He prefers to moan with a dick in his mouth, vulgarly, openly, brazenly, enjoying what he does with Misha. But when he lies on his back or stomach, when he is hugged, kissed, his hair is stroked, when he is cared for, his voice consists almost entirely of short, ragged breaths, wheezing, whining, and whimpering. Quiet, as if he is ashamed to make more sounds; as if there is no room left in his throat for resounding moans and exhales. As if he truly forgets everything except the need to breathe. And yet Misha always reminds him. Дыши, Илья, дыши. (Breathe, Ilia, breathe.) Not only in sex, of course — on the ice too, when he can't get a proper breath after a jump, whether successful or unsuccessful. And then, when he cries, hiding his face on his shoulder. Breathe. Misha tells himself this as well.

Because it's hard, really. To breathe. When Ilia collapses like this before him, beneath him, on his fingers. Which are pushing completely into him — two of them, still tight, still slow, still laborious, but all the way. Misha bends them slightly, testing how Ilia's hips jerk, as if in a spasm. How his arm flutters up to cover his eyes with the crook of his elbow.

If he had to choose how to die, Misha a few years ago would have said either as quickly and painlessly as possible, because he'd had enough pain in life; or on the skating rink, to die as he lived — beautifully. Now he understands there are far more ways to die beautifully — and suffocating, forgetting how to breathe, watching Ilia Malinin, whom he torments with his fingers, ranks shamefully high on his list. And he's just as shamefully close to it every time — because then breathing truly becomes a far-better-than-average ability.

But what is simple, after so many times with Ilia, is figuring out how to arouse him even more. Finding his prostate the first time has ceased to be a difficult task by the fourth time this skill was required. Because Ilia reacts so vividly, it's impossible to make a mistake, and because, instead of familiar starting and ending position, his fingers seem to settle much more naturally into this, which makes Ilia arch his back and close his eyes, biting his lip even harder. The vampire from his program last year has definitely passed on this curse (or gift) to Misha, because he really wants to lick a drop of blood from his mouth. Lean in again, kiss him, bite him so hard that it flows even more. Perhaps this is no longer normal, but Ilia would definitely enjoy it. Even though now, he would probably only cry harder from the pain.

But Misha doesn't do it. Because it would distract him from the higher-priority task, and he's unlikely to be able to handle several at once right now. He's already so not here — he ends up sliding even lower on the bed to rest his head between Ilia's legs.

First, he finds himself near his stomach again. It's twitching, tense, with ribs and pelvic bones showing through skin around it. Only now, there are drops of lube on it, seemingly everywhere — and along with it, precum is spreading down the sides from his rapid breathing. Such a filthy, dirty stomach. Misha collects these drops with his tongue.

This makes Ilia's body shudder even more, responding, moving closer — more and more drips to the side. The reddened cock brushes Misha's cheek, dripping even more. Misha licks all the filth off it, too.

He sucks on it for only a few seconds — because Ilia arches towards him, whimpering something completely unintelligible, his voice breaking, cracking — and when Misha releases it from his mouth, he hears a disappointed, disgruntled sound, a thrust of his hips toward him, impatient, strong, fast, and he has to lean with his shoulders and chest on top of Ilia's leg to keep him from twitching. And anyway, no cumming yet. Misha isn't finished with him.

Ilia, displeased, removes his hand from his eyes and tries to prop himself up on his elbow, but a nudge from the fingers inside of him knocks him off balance and he falls back down. With a quiet, pitiful whine. It's so pathetic that a blush spreads across his shoulders; his eyes turn even redder.

Two fingers slide quite freely inside him now. One of his legs is thrown over Misha — now over his shoulder — and the other lies on the bed, the inner thigh facing up. It becomes Misha's next victim. Moving his lips down Ilia's stomach, the crook of his thigh, the tense, narrow muscle, he finds himself on soft, relaxed skin; the body beneath his mouth instantly shudders, trying to press closer, to squeeze his head between Ilia's legs, but Misha presses his ankle firmly to the bed with his knee. He licks upwards, simultaneously pushing inside with his fingers in a way he knows will evoke a convulsive intake of breath and the pressure of Ilia's heel under his shoulder blade. Misha sucks right near the crook of Ilia's thigh, biting lightly, and Ilia thrashes, becoming difficult to hold on to. This is where he can definitely leave marks — no one will notice. Unless Ilia starts wearing tights again.

Ilia absolutely loves hickeys, scratches, and bruises. Both giving and receiving. He collects photos of his bitten skin and demands them in return. Misha is a little embarrassed to take photos of them on himself, but creating them on Ilia's skin, watching the mark of his lips fill with color on a pale thigh — that's no longer shameful. It was like that once; but ever since Ilia started pressing his head firmly to his skin and choking on the presence of his own saliva in his mouth, it's become a point of honor not to let him go unharmed. So that later he'll complain about his favorite jeans rubbing, about the bruise ointment running out before the competition, about how it hurts to sit, how it hurts to lie down, how it hurts in general, всегда больно без тебя, Миш, рядом. Приедь, пожалуйста. Ну и что, что мы виделись позавчера. (it always hurts without you, Mish, by my side. Please come. So what if we saw each other the day before yesterday.)

Misha isn't coming to him. He can't, and Ilia understands this perfectly well — he himself is stuck in his America. Until they can choose each other completely, without any asterisks or tiny text under, without footnotes or parenthesised explanations, their reminders of each other remain as dark marks on their thighs and shallow scratches on their shoulders. Thumbprints above their pelvic bones. Misha doesn't complain. Ilia will rest his hand on his thigh for the next few days and think about him. And even then, when the hickey fades, he'll still do it. Write to Misha about how much he misses him.

Let him have more memories to replay in his head when he's sleeping alone in his bed at home. Misha has plenty of those, too. But he wants new ones as well — he kisses Ilia's thigh again and adds more lube to his hand. More, more — it's already all over the place, but it's better to overdo it than to make Ilia uncomfortable or even hurt. On the third finger, he doesn't hear a reaction, but he sees and feels it — the body around him tightens, sharply, strongly, pulling away from him and then immediately shifting towards him. Squeezing the leg on his shoulder with his other hand, he pushes deeper, ignoring the protesting sobs that have finally begun to slip. His fingers go in with difficulty, but they're completely inside; pulling them out, Misha pushes the leaking lube back in, squeezes more onto the pads, and immediately pushes it in too. In the dim light and silence of the empty room, all that can be heard is the squelching and Ilia's ragged breathing. The sheets creaked beneath him as he shifts, trying to push himself further onto Misha's fingers.

Looking up at him, Misha sees two more tears on his cheek. Ilia squints, licks his lips, and his lower lip glistens with saliva and a little blood, unable to stop because of the constant irritation from his teeth. He's clearly not quite here anymore. And the urge to get his completely lost attention only grows stronger. To climb on top of him, throwing off his other leg as well. To grab his chin and pull him towards.

Ilia's eyes widen at him. They're cloudy, light, unfocused. He blinks rapidly, completely unconsciously.

"Миша, (Misha,)" he whispers. "Миша. (Misha.)"

Misha smears his thigh with lube as he presses against it. And his stomach, brushing against Ilia's cock. The main thing is not to fall on him. And his hand is already trembling.

"Миша, (Misha,)" Ilia says again. He reaches out to him, cradling his cheek in his hand. He strokes his cheekbone with his finger. Another small tear trickles down his face. "Миша. По—пожалуйста. (Misha. Pl— please.) Please, Misha, please, kiss m—"

A soft sound drowns out between their lips, and his hand gives way, especially with the realisation that Ilia needs to ask, not kiss him himself. Misha finally collapses on him, crushing him, receiving a muffled groan as Ilia tries to breathe again. His fingers inside are shifting, a little awkward now, and raising himself back up to his knees is a bit of a challenge. Meanwhile, Ilia's trying to rub against him, wrapping his arms and legs around him again. Pulling him even closer, though they're actually as close as they can get.

Except—

He still has to get down on his knees to do this. It's a bit of a challenge when Ilia tries to smear his mouth and chin with his bloody saliva. However, Misha would be lying if he said he didn't like that. After all, it takes to to tango. Or whatever.

The tube barely finds itself between the folds of the sheet, crumpled from them fooling around. Finding it blindly is even more problematic; and Ilia is apparently trying to chew a hole in Misha's lip as well. So that they'll be completely equally gone.

His own dick aches and groans at his touch — completely forgotten in the quest to prepare Ilia. Finally, he pulls his fingers out; Ilia clenches, whines, and even stops kissing him. Where does his pride go in moments like these? Or does he leave it back on the ice?

To avoid breaking anything, Misha has to sit on his heels between Ilia's legs — a plan that nearly fails when Ilia pulls him down by the shoulders with his full weight. But Misha manages to overcome him and throws Ilia's leg over his own thigh to change the angle.

Although, of course, it would be more logical—

"Дай подушку, (Give me a pillow,)" he says to Ilia. Let him at least come to his senses a little. "Подушку. (A pillow.) Pillow," he explains, just in case. "Рядом с тобой. (Next to you.)"

Instead, Ilia takes the pillow out from under his head. His fingers are trembling, and he has to turn slightly to his side to take it. Misha examines the hickey on his thigh. It's small, but it's honest work. Finally, the pillow is in his hands. Fuck. Misha forgot his fingers were covered in lube.

Ilia even helps him — he lifts himself up onto his shoulder blades, then lowers his lower back only a little higher. His leg still ends up on Misha's thigh: it's more comfortable that way.

"Миш, (Mish,)" Ilia says again. As if it's the only word in his head; the only thought. "Миш. Миш. (Mish. Mish.)"

Misha, however, can't think of anything but him anymore. Or not anymore — for a long time. Not just this evening: but since their very first meeting.

At first, it slides in tightly, as if Ilia hadn't just had three fingers inside him. Misha has to stop. Bite his lip, exhale. It would be pathetic to cum right away. To be on the safe side, Misha has to close his eyes and not look at Ilia; but he can't cover his ears, so he can still hear Ilia's heavy, shallow breathing, interspersed with either soft, swallowed moans or sobs.

When Misha finally looks at his face, Ilia closes his eyes tightly, and streaks of tears flow from his eyes onto the pillow on both sides.
Misha's heart sinks. And how the hell could he not ask?

"Тебе не больно? (Does it hurt?)" Ilia quickly shakes his head, keeping his eyes closed. He nudges him in the lower back with his heel, and now it's Misha who feels the pain.

"Нет— нет. (No— no.) Don't stop. П—пожалуйста. (P—please.)"

Misha obeys.

It's hot and tight inside, Ilia is shaking and tensing, crumpling the sheet in his fingers; it's bunched up so much that it's already sliding off half the bed. Who cares — it's still sticky and soaking wet. The mattress is probably the same by now. Fuck. They're clearly going to sleep in another room. Why the fuck is he even thinking about this? Maybe he should get tested for OCD?

Ilia definitely needs to get tested for a lot of things. It's best not to get tested for STDs, though — Misha doesn't want to be upset if they find anything, because then he'll have to be put on the pills too. Even though they've never had sex with anyone but each other, they've long since given up on safe sex. Surely neither of them can get pregnant, after all. Speaking of which.

If Ilia'd been a girl, it wouldn't have been easy to turn a blind eye to. And anyway, despite all his craziness, Ilia wouldn't have dared to do this. Unless he'd taken a dozen different birth control pills and had a cross around his neck. And then went straight to the doctor: otherwise, he'd been shaking with anxiety for a couple of weeks, for sure. Or months.

Although — Misha thinks he's completely lost it — it would be funny. Probably. He's certainly not ready to be a father (and it's for the best that he and Ilia won't be able to have children of their own, even if they really wanted to), but the mere thought of it makes the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. He swallows thick saliva. He thinks about how, if they'd run out of condoms on their last night, like now, and Ilia had been a girl, as infatuated and disconnected from reality as he is now, he could have done anything with her. Not that Misha would — but the thought of it, as he's completely bottomed out in Ilia, makes his head spin.

Finally he's completely inside.

He has to stop again. Exhale. Ilia's brows are drawn together and he's breathing through clenched teeth, his mouth open. It's hard to look at him — because Misha wants to let loose and move, but then he'll definitely cum in a minute. Ilia probably will too, given this scenario — but then he'll be even more upset that it all happened so quickly and rushed.

Although they've been lying here for a long time already.

Misha thinks: what if he put this dress back on Ilia? Or threw it on top, so it would get all dirty and wet with precum that had seeped onto his stomach. How he'd lie there, arms outstretched, with patterns, buttons, folds, and designs all over him. With his hair disheveled and his cheeks flushed, Ilia really would look like he did right after a skate. If the bruises on his thighs and knees weren't hidden by a thick layer of nylon. If Misha put his fingers on these marks, press down, and Ilia would arch, like in a Bauer, squeeze his eyes shut so tightly he'd see the crowd in the stands with their phone flashlights filming him. And then it would be as if he was truly there: he's still on the ice, skating his free program, in darkness; and Misha squeezes Ilia's hips with his fingers and thrusts in again, and Ilia's mouth involuntarily opens, he can barely breathe, all the sounds are being knocked out of him.

What if he really was still wearing clothes? Then his dress could've been simply lifted up, and his waist would still be cinched by the corset, and he would have shyly tried to cover himself with his skirt? What if the cum from his mouth had spilled out in drops onto the fabric, onto his chest, would it have marked him forever? And what if everyone saw him like this?

If Ilia were a girl, they wouldn't have to hide. Not as shamelessly, of course, as he now wildly imagines, but both in life and on the ice, they could hold hands. Smile at each other. Misha would dedicate his gold medal to Ilia. He already dedicates it to him — because it was thanks to him that Misha won it. But he's already thought about it, he decided: the shared podium is more valuable than the matching medals.

And yet.

If Ilia was still wearing a dress, Misha would be tickled by both the skirts and sleeves as he lies on top of him. Misha presses down on him with all his weight, touching him everywhere. Looks at him greedily, taking in every feature in the dim light — long eyelashes, sweaty hair stuck to his forehead, chewed, bloody lips, a fang exposed by his raised upper lip. Blush on his cheeks covers his pale freckles.

"Илюш, (Ilyush,)" Misha says quietly, and Ilia doesn't open his eyes, he reaches out blindly, first poking at the corner of his lips, and then finally finds them.

Ilia tastes slightly metallic. He's completely unconcerned about his poor lips. On the other hand, this really is their last night here. There'll be plenty of time to heal — unless Ilia plans to eat them at home too. There's no point in saving them now: Misha bites him and receives a painful groan, fingers clenched in his hair; he licks the wound. He thrusts, raising and lowering his hips. Ilia lifts his other leg onto his back, locking them at the waist. Now they're as close as they can get; soon they'll melt into each other.

And Ilia presses his face to his own. Cupping his cheek with his palm, and running the fingers of his other hand through Misha's hair. Kissing him, or rather, pressing their lips together. Breathing quickly, shallowly, raggedly, whimpering as Misha pulls him closer by the hip.

And suddenly Ilia pushes him with his hand on the shoulder and his legs, trapping him by the waist. It's a little awkward, a little clumsy, but Misha gives in immediately — they flip over, and now he's on his back on the bed. It turns out Ilia still has some strength left: although, judging by his face, as he sniffles and wipes away tears with his free hand, it's not all that much.

Perhaps this was also to be expected — Ilia, after all, is true to his nature: for the last night here, his performance was apparently so-so. He frees his legs from under Misha and weakly, slowly tries to rise to his knees. He succeeds: the moonlight once again ignites his hair with a dim flame, and ribbons of shadow from the curtains roll down his shoulders.

His face is gleaming with poorly erased tear tracks, blood and saliva are smeared across his chin, his hair is sticking out in all directions, wet with sweat, but now, when he is sitting on Misha's lap again, only now completely naked, taking his cock inside fully, Misha thinks Ilia is the most beautiful person in the world.

Perhaps this is what love — or critical levels of delusion — feels like. And, ultimately, it's all his — and only he's allowed to see it.

Misha's hands find their balance on Ilia's pelvic bones, and the precum from Ilia's stomach drips down onto his cock, which sways under its own weight. He rests his palms on Misha's sides.

"Я думал, ты щас уснешь, (I thought you were going to fall asleep,)" Misha finally manages to say. Ilia, he's sure, would've looked deeply offended if all the emotion hadn't been fucked out of his face a few minutes earlier.

"No? Okay, I— неправда, (that's not true,)" he pouts. This expression takes up no more than half of what it would usually look like. "Никаких уснуть. Ты завтра— (No sleep. Tomorrow—) you'll be gone."

Now his face truly does look really upset. His lips tremble, he looks away, his eyes sparkle again. Misha, without thinking, sits up in bed.

"Но сейчас-то я здесь, (But now I'm here,)" he says, lifting Ilia's hand to his chest. "Вот я. С тобой. И ты правда очень, очень устал, ведь так? (Here I am. With you. And you really are very, very tired, aren't you?)" Ilia nods uncertainly. "И потом ляжем спать. (And then we'll go to bed.)"

Ilia looks like he's about to voice what they both think: sleeping even next to each other is a waste of time. They could be cuddling awake, talking, sharing news and thoughts, kissing, even. Too much of their shared time is already taken by skates and practices, interviews and so on, so on, so on. There's so little time together already, how else would they waste it like that?

And then Ilia falls from his most familiar jumps, and then he passes out in Misha's arms, and then Misha himself doesn't remember how he even fell asleep that night. And he really, really wants to look into Ilia's eyes for as long as possible, hold his hands, and talk about the most meaningless things in the world — but he's never felt safer or happier than when he falls asleep, feeling his loved one hug him from behind like a big spoon. And when he dreams of nothing; and the lips pressed to the back of his neck feel warm and calming.

And Misha would like to explain this to Ilia. That the moments between them don't become less precious if they don't share them while awake. That they can fall asleep in each other's arms and sleep for ten or twenty hours (a luxury no one will grant them), and they won't waste that time at all.

Ilia has to, absolutely has to, go to sleep tonight — even if it's by force, even if he struggles and kicks, but he'd get at least a little sleep. So that later, tomorrow, the day after, and beyond — he'd also pass out during their midnight calls (for Misha, it would be mid-day at that time). And Misha would listen to his breathing while stretching on the treadmill.

And now Ilia is clinging to him, his face pleading, like the hamster in the famous image. He rests their forehead together, his other arm wrapped around Misha's shoulders — his palm still resting on Misha's heart.

"Хорошо, (Okay,)" he says. "Да. С тобой — да. (Yes. If it's with you, then— yeah.)"

Misha kisses his cheekbone; Ilia rises to his knees just a little, then lowers himself back down.

He doesn't usually do this. Ilia usually takes the riding position at the very beginning of the evening, and then he runs out of steam. He stops trying and lets Misha do whatever he wants to him. But now it's the opposite — though who knows how he's still able to stay on his feet.

But this time it's even more intense. Misha's vision darkens as Ilia, breathing on his cheek, moves unsteadily, jerkily, and sometimes abruptly. His cock, in this position, rubs between their stomachs; this makes Ilia whine slightly and silence himself with a kiss on the corner of his lips.

Misha wraps both arms around his waist, pulling him closer, helping him. The remnants of lube and precum on Ilia's stomach help them rub against each other.

Their first time — or rather, their first attempt — never got anywhere. Ilia, always the first to go, always smiling, laughing, and active, suddenly deflated, faded, and burst into tears. It was the first time Misha had seen him cry — they were still fully clothed, but they'd kissed long and wetly while lying down. Ilia wiped away his tears aggressively, as if trying to force them back into his eyes. He kept saying сейчас, сейчас, сейчас; (sorry, sorry, sorry,) and then he turned away and curled up. Misha was quite frightened. A couple of hours later, burying his face in Misha's shoulder, Ilia haltingly explained that he'd gotten so swayed by the affection. Because his body realised faster than his brain that he felt safe, warm, and calm with Misha. And Misha, to be honest, felt it too.

That's how it's been to this day. Ilia's tears are now a habit; Misha himself rarely cries — mostly he buries his face in the crook of Ilia's shoulder and breathes deeply, filling his lungs with his familiar scent. Now he can't do that, because Ilia nuzzles his cheek, sliding his lips over it, no doubt smearing his blood there too. Misha doesn't mind — he's content with any mark on himself.

Ilia's legs are failing him. He moves slowly, jerkily, clearly with great effort. It's hard to coax the body to move when it's not at training, and after the Games, it would never want to so it again. Especially when they are next to each other; only when they're racing each other on the same rink. And now Misha only wants him, only Ilia — but while he's sitting on him, he can't move; and he simply strokes Ilia's sides with his hands. Small bruises from the ice and the rims. Abrasions, scratches, acne scars. With this embrace, he presses Ilia closer, helping him rise and fall again and again.

But still, it's slow, so slow — Ilia finally exhales, kisses his cheekbone, and pulls away, looking with his bright eyes; Misha seems to have memorised every shade, line, and speck, and could draw them from memory if he knew how to select colors like that. Ilia as a whole, other than in his memories, is difficult to capture anywhere.

"Will you laugh at me," Ilia breathes almost into his lips, "if I say I'm tired of moving today?"

Misha doesn't really feel like laughing. Not in the mood.

"Ляжешь? (Will you lie down?)"

"That's stupid," Ilia continues. "Dunno why I even tried."

"Чтобы удивить меня? (To surprise me?)"

His voice is hoarse, barely able to utter familiar words; Ilia's eyes sparkle with incomprehension — he frowns.

"Получилось? (Did I?)"

"Ты всегда меня удивляешь, (You always do,)" says Misha, and it's true.

From the very first day. Even now. And probably in the future too. You can expect a lot from Ilia, but more often than not, those expectations aren't met, or met in a completely different way. For his last birthday, Misha was given an "I Love Ilia Malinin" t-shirt, which he wore to bed for the entire week afterward (where else could he wear it, actually). Incidentally, he still has it with him. Like his talisman. He even considered giving Ilia a matching one for fun at one point, but then a picture immediately popped into his head of Ilia wearing it at home, and then — cut to — his father ripping Misha's head off at the very next competition. That's not the most unlikely scenario even without any t-shirt.

The dress on the floor also adds to his collection of surprises. It isn't how he'd imagined this day, but with Ilia, every one of his antics had to be taken as "yes, and." Accept it and build on it. Yes, you put on a dress, and: now we're obviously going to fuck. It doesn't matter what happened at the first point; the important thing is that they'll end up in the second.

Ilia climbs off him. His legs are really shaking, and Misha feels a little sorry for him. And for himself, too, to be honest — after that many days together, he really doesn't want to think about home, where he'll fall asleep alone and wake up alone. It's no wonder Ilia is so upset: Misha himself would like to stay up all night. He would, if he weren't already feeling a little shaky.

"Как..? (How..?)"

"Как тебе удобно. (As you wish.)"

Ilia falls on his stomach, right onto the pillow. This time he pulls the other one towards him and hugs it, resting his head on it.

His back is strong. His shoulders, too, as he straightens and stretches them — tired muscles tensing beneath the skin. Ilia, after all, can lift him without a problem, too: and has, many times. And those shoulders of his, all covered in pale freckles, makes Misha want to kiss them endlessly. Scars from cuts and pimples, a few more bruises. Misha wants to leave a matching hickey on the back of Ilia's neck, under the hair that's spread out just so comfortably, exposing his neck bone. Further down his back, his shoulder blades jut out slightly as Ilia rises up on his elbows and moves himself further along the bed. His lower back, arching against the pillow, is also scattered with freckles and a few moles. Misha traces them with his fingers.

Ilia hides his face. He hugs the pillow underneath his head, shifting back slightly to arch his back even further. Misha clings to his hips, positioning himself right behind him.

Ilia's favorite position when he's too tired to give his best. He can barely rise up on his knees when the speed, touch, and thrusting aren't enough and he helps then; he can hide his whines in the pillow and drool into it, and cry. Misha looks at the mess around his head, the crumpled sheet, the chewed pillow. The second one is completely under Ilia and there's no point in counting on its survival. Yeah. The main thing is to remember to throw it all in the laundry in the morning before Alexey Evgenievich gets to knock. And set the alarm. And move to sleep in Ilia's room. And manage to escape before his father comes knocking in the morning. And then somehow look him in the eyes. And look everyone, for that matter — with that hickey on his neck.

Misha, of course, should wonder if anyone has a clue. Although, in reality, he probably doesn't give a damn what anyone thinks about them. No one's going to notice them in the same room, and if they hug longer than usual and talk about each other a lot, is that really a crime? Is that inappropriate for friends? Speaking of inappropriate: his dress. It would be a miracle if no one noticed Misha's greedy glance.

He grips Ilia's waist and pulls him back. He thrusts all the way in again — and his legs give out, he nearly falls onto Ilia again. He only holds on by leaning fully on him; and Ilia, quietly howling into the pillow, arches up to meet him. His spine cuts an indentation into his lower back. Ilia folds his hands under the pillow and rests his forehead on them. Misha hopes he won't suffocate there or drown in tears: because he can hear his sobs.

At moments like these, it naturally occurs to him that no one has ever seen Ilia like this. The bright, proud Ilia, who slices through half the rink with his skates in a single jump. Who's showing off, knowing he's handsome — knowing that his TikTok fy page will be flooded with edits of him. Who's deliberately playing to the crowd. Many know he's completely different off the ice, but behind closed doors, the pure, kind, and slightly awkward Ilia, always ready to help, offer advice, teach, and joke without malice, transforms into a tear-stained, insecure little human being desperately in need of affection. He clings to Misha as if he can't breathe without him, calls and texts him — with typos, with misspeaks, trying to choose his words carefully, but ultimately still slipping into a rather incoherent mixture of English and Russian. Sometimes it was as if he was speaking in a language he'd made up himself — because Misha's English wasn't strong enough to understand him. Although, over time, he became quite good at translating everything Ilia was trying to tell him.

No one had ever heard him like this. Like he draws his shoulder blades together, tensing his shoulders, arching even further, lifting his pelvis off the pillow, stretching and stretching. Misha wants to capture this image forever. Not in a photograph, but in his memory — the way his hair falls from his neck, red with embarrassment, the way he turns slightly to the side to get at least a little air. The way he breathes loudly through his teeth. He's probably had never felt so fucked, physically and mentally, at any of his performances — not even the very last one. The one they never talked about again.

Ilia doesn't want to. Misha wouldn't be offended if they stopped talking completely for a few days, if Ilia locked himself in his room and cried all that time. That's what he did, actually, but Misha was allowed to be there at that moment: he seized the opportunity, even though Ilia tried every five minutes to persuade him to leave and celebrate. Misha had no reason to celebrate without him. Because just like this — without him — he will have to be at his home for weeks to come.

And the last couple of days, Ilia seemed like a different person — he was smiling, laughing, jumping and hopping around, as if everything was truly fine. Misha wanted to tell him, "хоть со мной не притворяйся, дурья твоя башка. (don't even pretend with me, you dumbass.)" But he didn't say it: everyone experiences trauma differently.

But now, when Ilia cries, when the pillow beneath him darkens, though it's hardly noticeable in the dim light, when stifled sobs escape him alongside his muffled groans, Misha promises himself: enough of the silence. Ilia will never open his mouth about his pain unless it's completely unbearable. He will cry and suffer, but he will bite his tongue, because who will tolerate him as a sufferer?

And Misha, too, won't tolerate him — I mean, what's the point of "tolerating" him? How can you tolerate someone you love?

He reaches out and claps Ilia on the shoulder. At the half-questioning look in his swollen, red eyes, he tugs at Ilia's hand. Ilia obediently releases it. Then the other one — and then he falls face-first into the pillow, his shoulders hunched inward: Misha pulls both his hands behind his back and pins his crossed wrists to his lower back. Ilia, his red cheek pressed into the pillow, wet with his tears, squeaks something completely unintelligible. Let him be: Misha knows he has enough air to breathe.

He leans on Ilia's arms. His wrists. His back. Ilia is pressed hard into the mattress, his shoulders shaking from the strain. Misha moves his hips hard, and the body beneath him slides forward, dragging Ilia's cheek along the pillow. A little drool flows from his mouth. He doesn't lick it off.

He's so small, Misha thinks. The age difference between them is negligible, and their heights are almost the same, down to the millimetre; he doesn't mean in that sense at all. No one, it seems, taught Ilia — or either they taught him poorly, or he himself has forgotten how — that it's okay to give up. That it's okay to lose. That it's okay to be weak, a little flawed, not always perfect. That you don't always have to try hard for the cameras, that even though the press will chew your every emotion over and over again, even though your every word will be blown out of proportion, even though they'll profit off your pain — fuck them all, really, all these people. Misha can't call himself an expert, of course — it's very difficult for him to handle all of this too — but he wants to shake Ilia by the shoulders and say: то, что ты проиграл, не делает тебя никудышным. Не обесценивает твои победы. Не перечеркивает их. То, что я выиграл — это результат долгого упорного труда, но ты не старался меньше. Просто так получилось. А еще на улице в это время шел дождь. Но его капли ведь не смывают с окон солнечные зайчики? (losing doesn't make you worthless. It doesn't devalue your victories. It doesn't negate them. What I won is the result of long, hard work, but you didn't try any less. It just happened that way. And it was raining outside at the time. But rain drops don't wash away the sunbeams from the windows, do they?)

He wants to — and so he speaks. He falls on top of Ilia, covering him with his warmth. Still squeezing his hands. He says all this into Ilia's reddened ear, into his tangled hair, into the barely noticeable freckles on his cheek. Into his half-closed eyelids. His stuck-together eyelashes. Tears don't wash away a smile — you can smile through the tears, and despite them, both before crying and after: and Ilia smiles with the corners of his lips, and then his face twists again and he sobs, turning his head back even harder — it seems like he'll break his neck. He tries with all his might to pull back, to press harder, more, more, more—

"Ты все равно молодец, (You still did good,)"^{)[note] ([everywhere with “you did good” misha uses the word “molodets” which is a informal praise, something like “attaboy!”])} says Misha. "И я молодец. Мы можем быть молодцами вместе. И знаешь, хоть ты и не девчонка, у нас все равно парные медали. Хочешь, поменяемся ими? Никто и не заметит. А если заметят — ну, вдруг у них дальтонизм? А вообще, все равно. Хочешь? Я повешу эту медаль у себя на стенке и буду и о тебе думать. Надевать ее, когда по тебе скучаю. Или нет. Я все равно думаю о тебе, даже если не было б у меня никакой медали. И ты ведь тоже обо мне думаешь? Ты все равно чемпион, Илюх. Ну, не повезло так. Может, в следующий раз повезет. Зато эта медаль теперь и у меня есть, а я ведь о ней и не мечтал. И она твоя, эта медаль. Не потому что я не заслужил, а потому что весь я твой, Илюх. И медаль эта тоже. (And I did good too. We can be best together. And you know, even though you're not a girl, we still have matching medals. Want to swap them? No one will even notice. And if they do notice — what if they're colorblind? Anyway, it doesn't matter. Do you want to? I'll hang this medal on my wall and think of you then. Wear it when I miss you. Or not. I'd still think of you, even if I didn't have a medal. And you think of me too, right? You're still a champion, Ilyukh. Bad luck. Maybe next time. But now I have this medal too, and I never even dreamed of it. And it's yours, this medal. Not because I didn't deserve it, but because I'm all yours, Ilia. And this medal is yours too.)"

All of this is probably very stupid and sappy, all the things they say in those movies he and Ilia never watched. Misha gives him back this lost experience. And Ilia cries and cries and cries — and Misha himself feels his eyes sting. His heart clenches. He presses harder on Ilia's hands and kisses his neck bone under his hair.

There's so much he wants to do. So much he wants to replay. But he'd repeat that evening in its entirety, because if there are things more important than Ilia's smile, it's the children of his country. As long as they look at him, Misha will move forward. And then they will grow up, these children. And if the scales tip this fragile balance in milli-micro-nano — whatever comes next, Misha doesn't remember, he stopped learning math a long time ago — units of measurement, then so be it. If one day, seeing Ilia, he decides it's worth it — all of his dreams — then Misha will follow him.

And this — he knows for sure — will happen one day. Because Ilia will wait until Misha catches up with him. He will offer him his hand. And they will walk on together.

Silly, silly thoughts. But what can he do if his entire life is hidden in a small piece of gold-silver alloy and the smile of the person next to him? It's ironic, of course, that his medal is made almost entirely of metal from the place he never thought he could outrun. As long as Ilia lives, as long as he skates. Misha never thought he could outskate him. Ilia shudders when he licks his neck just below his hairline, and he lets out a hoarse, barely audible groan.

"И я тебя люблю, (And I love you,)" Misha says into his skin. "Очень люблю. Не знал, что так можно вообще любить. Это глупо, наверное... Я же в фигурку шел, потому что был влюблен в катание. И я до сих пор, конечно... Но не думал, что ему придется делить меня с тобой, (I love you so much. I didn't know it was possible to love like this. It's probably stupid— I went into figure skating because I was in love with it. And I still am, of course— But I didn't think it'd have to share me with you,)" he laughs. "у и тебя тоже. Хорошо, что ты не ревнуешь. (The same for you, though. It's good that you're not jealous.)"

Ilia wheezes something unintelligible, and when Misha stops pressing his face into the pillow, the words can finally be heard:

"I am."

Misha lets out another laugh. And his chest feels so, so light — he could start crying just from that.

"И вот на это ты хочешь ответить? (And this is what needs an answer?)"

Ilia's brows furrow. His upper lip curves as if he wants to smile, but his face refuses to obey.

"Миша, (Misha,)" he wheezes. "Миш-Миш-Миш-Миш— (Mish-Mish-Mish-Mish—)"

"Меня так зовут, да. (That's my name, yes.)"

Ilia shakes his head. He closes his eyes. And when Misha pushes into him again, again, again— Misha himself feels that he's getting close; that it's becoming difficult to breathe — a cry bursts out of him:

"Please— пожалуйста-пожал-пожалуйст- (please-ple-pleas-)please-please-please—"

He seems completely unable to shut himself up. He continues babbling his plea, squeezing his eyes shut, teeth gnawing at his wretched lip again. Misha wonders: if he was a girl, would he beg like this? Would he tremble? Would Misha press him into the bed, or would that be too much? Would he squeeze his hands like that?

Would Ilia have had any shred of pride left, or would he have surrendered to him completely anyway?

Misha leans his free hand on the bed. He rises slightly — and Ilia, as if glued to him with his whole body, rises with him. Trembling with the effort, he rises up on his shoulders and knees: he has to support Misha on himself. He is strong, after all. Even now.

Misha is not going to let go of his hands.

"Молодец ты, (You did good,)" he says. "Заберешь следующую? Через четыре года? Чтобы мы могли потом сказать: смотрите, какие мы? Повесим к себе на стенку их. Мы же тогда уже будем жить вместе? Да? Хочешь? (Will you take the next one? In four years? So that we can say later: look at us! We'll hang them on our wall. We'll be living together then, right? Right? Do you want that?)"

Ilia falls onto the bed only to tear himself away from it a moment later with obvious difficulty — and he clenches so, so hard that Misha even thinks he's cumming: but no, he just moans dully, turning his face back into the pillow.

"А если бы ты был девчонкой... (And if you were a girl—)" a completely stupid thought occurs to him. Slamming Ilia back onto the bed and pulling him toward him by the wrists, he whispers, "наши дети бы выиграли Олимпиаду? Все чемпионаты мира. Представь? (our kids would win the Olympics? All the world championships, maybe, too. Imagine?)"

Ilia shudders. Big time. This, by the way, is truly better than any of the dirty talk reels he sends him. But Misha likes it primarily because of such a vivid reaction. Now he lowers himself onto Ilia, kisses him between the shoulder blades, bending slightly. Ilia's hands convulsively try to break free from his grip.

"И у них были бы твои глаза, (And they would have your eyes,)" he continues. "Голубые, ясные, такие красивые— (Blue, clear, so beautiful—)"

Ilia twitches and turns his cheek toward him again. This time, Misha even catches his gaze — dilated pupils, red capillaries.

"Твои, (Your,)" he interrupts, and his Russian voice sounds so hoarse and unfamiliar that Misha loses his rhythm. "Твои глаза. (Your eyes.)"

Misha kisses him. He reaches the corner of his lips. Ilia doesn't even reach out, doesn't move in response, his face contorts into a grimace from the thrusts. Misha licks his saliva and kisses his already tense jaw.

And then he rises to his knees, then Ilia rises to his knees too — not because he has any strength left, but because he's being pulled up by his hips and his hands crossed on his lower back. His head remains on the pillow; he can't lift it, only wheezing and whining. He coughs, forgetting to breathe because of his stuffy nose.

"Кончишь так? (Will you cum like this?)" Misha asks, knowing he can't — otherwise it would have happened already. "Только от моего члена? (Just from my dick?)" Ilia shakes his head weakly.

"Please," he says quietly, but still doesn't open his eyes.

And Misha gets an idea. Perhaps brilliant, perhaps cruel — but he wants to hear those words from him so, so much. Even if Ilia doesn't believe them.

"Скажи, (Tell me,)" he says, and then pulls Ilia harder. It doesn't take long, but he manages to lift him off the bed. He grabs Ilia's hands, hard — until their bodies collide, and Ilia's long, curly hair tickles his shoulder. "Скажи, что ты молодец. Даже если не выиграл. Скажи. (Tell me you did well. Even if you didn't win. Tell me.)"

"Миш, (Mish,)" Ilia says plaintively. This is truly cruel. It'll be a miracle if he understands a word, let alone pronounces it—

Ilia, in his normal state, would hardly have agreed to say this. He would have turned it into a joke, changed the subject, distracted him. But now he has no choice.

"Давай, Илюш. Скажи. Вот я говорю, что я молодец. И ты говори. Что ты молодец. (Come on, Ilyusha. Tell me. I'm telling you that I did good. And you tell me back. That you did too.)" This phrase got stuck in his head already. "Как там у вас? (How do you say it?) Well done? Good boy?"

Good boy sounds like something out of porn, and it has a very direct effect on Ilia — he squints and licks his lips, throwing his head back onto Misha's shoulder.

Misha holds him tightly by the waist — otherwise Ilia's legs will surely give way. This position makes it easier to push into him.

"I'm a good boy?" Ilia says in a in heavily accented English. "Это? Все? (That's it? That's enough?)"

And he smiles. Just a little, at the corners of his lips. As much as he can; and Misha just wants Ilia to say it out loud before he comes.

"Нет, (No,)" he says into his neck. "Давай еще раз. Я молодец. (Let's do it again. I did good.)"

"Ты молодец. (You did good.) I—I'm not deny— denying that."

Misha strokes his hair.

"Я знаю, что ты можешь, (I know you can do it,)" he says. His lips move up Ilia's neck, up, up, finally touching the skin behind his ear. The stomach beneath his hand trembles rapidly from his fast breathing. Misha wonders: if there weren't so many tense muscles there, could he feel his cock through the skin? "Давай. А то я могу долго. (Go ahead. Otherwise, I could go on for a long time.)"

He's lying. He has very little strength left: but Ilia doesn't need to know that. Let him try.

"It’s—" he squeezes out, "it's cruel. You're— no. Please."

His voice trembles. It trembles violently, in fact— his nose is sniffling again, as if Ilia has a runny nose.

"Ты же на интервью своих говоришь, какой ты крутой, классный, красивый и все подряд, (You always tell at your interviews how you're cool, awesome, handsome, and all that,)" Misha whispers. His own voice almost cracks. It's so hot inside Ilia, so good, that his toes curl. "Так скажи сейчас. Только серьезно. Ты же умеешь серьезно? Когда надо. Вот так и скажи. (So tell me it now. But seriously. You can be serious, right? When you have to. Just say it.)"

Ilia's throat tightens with every sound. Misha knows— because he's kissing the back of his neck, just below his ear, where Ilia's pulse beats madly against his lips.

"Я... (I—)" he begins, "я... (I—)"

Misha's forehead, pressed against his cheekbone, is stung by his tears. Ilia sucks in a breath and sobs. The hand on his stomach slowly crawls down, over the tensing muscles, lower and lower. It settles just below his navel, almost touching the base of his cock. Ilia shudders violently and turns to face him, nuzzling his hair.

"Я не могу, (I can't,)" he says in a broken voice. "Don't push me— please. Миша. Я не могу. (Misha. I can't.)"

"Можешь, (You can,)" Misha answers confidently. Of course he can. There's so much he can do, this Ilia — and he still doesn't believe in himself. Misha raises his head, resting his forehead against Ilia's temple. "Давай. Попробуй. С первого раза всегда не выходит. Помнишь, как долго у тебя не получалсся твой аксель? (Go on. Try it. It never works the first time. Remember how long it took you to get your axel?)"

He almost hears Ilia answering, "и до сих пор не получается (And I still can't do it.)" He almost sees Ilia jumping it — and barely managing to complete a one and a half rotations. He almost sees Ilia falling: and in response, he only hugs him tighter. Misha finally lets go of his arms on the back, hugging him across the chest — to make sure he doesn't go anywhere. Doesn't fall anywhere.

"Миш, (Mish,)" Ilia breathes out, as if it's the only word he can utter. "Миш, я... (Mish, I—)"

"У тебя получится, (You can do it,)" says Misha. And finally closes his eyes. He squeezes Ilia tightly and stops, remaining inside him. He brushes a strand of hair from his temple with his nose. The words begin to flow from him in a stream. "Как бы я сейчас победил, если бы после каждого проигрыша сдавался так? Где бы я сейчас был? Я столько раз в этой жизни позорился, если бы я это все помнил, то сошел бы с ума. Я вышел туда, зная, что не выиграю, и катался я для себя. А ты когда последний раз так? Для себя делал? Не для федерации, не для родителей, не ради ожиданий и не ради меня. А ради себя, Илюш. (How would I win now if I gave up like this after every loss? Where would I be now? I've embarrassed myself so many times in this life, I'd go crazy if I remembered them all. I went out there knowing I wouldn't win, and I skated for myself. And when was the last time you did that? For yourself? Not for the Federation, not for your parents, not for the expectations, and not for me. But for yourself, Ilia.)" He taps Ilia's cheek with the tip of his nose, still squinting. "И ты сможешь. А знаешь, почему? Да потому что ты сильный человек, Илья. Самый сильный из всех, кого я знаю. Но когда ты ломаешься, тебе падать, падать, падать так далеко, что тебе стыдно, что ты так падаешь — и ты не хочешь, чтобы тебя кто-то ловил. А если ты не можешь встать, то я подам тебе руку. Хочешь, звони мне, когда будешь кататься, хочешь, (And you can do it. And you know why? Because you're a strong person, Ilia. The strongest of anyone I know. But when you break, you fall, you fall, you fall so far that you're ashamed that you can fall like that — and you don't want anyone to catch you. And if you can't get up, I'll give you a hand. If you want, call me when you're skating, if you want—)" he swallows, freezes, but still says, "я приеду к тебе. Или куда-нибудь приеду, куда хочешь, давай мы будем кататься вместе. Если не можешь встать, если ты разучился, то я помогу тебе. Если ты мне позволишь. И я горжусь тобой, знаешь? Как ты мне тогда сказал, и я тебе сейчас отвечаю. Я горжусь тобой. Очень сильно. И ты дурак совсем, если честно. С этой твоей юбкой. Но я совершенно не удивлен. (I'll come to you. Or I'll come somewhere, wherever you want, let's skate together. If you can't get up, if you've forgotten how, then I'll help you. If you let me. And I'm proud of you, you know? Like you told me back then, and I'm telling you now. I'm proud of you. Very proud. And you're a complete idiot, to be honest. With that dress of yours. But I'm not surprised, really.)"

He's running out of breath by the end of his frantic speech, his words running out, even the most understandable and simple ones. He wants to hug Ilia even tighter, to bury him in his chest, close to his heart, so that no one will touch him there and so that Misha will love him. He doesn't open his eyes, just breathes into the sweaty hair above his temple and feels the tears on Ilia's cheeks with his lips.

And Ilia laughs.

Suddenly, quietly, but with all his heart and without choking on tears. He laughs, briefly, weakly, but he laughs. And Misha opens his eyes — Ilia has long eyelashes and the brightest irises in the world. Even in the dark: or maybe Misha just remembers them so well.

"It was worth it," Ilia says in a weak voice. "The dress. Alysa said I'm fucked up in the head but— it was worth it."

He falls silent. And Misha nudges his cheek with his nose again. He kisses him gently, running his lips over every millimetre of Ilia's skin. Until he kisses away all the tears from his face.

"Ты дурак, (You're an idiot,)" Misha tells him. "И почему я тебя такого люблю? (And why do I love you like this?)"

The next thrust is difficult. Ilia gasps, clearly not expecting it, and his hands fly to his own stomach, clutching Misha's fingers. It hurts. But Misha doesn't move, even though they're pulling him down hard.

"I said—" Ilia whispers. He turns away and rests his far cheek on Misha's shoulder. "Блять. (Fuck.) I said I was— proud of you— because I really was. Am. Proud of you. You deserve it. And— and me—"

"You deserve yours as well," Misha replies, gathering all the bits of English that remained in his head in the small tangle of completely distorted thoughts. "Командную. Ты олимпийский чемпион, Илья. Самый настоящий. (Team medal. You're an Olympic champion, Ilia. A real one.)"

He lowers his palm. Ilia grabs it with a death grip; Misha finally wraps his fingers around his cock. He continues:

"И будешь еще. Слышишь? Всегда будет еще один шанс. Ну а даже если не будет... Я— никто не будет любить тебя меньше оттого, что ты не прыгнул свой аксель. Не прыгнул и не прыгнул. Ты же сам знаешь, что можешь. А то что ты упал… Ну, все мы падаем, разве не так? Это просто делает тебя человеком. И ты человек, Илья. (And you will be a champion again. Do you hear me? There will always be another chance. And even if there isn't— I— no one will love you less because you didn't jump your axel. You did, or you didn't, what matters is you know you can. Everyone knows you can. And the fact that you fell— Well, we all fall, don't we? It just makes us human. And you are human, Ilia.)"

He moves his hand upward, and the body beneath his hands trembles. Ilia swallows loudly, hard, pressing his back even closer.

"И все люди совершают ошибки, (And all people make mistakes,)" Misha finishes into his shoulder.

Ilia shudders. He arches into Misha's hand, and Misha closes the distance between their bodies with a movement of his hips. The air is knocked out of Ilia's chest; his legs, resting on Misha's, tremble.

"Я человек, (I'm human,)" Ilia repeats, still turning away. It's quiet, muffled, but Misha, as always, hears him.

At least something.

His lower abdomen burns as he slams into Ilia again. And again. He's already on the edge — the muscles on his knees tighten so hard it feels like he might actually fall — and take Ilia with him: Ilia's long since been unable to stand on his own. Misha covers his cock with his palm, squeezes the head with his fingers, moves his hand up and down, and with his other hand pulls Ilia closer. His vision darkens, and now he, too, sees stars — low, bright, like in the village he visited as a child, or like in Ilia's eyes on the shore of Boston Harbor a year ago, when they were walking there late one evening (having escaped from Alexey Evgenievich and Ilia's father) and eating ice cream. After the free skate, of course — and Misha's heart was terribly warmed by the fact that he and Ilia were the best in the world back then.

And now they both have Olympic medals — and an elephant in the room.

And he desperately wants Ilia to finally tell him, to tell him, to believe that nothing is wrong with him, that he's not broken and he still did good. That he's someone to be proud of. That one under-rotated axel doesn't outweigh all the well-landed ones. That even if he fell on every single one of his jumps, Misha would still love him, would still be proud of him. Can love even depend on victories and defeats?

And Ilia turns to him. His eyes are open, and he looks at him in a way that makes Misha want to bend his leg and offer himself up as a sacrifice. He wants to jump a million quads. If only Ilia would look at him as if those stars there on the embankment were shining in Misha's eyes instead.

"Я тебя люблю, (I love you,)" he says. He always says it in Russian — and can never remember it in Kazakh, especially on the edge of consciousness. "И если... и если (And if— and if )I really do get to keep you all to myself, then—" he licks his lips and smiles; his cock twitches in Misha's hand, and his smile trembles too. "If I managed to get you to fall in love with me— then I guess I really am proud. Of me. Yeah."

Misha looks into his eyes — and squeezes his hand. So much so that Ilia inhales sharply and loudly, freezes, and his fingers on Misha's pull up, up, so that he can grasp the head of his cock, so that he can run his thumb over it, so that— so that— so—

The sounds from his lips form Misha's name when he cums, when Misha feels the metallic taste in the corner of his mouth again. When Ilia contracts so hard that holding back is pointless. And following the hot drops on his fingers, on Ilia's stomach, which he smears dirtily, now holding onto him, Misha feels his stomach and legs tighten; he freezes, paralysed by this spasm, and can only cling to Ilia with both hands. He breathes through his open mouth into Ilia's neck as orgasm overtakes him.

The world truly ceases to exist. For a moment, he seems to see those stars again — or are they the flashes of the crowd at the skating rink? And he stands, watching Ilia bow, and he's beautiful, so beautiful—

He is brought to his senses by a sharp pain in his shoulder as he falls on top of Ilia — their legs have failed them both.

It takes a while to roll off him, and it takes a while to even grasp his position in space. His arms feel weak when he tries to support himself, his stomach is all wet and dirty from Ilia's lower back, which is stained with his cum, and his ass too — and a thought, so inappropriately vivid, creeps into his head that if Ilia were a girl, he would definitely have made him pregnant right now. If they weren't fucking in the ass, of course, but like normal people. But as it is, they have no other choice.

When he finally looks up at the ceiling, it stares back at him, as if disapproving. Misha's exhausted — it feels like they've already spent the whole night in this bed. He doesn't really want to know how much time has passed in reality.

Worst case scenario, he'll sleep on the plane.

Moonlight pours through the curtains onto him. On his own skin, it seems less ethereal and unreal than on Ilia, and only highlights all the dirt, sweat, cum, and other delights of life. The mattress, too, seems to be begging for death. The sheets have surely given up long ago.

The thoughts in his head are viscous and quiet, his brain calmed and relaxed. Without the warm body pressed against his own, he feels a little cold, but joy and peace warm him from within. His anxiety eases, he seems to drift on waves of euphoria, and his eyes close for a moment—

And then the hearing returns, and the calm suddenly evaporates.

Ilia lies very close to him, on his stomach, weakly hugging the pillow; his arms can't even grip it properly. He's turned away, his face almost completely buried in it, his shoulders shaking, his back trembling, sticky drops trickling down it, and he can still hear the sound of crying. It's quiet, muffled by the pillow, but Ilia is gradually beginning to shake more and more violently.

And the anxiety instantly returns. What happened? Did Misha push him after all? Hurt him?

Now, more aware of his body, he feels everything is stiff and aching; his stomach is itchy, his neck is hard to move, and his legs and arms tremble when he puts weight on them. Ilia probably feels even worse.

Misha rolls onto his side, wincing from the nagging pain.

"Илюш, (Ilyush,)" he whispers. "Илюш. Что-то случилось? (Ilyush. Did something happen?)"

Ilia doesn't move or react, as if he hadn't heard. His sobs only get a little louder, as if he's having a harder time containing them. He presses his face deeper into the pillow, and Misha truly feels very, very anxious.

This isn't the first time Ilia's cried after sex, but before, he was always the one making contact and seeking comfort. Now, on the contrary, he's turning away, as if he doesn't particularly want to see him, and Misha couldn't make anything better. So, it's not entirely clear how to act.

On the other hand, Misha is his boyfriend. If Ilia would confide in anyone, it would be him (he tries to ignore the little voice in his head that insists it was he who drove Ilia to this state a few days ago). He can definitely help with something. Calm him down, support him. And even if Ilia suddenly pushes him away — well, at least he tried.

He doesn't want to think about it. But he can't think any more about how to act.

Misha puts his hand on Ilia's shoulder and turns him over. Or rather, he tries to, and Ilia lies there like a dead weight, clutching the pillow. Finally, he manages to roll Ilia onto his back. He still covers his face with the pillow, though. Ilia immediately pulls his legs up and ends up on his side. Curled up, shaking, sobbing.

Misha decides the best thing to do is hug him. Wrap him in his arms, ignore the sticky filth, and just be there. Until he comes to his senses. Nuzzle him in the back of his neck and wrap his arm around his stomach. Forget that they're both dirty, sticky, and disgusting — it doesn't matter right now. Just let Ilia feel at least a little better.

And he's shaking, shaking in his arms — his fingers let go of the pillow and clutch Misha's wrist, holding tight, like he doesn't want to let him go. Misha strokes his stomach, and he's shaking with sobs, shaking Ilia, and all that feels right at that moment is to whisper to him:

"Все хорошо, (It's okay,)" he says, lips on the back of Ilia's neck, "все хорошо, (it's okay,)" continues, drawing soothing circles on Ilia's stomach with his fingers, "все хорошо. Илюш, все в порядке. Вдох-выдох, давай. (it's okay. Ilyush, it's fine. Breathe in, breathe out, come on.)"

Ilia sobs, holding on to his hand tighter, shaking his head, but breathing. Raggedly, loudly, sniffling, out of time with Misha's voice, but breathing. Deeply. Misha continues to stroke his stomach, and with his other hand gently combs the tangled hair at the back of Ilia's head. He kisses his hairline, and Ilia curls around his arm, hugging him, still clinging to the pillow. His knees almost touch his forehead.

"Все хорошо, (It's okay,)" Misha continues. "Я тут. Я никуда не денусь. (I'm here. I'm not going anywhere.)"

And Ilia suddenly turns to him. Averting his eyes — his face red and tear-stained — he rolls over and suddenly finds his head on Misha's shoulder, his nose buried in Misha's neck, his hand clinging to Misha's side. He speaks haltingly, quietly:

"I'm sorry. I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry. Прости— прости меня, прости, прости— (I'm sorry— I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry—)"

Misha doesn't understand at all what he's apologising for. He just hugs him and lies on his back so Ilia can press against him, mirroring every curve of their body, as close, as possible.

"Прости, (I'm sorry,)" tears burn his neck. Misha strokes Ilia's shoulder. "Прости, я— (I'm sorry, I—)"

"Все хорошо, (It's okay,)" Misha whispers to him. He runs his fingers through his hair, combing it slowly, carefully, and with his other hand, he drapes Ilia's arm over himself. "Все хорошо, ты чего? Ты ничего не сделал. (It's okay, what's wrong? You didn't do anything.)"

"Я ничего не сделал, (I didn't do anything,)" Ilia answers dully, as if mimicking. "Так и есть! Я— прости. (That's right! I— I'm sorry.) You're always there for me, and I— and I—"

He's choking on his words, and not all of them are understandable. But interrupting Ilia would be sacrilege, so Misha prepares his ears. And his brain.

"And I can't do anything for you in return. I—I wanted to— I tried— but in the end, в итоге это ты. Для меня. А я... я... (it's you. For me. And I—I—)"

Misha doesn't understand what he's talking about. Ilia usually doesn't put words together very clearly, because his brain races faster than his tongue can process them, and now even more so. But he doesn't want to interrupt him or ask for clarification. So he runs his fingers through Ilia's hair. Ilia sobs into his neck.

"У меня... не получается даже для тебя... (I— can't even do it for you—)" he clings to Misha's shoulder, "даже для тебя... (even for you—) do something. Any—anything. И это ты... (And it's you— it's you who) tell me you love me and I love you too, I do, but I feel like I don't say it enough," he chokes, "I feel like I don't and— and I'm a terrible person and an even worse friend and partner, and I don't know why you still love me. What did I do to deserve you?"

He falls silent, pressing his forehead against Misha's jaw. The fingers in his hair massage his scalp soothingly — Misha hopes it helps even a little. He strokes the shoulder of the arm slung over him.

"Илья— (Ilia—)"

"No," he shakes his head. "I know what you're gonna say. And i want to say it first. You're— you're the best thing that happened to me, the best thing that I got from figure skating, from life in general, and I am happy, I truly am, because you deserve all of this and— and I wanted you to win so badly and I knew it wasn't possible so— all I felt then was disappointment and I'm— I'm so so so proud of you but you deserve to know this because I— when I said I was proud of you that was true but— I really didn't want to see you that day but then you came to me and you hugged me and I couldn't hold it and it ended up being about me. And now— I don't really know why I did this but I wanted to do something for you even if it's so stupid and deranged but it was also about me somehow. And I hate— I hate hate hate that i take all of this from you and it was supposed to be your evening and night but I stole it from you. All because I couldn't deal with my feelings which weren't even supposed to be there in the first place! I'm supposed to be happy!" he bashes his head against Misha's shoulder several times. "I'm supposed to but I'm not and that means that something is wrong with me or broken and now everyone can see it and you can see it too and I can't even do anything for you and—"

"Илья, (Ilia,)" Misha interrupts him, and Ilia instantly shuts up, the air thick with silence. "Ты же знаешь, что все это полная хуйня? (You know this is all complete bullshit, right?)"

"W—what?"

"Не то, как ты себя чувствуешь, а что ты по этому поводу думаешь, (It's not how you feel, but what you think about it,)" he raps his knuckles on the top of Ilia's head. "Это не все «о тебе» было, ты же не заставил меня быть здесь, с тобой, я этого хотел. И я разговаривал с тобой, потому что хотел этого. И убеждал тебя сказать, что ты молодец, тоже потому что хотел. (It wasn't all ‘about you'; you didn't force me to be here with you, I wanted it. And I talked to you because I wanted it. And I tried to convince you to say you did good, because I wanted it.)" Ilia visibly winces into his neck. "Я хочу, чтобы ты это знал. И так думал. А то что ты сейчас так не думаешь, ну... бывает? Я тоже много чего странного думаю. Меня в детстве так злило, что мои одноклассники могли и приставку на день рождения попросить, и телефон, и вообще кучу всего. А мне — только коньки. Мне и приставка не нужна была, на самом деле, но было так обидно, что я не могу. И я катался и думал: нужно мне вообще это или нет? Коньки. Лед. И я думал, что это все будет иметь смысл, только если я выиграю. Всё. Что папа машину продал, что Алексей Евгеньевич со мной бесплатно занимался. Что я им теперь по гроб должен. (I want you to know that. That's what I thought. And the fact that you don't think that way now, well— it happens? I think a lot of strange things too. As a child, I was so angry that my classmates could ask for a PlayStation for their birthdays, and a phone, and a whole bunch of other things. And all I got was skates. I didn't really need a PlayStation, but it was so upsetting that I couldn't have it. And I'd skate and think: do I even need this or not? Skates. Ice. And I thought that all this would only make sense if I won. Everything. That dad sold his car, that Alexey Evgenievich taught me for free. That I now owe them my life.)"

Ilia goes quiet. His fingers release Misha's shoulder and simply rest there. It's warm.

"Но потом я понял — я же их не просил. И коньки я на день рождения не просил, а мне их дарили. И машину продавать не просил. Нет, я благодарен, конечно, иначе бы меня тут не было, но... Я хочу быть с тобой. Хочу тебя обнимать. И когда тебе хорошо, и когда тебе плохо. А тебе так долго было хорошо, что это когда-то должно было случиться. Ты ведь не помнишь, наверное, сколько раз мне было тяжело и грустно, а ты был рядом... (But then I realised — I didn't ask them to do it. And I didn't ask for skates for my birthday, but they gave them to me. And I didn't ask to sell our car. No, I'm grateful, of course, otherwise I wouldn't be here, but— I want to be with you. I want to hug you. Both when you're happy and when you're sad. And you've been happy for so long that it was bound to happen someday. You probably don't remember how many times I've been disappointed and sad, and you were there—)"

"And why wouldn't I—"

"Ты не помнишь, потому что для тебя это логично — поддержать. И мне тоже, представляешь? Быть с тобой рядом. Даже если... и ничего у тебя не сломано. Тебе просто больно. (You don't remember because it's obvious for you to support me. And for me too, can you imagine? To be by your side. Even if— and nothing's broken with you. You're just hurting.)"

Misha turns on his side to face Ilia. He brushes the hair from Ilia's forehead. He looks into his eyes — red, tear-stained, bright, so bright — no stars needed in the reflection.

"Маленький брат, (No, little brother,)" Misha whispers a little theatrically; Ilia's face reflects incomprehension. "Это слезы, только слезы. Какие бывают у людей. И ты теперь не детеныш, а взрослый человек. (That is only tears such as men use. Now I know you're a man, and no cub. Let them fall. They are only tears.)"

Ilia frowns, but his lips almost immediately curve into a weak smile.

"Mowgli?"

"Ага, (Yeah,)" Misha nods. "Моя любимая книжка в детстве. (My favorite book as a child.)"

Ilia moves closer, pressing his face into his shoulder.

"Мне тоже ее читали. Я... А если б я был девчонкой, (They read it to me too. I— So if I was a girl,)" Misha feels Ilia's smile on his skin, "would we— read it to our child?"

Misha nods again. Once again. Ilia's hand moves down from his shoulder to between his shoulder blades, caressing Misha almost weightlessly.

"Чтобы понял, что нормально плакать, когда тебе плохо. Какие еще об этом есть книги? (So that they understand that it's okay to cry when it hurts. What other books are there about it?)" He snorts. "Ты бы еще точно включил «Как приручить дракона». Прям сразу же, как только отошел от наркоза. (You should definitely put on How to Train Your Dragon, too. Right after you come out of the anesthesia.)"

Ilia laughs. That melodic, familiar, beloved laugh. And Misha wants to say: there you go! Nothing's broken. Otherwise, how could you laugh like that?

"А если б я был девчонкой... (So if I was a girl—)" Ilia drawls quietly, the remnants of tears can be heard in his voice, "то наш ребенок... за какую страну? (then our child— for which country?)"

And this question is much more real than it seems — they don't need to be in that universe where Ilia can create a person and almost always performs in beautiful dresses to answer this. This question, in fact, is more about them, about them here, where they can't have children. Because it's a question: where would we live then? Live together. Would you come to me? Would I come to you? Which of us would dare? Would we be able to? Would we manage?

And Misha isn't sure he can answer that question — he's not sure he has the right to. And there's no answer yet. Because he doesn't know it.

Someday they'll get there. In some city, in some country: medals will hang on the wall of their house. The whole set. It would be foolish to look into the future now, to spoil it for himself — because he knows they'll make it. Wherever they end up — because the sun will always rise above them from his own flag, and in the evening, it'll be followed by matching stars from Ilia's own. It's foolish, really. Sappy and really dumb. Misha never liked stuff like this, so he doesn't say it. Ilia closes his eyes, kissing his shoulder.

And Misha says to him:

"С чего ты взял, что он бы стал фигуристом? Да и вообще. Хорошо, что ты не девчонка. (What makes you think they'd become a figure skater? Anyway. It's good you're not a girl.)"

And it means so much, so much, so much meaning in life can't be put into such simple words. And he wants to tell Ilia: I don't want things to be simple with you. Our entire life together — complex, intertwined, incomprehensible, with an unknown destination and the path we'll walk hand in hand — I wouldn't trade it for a beautiful, colorful picture. And it's better if in this imaginary house in an unknown country there's only one medal hanging on the wall. Because it means so much more.

Ilia presses his cheek against his chest, Misha turns his head, pressing his lips to Ilia's forehead. It's drenched in sweat, his hair still won't fall properly, and his thighs are probably cramped. Ilia throws his leg over him. He sniffles and finally stops crying.

"Я хочу приехать к тебе, (I want to come to you,)" Ilia says quietly. "В Казахстан. Покажешь мне свою родину? (To Kazakhstan. Will you show me your homeland?)" Misha's heart tightens. And so does his hand on Ilia's shoulder. "I don't even know— Что там такое. В твоем Казахстане. (What's there. In your Kazakhstan.) I only know that там должно быть очень-очень-очень-очень красиво. Раз ты так его любишь. Раз ты не хочешь оттуда уезжать. (it must be very, very, very, very beautiful there. Since you love it so much. Since you don't want to leave it.)"

Misha hears what he really wants to say. You don't want to leave there for me. To leave everything — your hometown, your country — to be with me. He's not serious, of course — and he's even tactful enough not to say it out loud. And Misha knows Ilia will like Kazakhstan. Even if it weren't really, really, really, really beautiful. Because Ilia likes everything about him.

"Покажу, (I’ll show you,)" he replies, into Ilia's temple. "Приезжай. И покажу. Там правда очень-очень красиво. (Come to me. And I'll show you. It really is very, very beautiful there.)"

Покажу тебе горы, (I'll show you the mountains,) he thinks. Национальные парки. Далекие-широкие равнины, на которых мы будем ехать на моей новой машине. И ты будешь петь песни в открытое окно, подпевать фальшиво плейлисту, который сам и включишь. И смеяться, смеяться, веером морщинок из глаз — и я так, так, так сильно буду счастлив. (National parks. Far-flung plains where we'll drive in my new car. And you'll sing songs out the open window, hum along off-key to the playlist you put on and didn't ask me. And laugh, laugh, your eyes crinkling — and I'll be so, so, so happy.)

And Ilia will show him his homeland in return. Misha, frankly, doesn't know a damn thing about Virginia — are there mountains, rivers, lakes, steppes? Is there, like, a northern and southern, or western and eastern? Whatever, he's never gotten an A in geography, so they'll have to study it themselves. And probably not just Virginia — after all, America is so big that they could drive around it their whole lives. And when they'll get tired of it, back again. Cruising the vastness of Kazakhstan once more. Who ever said there can only be one place called home?

"И я к тебе приеду, (And I'll come see you,)" Misha continues quietly. "У тебя тоже, вроде, очень-очень красиво? А даже если нет, то буду смотреть на тебя. Тебе же такое нравится? (Your home is really, really beautiful, too, I suppose? And even if it's not, I can still look at you. You'd like that, right?)"

Ilia moves away slightly to look him in the eyes with surprise:

"Я думал, тебе не нравится Америка. (I thought you didn't like the US.)"

Misha snorts and pulls him by the shoulders back closer.

"Не нравится, (I don't,)" he admits. "Ну и что теперь? Мне много вещей не нравится. Мало спать, когда грязно, когда что-то не получается. Все равно ж приходится. Джетлаг мне тоже не нравится. Все равно же к тебе лечу? (So what now? There are a lot of things I don't like. Not sleeping enough, when it's dirty, when something isn't working out. It's still something I have to do. I don't like jetlag either. I'm still flying to you, aren't I?)"

Ilia hides in the crook of his shoulder, exhaling into his skin. Misha thinks for a moment: вот бы не заплакал снова. (I hope he doesn't cry again.) Then he corrects himself — and so what? What's wrong with that? They're only tears, after all.

He thinks they should get up, wash, and change. Crawl into another room where it'll be fresh air, with clean sheets and a mattress and pillows that haven't been fucked out. He also thinks about the gold medal in his bag, about Ilia's eyelashes tickling his skin, about next summer and plane tickets, about jumping again and again, about the dull pain in his knee, about the song that's been stuck in his head for a long time, about falls and unsuccessful skates. About the embankment, ice cream, stars, and lollipops. About Ilia's joyful, cheerful laugh and bright smile. About the shampoo his hair smells like, and the shower gel on his shoulders. About home, about the blue flag, about the eagle and the sun, about its dawn rays and the bright white snow. About the sea, about pale freckles and a tanned back, about the sour cream they'll have to put on their red, sun-burnt bodies. About the wind blowing through the open window, about English spoken with an accent he'll barely understand, about a tent somewhere in the woods and a shared sleeping bag. About a water pump on the street in some village where they'll wash their feet, grey from road dust. About a gas station in the middle of nowhere when they're almost out of gas. About those stores with the big red seven, about prices without taxes included, about cash dollars, about missed calls from his parents, about roaming, about unpaid insurance, and toothache. About a medal on a nail in the hallway, about an old soccer field, about a deflated ball that he'll kick into the top corner and Ilia won't catch. About Instagram messages, about video calls, about monitoring ticket aggregators, about old TV series that they won't watch anyway. About arguments in sleep-thin voices, about rock-paper-scissors that he would lose anyway, about a silly dance to music in paired headphones on an empty midnight street. About what still awaits them and what they already lived through — and about what will not occur to them; and what will still happen.

And no matter what awaits them into the future, or what, on the contrary, is not destined to come true, and even if their paths ever diverge, Misha then, in that dirty, dark room on the last day of their Olympics, admits to himself (and to Ilia, only silently, telepathically) that all of this meant much more to him than the medal itself. And even as an Olympic champion, he won something completely different and much more valueable. He promises then to always be honest with himself. He promises to always be honest with Ilia. No matter how bad, difficult, or unclear things get: to never give up. Always continue after unsuccessful jumps. And if Ilia is having bad days, then offer him a hand. Belay each other, like climbers high in the mountains. Knowing that this rope will always hold him in return. That it will not let him fall.

Promises to always get up.

ilia
alysa didn't take the dress back

misha<3
did you seriously try to give it to her???

ilia
she said she'll burn it

misha<3
i would block you
and strangle you

ilia
ily2