Chapter 20
Having done competitive gymnastics for thirteen years, Sasha knows just what it’s like to feel so excited and nervous, his body can barely contain it—shivering in his warmups, fighting back the urge to piss as he salutes the judges, flying out of bounds because he had too much adrenaline for a tumbling pass.
It’s a lot like how he feels right now, only a few hours away from seeing Danny for the first time since Rio… and introducing him to his mother.
Trying to distract himself, he double-checks his appearance in the bathroom mirror, compulsively fiddling with his hair.
He’s been growing it out for this trip, and he’s still not used to the length, or the maintenance; it’s kind of annoying, actually, how much harder it is to keep neat.
But he knows Danny likes the curls, and maybe he’s spent one too many nights jacking off to the thought of Danny pulling them apart while Sasha pulls him apart.
Unfortunately, he doesn’t have enough time or privacy for a repeat of that particular fantasy, so he gives the rest of his reflection a quick appraisal.
He’s wearing a white polo, Kirill-approved, and a pair of blue shorts that Kirill had once shrugged at and said, “Well, they’re not the worst thing you own,” which was essentially a compliment.
He thinks he looks good; he hopes Danny thinks so, too.
When he comes out of the bathroom, Alina’s sitting on her bed, suitcase packed and ready to go.
The train from San Diego to Santa Ana, the nearest stop to Newport Beach, isn’t leaving for another hour and a half—but if they don’t show up twice as early as they need to, she’ll spend the whole time worrying anyway, and he’s learned that it’s easier to just get there and wait.
Before he can suggest heading down, however, she surprises him by coming over to straighten his collar. “You look very handsome,” she murmurs, her green eyes shining. “And so much like your father.”
“Really?” Sasha thinks of the framed photograph on the silverware cabinet at home, but it’s been a long time since he’s given it more than a cursory glance while saying goodnight.
He’s always imagined his father being the same age as his mother, even though of course that isn’t true anymore, and he realizes with a start that the man in the photograph probably wasn’t much older than he is now.
“It’s your hair.” Alina smiles and brushes a curl behind Sasha’s ear, only for it to slip right back out again. “His was exactly the same, we used to call it the lion’s mane. He would always shake his head and growl at you, and you would just laugh and laugh…”
Sasha tries to picture it, but he can’t. He doesn’t remember anything about his father, or the life they had in Yerevan; it almost feels like Alina’s talking about a different family, some other little boy playing games with his papa.
He wants her to keep going, though, because she so rarely even mentions Ishkhan—more often now than when he was younger, but still only scraps, little bits and pieces of stories that she brings out when he least expects it.
He always feels like a dog under the table then, scarfing down everything as quickly as he can, afraid to make too much noise in case it ruins the moment and she stops sharing.
“Well.” Alina smooths out a wrinkle in his shirt; the hitch in her voice tells him that’s all he’s going to get. “You look very nice.”
“Thanks,” he mumbles, swallowing his disappointment. “You look nice, too.”
Alina waves off the compliment, but it’s true.
She’s done something to her hair—Sasha has no idea what, only that it’s sleeker than usual—and she’s wearing one of her church outfits, a soft green dress with matching earrings.
It strikes him that they’ve both put extra effort into their appearances today, and he wonders if she’s as nervous about meeting Danny, who’s all but a stranger to her, as he is about introducing them.
“We better head down, dear, we don’t want to miss the train. Do you have the tickets?”
“Yes, Mom, they’re on my phone…”
*
The trip to Santa Ana is three hours long, ocean views giving way to scrub and scraggly trees as the train curves inland.
Sasha passes the time window-gazing and helping Alina with her crossword, his excitement growing the closer they get to Danny.
He’s fully expecting Danny to hug him the second they’re together again, and he’s not even going to pretend to complain about it.
Halfway along the route, two young men board the train and sit across the aisle from Sasha and Alina. They’re both in similar, almost matching outfits—short shorts and colorful shirts—and Sasha’s pulse quickens when he notices that one of them has a rainbow flag tattoo.
“What’s the next clue?” he asks Alina, trying not to stare.
Danny had mentioned that California was an LGBT-friendly state, and Uncle Borya, right before they’d left, had warned him jokingly to “be careful where you bend over.” But somehow, Sasha still hadn’t expected to see so many of them out in the open: men holding hands with men, women sharing kisses over strollers, couples with seemingly no care or concern about being seen by other people.
Clearly, though, they have little reason to worry.
In Los Angeles, San Francisco, and San Diego, he’d spotted at least one pride flag, sometimes several, in every neighborhood he and Alina had walked through; and there were signs in the windows, too, saying things like Love is love and All are welcome here.
San Francisco even had rainbow crosswalks, which must have been approved by the government—Sasha couldn’t believe his eyes.
And he’s surprised by how much it bothers him.
He would have thought he’d be… happy, maybe?
To see at least one part of the world where men like him can live their lives, can walk down the street with their partners and not get beaten up.
But instead, he’s been bracing himself every time he notices a visibly gay person, holding his breath and waiting for someone to yell at them or hurt them—or even take them away, like the police in Chechnya would.
All while trying not to imagine what his mother might be thinking.
“I think it’s ‘shashlik,’” Alina says. “What do you—Sasha?”
Her voice doesn’t register until it’s too late, and he watches in dismay as she follows his gaze to the young men across the aisle.
She must have drawn the same conclusion as him, because her expression does exactly what it’s done around every other gay couple they’ve seen: it goes perfectly still, as if she’s trying not to have any reaction at all.
Sasha doesn’t know what makes him feel worse, how awkward she looks or how quickly she averts her eyes.
“They’re much more open here,” she murmurs, glancing back at him.
It’s like being on camera at an important gymnastics meet, vividly aware that his face is broadcasting in high definition. He tries to keep it steady as he shrugs, like he couldn’t care less one way or the other. “Yeah.”
For an uncomfortable moment, Alina observes him; she must have been expecting more of a response, though Sasha has no idea what else she thinks he would say. After a few seconds, she opens her mouth again—
“Shashlik?” he interjects, leaning over the crossword.
Whatever comment she’d been about to make, he doesn’t want to hear it.
*
They pull into the Santa Ana station, and Sasha fumbles out a text to Danny, his hands shaking with excitement. It’s all he can do not to race ahead of Alina as they collect their luggage and disembark, stepping out onto a quiet, Spanish-style platform under a sunny blue sky.
A few seconds later, though, he comes to a halt, realizing he’d forgotten to warn her about something.
“Uh. Just so you know, Danny’s probably going to hug you.”
“Ah,” Alina says, alarm flickering across her features.
“It’s an American thing,” Sasha explains, but this doesn’t seem to reassure her. “I can tell him not to—”
“No, no.” Alina pulls up the handle of her suitcase, determination setting into her expression. “We’re in America, we’ll do what the Americans do.”
They make their way out of the station, pushing through the lobby doors into a drop-off/pick-up area, and Sasha’s heart leaps as he spots a familiar figure leaning against a silver car.
“Sasha! Hey!”
Everything seems to slow down and speed up at the same time.
Sasha’s vaguely aware that he’s walking faster, his mother falling behind in his peripheral vision; but it still feels like he’s moving underwater, breathless and impatient by the time he gets to where he wants to be, anchored in place by a bone-crushing hug from Danny.
“Sup, man, how’s it going?” Danny’s voice is loud and casual, obviously for Alina’s benefit, but only Sasha can hear the hitch in his breath as he murmurs, “I’m so fucking happy you’re here.”
Sasha just nods into Danny’s shoulder. He wasn’t expecting to be this overwhelmed—he’d thought he could hug Danny quickly and then step back, but all he wants is to pull him closer and breathe him in, wrap both arms around him instead of one.
He forces himself to let go, to put more space between them. It turns out that this isn’t actually a better idea, because now he’s looking into Danny’s eyes—the same sparkling blue as the Pacific and twice as dangerous, pulling him under like a riptide.
“Hey,” Danny says, and then, “Holy shit,” those eyes raking Sasha in, lingering on his hair. “You look… like… wow.”
Sasha flushes—he was thinking the exact same thing about Danny, who easily could have strolled off the set of a summer fashion photoshoot.
He’s wearing a light-blue button down, sleeves rolled up, sunglasses tucked into his v-neck; a pair of slim-fitting white shorts with a leather belt, the same chestnut brown as his boating shoes; and an expensive-looking watch that Sasha’s never seen before, as if he’d dug it out of a dresser just for this.
His skin is impossibly golden, like an Instagram filter in real life.