Chapter 22
For the rest of Sasha’s life, whenever he thinks of California, he’ll think of this: Danny in the driver’s seat, one hand on the steering wheel and the other on Sasha’s thigh, sunglasses and smiles flashing in tandem as he talks about everything they’re going to do over the next two weeks.
Sasha’s heard it all before—Danny’s been adding new activities to the list for months—so he tunes in and out, not so much listening to the words as watching Danny say them, a warmth in his chest that has nothing to do with the weather.
He can’t believe they’re about to spend fifteen days together; it doesn’t even seem real yet.
There’s a part of him that can’t help worrying they’ll get sick of each other, but he’s ignoring it, because he’s in too good a mood right now to care.
They take a scenic route back from the airport, following a highway that traces every curve of the coast, and it feels like he’s barely blinked before they’re pulling off at an exit, switching to roads that twist and turn towards the water.
After about five minutes, they come to a small parking lot that’s practically on the beach, a thin layer of sand obscuring the pavement.
There’s just one other empty car, and Sasha glances around in confusion, wondering why they’ve stopped—he doesn’t see any houses nearby.
“Hey,” he hears, and when he looks back, Danny’s lunging over the cupholders to kiss him.
It’s been almost a year, and that’s why Sasha’s not thinking when he leans in, pulling Danny even closer. For a few glorious seconds, there’s nothing but need and want and have, Danny’s hair between his fingers, Danny’s “fucking finally” against his lips.
And then he remembers that they’re in a parking lot, out in the open where anyone could see them.
He jerks away, his heart pounding against his ribcage as he scans their surroundings. The other car—no, it’s empty, the owner nowhere in sight—but still—and someone could have driven up from the road—though they probably would have heard… wouldn’t they?
“Hey,” Danny says again, his voice softer now, concerned. “No one’s here. I checked.”
Sasha nods, trying to breathe again. He knows Danny’s right, and he wants to believe they’re safe, but he can’t stop thinking about how close they are to the road. “Are there police?”
Danny looks surprised by the question. “I mean… they’re pretty strict at night, like you’re not supposed to be on the beaches after ten, but like, I’ve never had a problem with them during the day…
and I don’t think they’d care if they saw us making out…
honestly, they’d probably be more worried about us doing drugs. ”
The police in Moscow, Sasha’s sure, would be perfectly capable of multitasking. But he’s not in Moscow anymore; he’s half a world away, vacationing in a place where people don’t even seem to blink at gay couples walking hand-in-hand down the street.
“It’s okay,” Danny says. “We can just go to my house. I’ll kiss you later.”
He grins at Sasha, who finds himself smiling back, then looking around again to make sure they really are alone.
“One more?” he asks.
*
One more turns into two or three or twelve more, seat-buckle dents in their hips until Danny winces, then sheepishly admits that his spine hurts.
“It’s fine, though, it’s just, like, the twisting,” he says, already leaning over for another kiss; but Sasha doesn’t believe that, and he also doesn’t want to push their luck by staying here too long, so he nudges Danny back into his seat.
Danny grumbles a little, yet once they’re on the road again, he reaches for Sasha’s hand, threading their fingers together over the e-brake.
It’s… nice. And new. They’ve never held hands before, but Danny’s apparently decided they should start, and Sasha doesn’t mind at all.
Especially since no one can see them, unless maybe they pull up next to another car at a stoplight, and he’ll just let go for a few seconds if that happens.
But it doesn’t, so… he doesn’t. Instead, while Danny’s focusing on a left turn, he one-handedly texts his mother, who’s made it to her gate, and then he opens a message from Kirill, asking how lunch went.
Sasha doesn’t answer; he suspects Kirill really wants to know what Alina thought of Danny, and he’ll need some time to draft a bland, neutral response.
When he looks up again, they’re driving through a neighborhood of mansions.
At least, that’s what Sasha assumes they are, though he doesn’t have much experience with mansions, or houses in general.
Before he started training at Round Lake, he used to spend a few weeks each summer at a relative’s dacha, but he doesn’t know anyone wealthy enough to own one of the rare single-family homes in Moscow proper.
In this neighborhood, though, they’re everywhere: a mishmash of modern and Spanish architectural styles, most of them painted white or yellow, all of them fucking huge. Sasha opens his mouth to ask Danny who lives here—he’s guessing celebrities—but before he can, Danny says, “Okay, this is it.”
And then he pulls into a brick-laid driveway and parks the car.
Sasha gapes at the Hartmans’ house. It’s not as ostentatious as some of its neighbors—a two-story tucked into the side of a hill, partially obscured from the street by a couple of trees on the property—but the longer he looks at it, the more rooftop lines he notices behind the main section, hinting that the house is even bigger than what he’s already seeing.
There are three garage doors, what the fuck.
“Are you rich?” Sasha pulls his eyes away from the house to stare at Danny, who laughs at the question.
“I mean… my parents are pretty well off, yeah.”
Christ, that’s an understatement. Sasha and Alina are “pretty well off,” between her salary and his national team stipend, and there’s no chance they could ever afford half of this. Even Kirill couldn’t afford half of this.
“Sorry, is it weird?” Danny asks, suddenly looking nervous. “I should have said something…”
“No. Yes. A little weird,” Sasha admits. “But okay.”
“Yeah?”
“Yes.”
Danny smiles, squeezing Sasha’s hand before letting go to turn off the engine. Sasha resists the urge to reach for him again, though he can’t help feeling like he’s lost something, his fingers flexing in the space where Danny’s used to be.
“All right,” Danny says. “Let’s do it.”
The garage has a Mercedes, a BMW, and absolutely no room for a third car, as Sasha finds out when the door rolls up to reveal a mind-boggling assortment of stuff.
There’s bicycles, kayaks, weights, a bucket of baseball bats; enough beach chairs, umbrellas, and coolers for at least four families; and endless shelves of plastic containers, all of them neatly labeled with things like Christmas lights – Exterior and Danny’s baby clothes.
As Danny leads Sasha down a narrow path between the bicycles, the barking starts.
“That’s Buddy,” Danny explains. “He gets really excited when I come home. Oh, and he and Luna love visitors, so they’re gonna jump, like, all over you—but don’t worry, they’re totally friendly, they just want to say hi.”
“Okay…”
Sasha hadn’t forgotten about Danny’s dogs, but up until now, it hadn’t really occurred to him that he would have to interact with them.
He tries to remember the last time he was even in a room with a dog; Ilya’s parents used to have one, but it was a small thing, apartment-sized, and definitely not a golden retriever.
“Here, take some of these.” Danny grabs a bright-colored bag off a shelf and holds it out to Sasha. “They’re Buddy and Luna’s favorite treats. We have to keep them out here cause they, like, literally go crazy for them.”
“Take some?” Sasha echoes.
“Yeah, like, maybe three each? I’m gonna have them sit, and then you can give them the treats, and then they’re gonna love you.”
Sasha looks down at the treats, then back up at Danny—who so clearly wants this to work, his eyes shining hopefully at Sasha, like meeting the dogs is just as important as meeting his parents (or possibly even more).
And that’s how Sasha winds up counting out a handful of gritty, greasy dog treats, trying not to feel nervous as the barking reaches a frenzy point.
No pressure or anything, of course.
When Danny opens the door, Sasha gets the briefest glimpse of a kitchen before two golden retrievers leap at him, fur flying everywhere as they bark and paw at his legs.
It’s a solid minute of chaos: Danny saying “sit” over and over again, the dogs not listening in the least; Mrs. Hartman hurrying out of a side door, hello-ing and apologizing in the same breath; the two of them talking to each other, Sasha, and the dogs, all at the same time.
“Hey, Mom—sorry, Sasha—Buddy, come on, sit!”
“Hi, honey—hi, Sasha—Luna, down!”
Sasha stands very still, hoping it doesn’t look obvious that he’s… well, not scared, but he’s not used to having large dogs jump on him, either. And until they calm down, he’d rather not move, not even to take off his shoes.
“You guys want a treat?” Danny finally asks, and that gets their attention, two furry heads swiveling towards him in unison. “Okay, Sash—give some to Buddy first, so he doesn’t try to eat Luna’s—”
Sasha would have preferred not to put his hand near the mouth of a dog that was just barking at him, but he does it anyway, for Danny, and tries not to wince as Buddy and Luna slobber all over his fingers.
Luckily, Luna’s interest evaporates once the treats are gone, but Buddy continues to sit in front of him, panting and wagging his tail.
“You can scratch him behind his ears. And under his chin,” Danny says encouragingly.
This part’s better, although Sasha’s not sure he’s really accomplishing anything—Buddy keeps moving his head, chasing the treat smell on Sasha’s fingers and making it almost impossible to actually pet him.