Chapter 1 #2
“Funny,” Kirill says, rolling his eyes. “You know Hartman subscribed to my channel? And he actually commented on that handstand video, like, ‘So awesome, dude!’” He mimics Danny’s American accent, then grimaces. “He doesn’t even speak Russian, why the fuck is he watching my videos?”
It’s all Sasha can do not to laugh, especially when he remembers his phone call with Danny last Sunday.
“Dude, can you please start posting on Instagram? Like, I’m not saying you have to get on the #noshirtsaturday grind, although you totally should, but like, literally anything? I feel like I’m stalking Kirill just so I can see you. Also, when’s the next vlog coming out? Are you gonna be in it?”
“No idea,” Sasha lies, shrugging at Kirill. “But what about a Magyar? For another D?”
They sketch out new routines as the gym starts emptying around them, athletes wrapping up workouts and dispersing to the trainers for physio and rehab. Finally, stomachs growling, they call it a night and head for the locker room.
“Let’s just go to the dining hall,” Kirill mutters to Sasha, glancing at the corridor to the trainers’ offices. “I don’t want to deal with them.”
At least once a week, Kirill tries to skip the mandatory evening massage, and he almost never succeeds because the trainers all know he’s doing it. Today, he and Sasha don’t even make it to the lockers before the head trainer, Igor, steps out in front of them.
“Kazakov, you know the rule,” he says, jerking his thumb towards the recovery room. “Get in there.”
“This is such a fucking waste of my time,” Kirill growls as he stomps down the corridor, just loud enough for Igor to hear.
Unsurprisingly, this earns him an extra-long massage, Igor forcing him to stay behind when the other trainer finishes with Sasha.
He’s still not back when Sasha gets out of the shower, and with almost everyone else already gone, the bathroom is blissfully quiet; Sasha can’t remember the last time he was in here by himself.
After drying his hair, he idles at the sink, scrolling through the Hartman videos on his phone.
They’re actually not terrible, and the more he considers it, the more he likes the thought of adding Danny’s skill to his routine.
Practicing it every day. Performing it at competitions…
maybe even at the Olympics, with Danny watching…
He snorts, the fantasy dissipating like the steam from his shower. If he makes the Olympic team, they’re still not sending him up on pommel horse.
Lowering his phone, he examines himself in the mirror.
He hasn’t put anything in his hair yet, and the dark curls are flopping all over his forehead; but since there’s no practice tomorrow, he doesn’t feel like wrangling with them.
In fact, he’s been combing out his hair a lot less ever since Danny told him he liked the curls—which is pretty pathetic, considering Danny isn’t here and can’t even see them.
Unless…
“Dude, can you please start posting on Instagram? Like, literally anything?”
It’s a horrible idea, raising his phone and snapping a picture of his reflection.
So is doing it again, running his fingers through his hair to mess it up the way Danny had in Glasgow, and then again, because his face looks dumb, and then again, because his towel’s falling off and he hadn’t noticed.
Jesus, how is taking a selfie harder than a triple-twisting Yurchenko?
And how does Danny do this every Saturday?
Of course, Danny is Danny. He probably doesn’t even have a bad angle.
There’s no way he ever feels as stupid as Sasha does now, rejecting picture after picture, half a dozen of them in his camera roll before he finally gets one that might be acceptable.
Maybe. If you ignore the terrible lighting and all the crap on the counter.
Fuck. Sasha shoves his phone into his toiletries bag and finishes getting dressed, then texts Kirill to let him know he’s going to the dining hall. He’s embarrassed himself enough for one day.
*
The dorms at Round Lake are nothing to write home about—chipped paint, shitty wi-fi, the occasional mouse—but as a senior, Sasha gets his own room, with a twin-size bed, a desk, and a closet.
Up until last year, he’d been too superstitious to decorate, in case he was dropped down to the reserves and had to change rooms; but now his medals are hung over the desk, and he has a few photos of his family and his teammates on the wall next to his bed.
There’s no point in wishing he could put one of Danny there, because he can’t.
He calls his mother and spends half an hour on the phone with her, getting the latest updates on her annoying coworker (pregnant) and the stray cat hanging around the apartment building (also pregnant).
He tells her how training is going, vaguely, since he knows she won’t understand most of it, and he doesn’t mention Felix at all.
She’s already lighting extra candles at church for him to make the Olympic team; he doesn’t want her worrying even more.
After they hang up, he gets ready for bed, brushing his teeth in the communal bathroom and mmhming at a couple of seniors who try to talk to him.
Escaping back to his room, he grabs his headphones from the nightstand and crawls into bed; then, as usual, he opens Instagram and checks Danny’s profile.
Danny hasn’t uploaded today’s #noshirtsaturday photo yet, so Sasha scrolls through some of his recent posts instead: Danny giving a thumbs-up at the gym (captioned New year new ankle lets go!
!!), Danny and his dogs in matching Santa hats (Who wore it best?
I vote Buddy ), Danny and a friend at a costume party (Hbd to my boy Pattyyyy THIS IS SPARTA! !!).
Sasha lingers on the last one, Danny and his friend in nothing but cloaks and speedos, the lines of Danny’s hipbones visible even through the boozy blur of the photo.
He still remembers where he was when Danny posted it (standing in Uncle Borya’s kitchen, choking on a pirozhok as he stared at the screen), and how many fingers he’d worked inside himself later that night, imagining they were Danny’s instead.
Looking back at his pathetic selfie, Sasha can’t believe he’d ever thought it might be good enough for Danny. Cringing, he goes to delete the picture from his camera roll—but before he can, a WhatsApp notification appears at the top of his screen.
Danny: Just posted something on instagram
Danny: Hope you like
Sasha’s pulse quickens as he refreshes the app.
This time, he doesn’t even have to go to Danny’s profile, because it’s the very first thing on his feed: Danny on a beach, sitting at the water’s edge, remnants of a wave swirling around him as he laughs at something off-camera.
His abs and biceps are on full display, shimmering in the sunlight, and his swim trunks are plastered to his thighs, leaving almost nothing to the imagination.
Guys am I doing this polar plunge thing right? the caption says.
It’s the best #noshirtsaturday picture yet, and the longer Sasha looks at it, the more he wants to lick the salt right off of Danny’s skin. He doesn’t even care how disgusting it would taste.
Eventually, he realizes he should probably text Danny back.
Sasha: Yes
Sasha: Very nice
Nothing about this response seems adequate, and Sasha bites his lip, wondering what else he should say. Because the truth—that he’s half-hard already, that he’s been waiting for this all day, that he might die if Danny ever stops posting these—is too pathetic to admit.
Danny: I was freezing my ass off and my friends were giving me so much shit
Danny: Worth it though
Sasha swallows, feeling even more guilty.
Danny went into the ocean in the middle of winter for him, and here he is, hesitating over a stupid locker-room selfie.
Jesus, how many months now has Danny been exposing himself for the world to see, getting nothing in return from Sasha except a handful of smileys?
Just send him the fucking picture!
Summoning his courage, he types out a text.
Sasha: I have something for you too
And then, seeing the words appear on the screen, he panics and sends Danny the pommel horse video instead.
Of course, it takes forever to go through, because the internet at Round Lake is a joke, and Sasha winces when Danny texts back ?? But finally it’s done, and then there’s silence, Sasha watching the screen nervously and wondering what Danny’s thinking…
The second the call comes in, Sasha picks up, his heart hammering in his chest.
“Holy shit. Sasha. Are you, like, working this for real?”
“Maybe.” Sasha hesitates, wondering if Danny would think that’s weird or if he’d be annoyed at Sasha for taking his skill. “I need more difficult routine. For Rio. If—if this is okay for you?”
He doesn’t even have time to hold his breath.
“Dude, of course it’s okay with me, are you kidding? Look, why don’t I send you a video of me doing it, and then I can, like, tell you exactly what I’m doing. Cause you’re almost there, there’s just, like, a few things you could do to make it easier.”
Relief spreads through Sasha, warming him like a cup of coffee. “Okay. That is… thank you.”
“Yeah, no problem. I mean, you’re, like—you just did this today, right?” When Sasha confirms, Danny lets out a low whistle. “Oh man, that’s awesome. You’re so gonna do this better than me, I can’t wait to see it.”
First Kirill, now Danny; Sasha doesn’t believe either of them. “I am not,” he protests, feeling embarrassed and flattered at the same time.
“Dude, you totally are, you’ve been killing the upgrades lately,” Danny points out. “You got the Cassina, and the triple Yurchenko, and now you’re coming for pommel horse? Like, honestly, I think I’m gonna have you until Rio, and then after that…” He laughs. “I’m just gonna be trying to keep up.”