Archive of Our Own

It was always going to happen on a night like this.

A night like this, when they are people instead of just skaters. In some city, somewhere. Never his own. Never Ilia's either. They could never be afforded such luxury.

It happens in the inevitable way bathwater runs cold. Creeping in, polluting a familiar comfort until the sensation was unbearable and demanded Mikhail's attention. Creeping in when Ilia's hand brushed his waist as he walked past him backstage. Creeping in when Ilia gazed up at Misha as he unlaced his skates, his neck craned up to make sure the need in his eyes was obvious. Creeping in when Ilia asked a hushed later? in their shared tongue as he gathered his things, waiting for Misha's nod of agreement before he left.

They had a routine on nights like these. While the sun was still up, they would dance around each other until one of them worked up the courage to ask for later. The same later that neither of them could ever deny, yet still made both of them nervous to ask for.

Misha still remembers the first night they shared a later. A night like this, of course. Another show, another city, a forever ago now. When years of catching each other staring and hands that lingered on waists during hugs became too much to bear. They hardly talked about it. They both just understood.

It was funny that way, between them. When it really came down to it, they barely needed words to communicate. Perhaps the years of dancing around made them both too aware of the other. How Ilia's propensity to flush betrayed him. How Mikhail's mouth betrayed him. How their eyes betrayed them both.

Misha doesn't really know when things with Ilia changed. If they even changed at all. When they first met, scrawny and shy, Misha already felt a pull towards him. Ilia was always there, sweet and smiling and willing to translate when they were around others. Misha had never liked a boy before, didn't even know he could.

The gravity that pulled him towards Ilia in the first place never truly subsided. Not when they competed, not when they flew home. Ilia wasn't his only international friend, but the way he missed Ilia was different. He could go days without thinking about his other friends. Ilia was too lively, too full of words and smiles and kindness to not think about him all the time. As Ilia grew into everything Misha wanted to be on the ice, he reasoned to himself that his friends must think about Ilia too. His impeccable technique, his chase of the impossible. Everything about Ilia demanded space in one's mind.

In sporadic days spent at competitions and shows together, they watched each other become men. They grew into their bodies, filling out with muscle where they were once small. He would notice it on Ilia in locker rooms, stealing glances as they got dressed next to each other. Maybe it was out of jealousy at first, wishing he could be handsome the way Ilia was.

At some point, he wasn't just thinking that Ilia was handsome. All he could notice anymore was that Ilia was pretty.

Ilia Malinin, an absolute force on the ice, was just so sweet and soft and fucking pretty. Not only the color of his eyes, but how they spoke on their own. How his hair fell into them. His skin, milky and smooth. The lines of his lithe arms, the cinch of his waist. The crooked smile he gave when he really meant it.

It didn't make Misha panic until that March after they both turned nineteen. It had been a grueling season before they met again in Canada for the championship. The exhaustion had sunk into his bones by the time Ilia had a gold medal around his neck. He was actively fighting sleep at the closing banquet, but he couldn't bring himself to leave as long as Ilia was there.

Ilia Malinin, nineteen and a world champion and wearing a mesh shirt. He was old enough to drink in Canada, and Team USA was thrilled about it.

Ilia, who grabbed Misha's arm when Amber started dragging him towards the bar.

Ilyukha, who turned to Misha while they waited to order, and asked do you think they have apple juice? in a small voice.

Misha felt his world tilt on its fucking axis when he met Ilia's eyes.

They were vulnerable, wide and a little shiny in the dim light. He held a shy, crooked half-smile on his face, head tilted slightly, and oh god.

The king of the world, the man of the hour, was embarrassed asking about apple juice and fuck, Misha was a goner.

They snuck out of the banquet together, sitting on the floor of the hotel stairwell with apple juice and chips from a vending machine. They talked until they could barely keep their eyes open, and then talked some more. Misha felt giddy when Ilia's head fell onto his shoulder and they sank into a comfortable silence. It was in that silence that he realized that he would've walked all the way to Ilia's house in America and grabbed the apple juice out of his fridge if Ilia had asked him to. He would give Ilia anything if it meant he would keep looking at him with those gentle eyes and that shy smile.

It took him forever to fall asleep that night, a big glowing sign saying that was definitely kinda gay center stage in his brain.

That first time, that last night before they ever knew what later was like, both of them had to be brave. Ilia was brave first. Whatever show that was had stuck them in a hotel room together. It made Misha's stomach do flips. He loved it. It was a nightmare.

Their dance around each other had become constant. He could never stop being aware of where Ilia was, when he was staring, when Misha could stare back. No chance to jerk off about any of it.

Except that second night in that hotel room, when he did jerk off about it. It wasn't his fault, really. Ilia was a sleep talker, and Misha had no choice but to hear his whiny attempt at words. He just sounded so sleepy and so sweet and so Ilia that his soft okay gave Misha no choice but to grind his palm against his crotch to release some pressure.

Ilia was quiet in the moments after. Misha still wishes he knew what Ilia was dreaming about. Wish he could've met him there, wherever that dream had taken him, and done things to him that drew even sweeter noises out of him. Made his vague sleepy murmurs turn into the moans of pleasure Misha had long imagined he'd make. He would only need a few moments with Ilia sounding like that, really. Just enough time to desperately come into his hand and then burn with shame from using his friend's wet dream as a soundtrack for his own orgasm.

Yet, still, even there in reality, Misha had no choice. He was never going to be strong enough to resist hearing Ilia like this, even if Ilia was only babbling and not moaning. He tried, truly. What was he supposed to do when Ilia whimpered out a yeah and Misha's cock jumped like that? He did his best to stay quiet. He just needed a little time, just needed to come once to get it out of his system. His hand worked its way underneath his pants, his underwear. There was no teasing, no fanfare. This had to be quick, clinical. There was no time to truly enjoy this, not with Ilia right there.

Really, he tried his best to stay quiet when Ilia started to stir in his bed. He pressed his hand to his mouth, a panicked attempt to trap any noises that threatened to escape. He didn't stop stroking his cock. It would've been worse for him to stop, edging himself would only drag this out. He was trying to get this over with. Make this easy.

It was never going to be easy on a night like that.

Of course the way Ilia mumbled out a Misha? made his blood vibrate. Fuck, was Ilia dreaming about him? Misha hoped that his hand was enough to muffle the noise he made without his brain's permission. Ilia couldn't wake up, please, not now. He just sounded so fucking sweet and he was dreaming of him and Misha just needed a little more time—

"Misha."

Oh, fuck. He sounded different this time. Fuck, fuck fuck fuck. The haze of sleep was gone. He sounded lucid now. He said his name on purpose. God, fuck, he was awake. This was over, Ilia heard him and he knows what he's doing and they're never going to speak again and Misha is so fucking doomed and even now he couldn't slow his fucking hand down—

"Yeah?"

Against his better judgement, he didn't pretend to be asleep. He tried his best to keep his voice level. It was wobbly and thick, forced out from between his fingers. He prayed Ilia was too sleepy to think too much about it.

"I can hear you."

Fuck.

Misha's hand moved before his brain, gripping the base of his cock. God, what was wrong with him? His friendship with Ilia was about to be fucking ruined and still somehow the thought of Ilia hearing him nearly made him come on the spot.

"What?"

Misha does his best to steel himself, choking the word out in a desperate effort to conceal how close he just was to coming all over his stomach underneath his sheets.

"I can hear what you're doing."

Misha was caught and he knew it. He was a terrible liar at his best, and Ilia knew him too well for him to even be stupid enough to try. Sweet Ilia, who paid more attention to Misha than he ever thought he deserved. It was hopeless, and he was still too fucking hard to even try to put up a fight.

"I'm sorry. Fuck, I'm so so sorry. I jus—"

"S'okay." Ilia slurred the words with an exhale. But Misha knew Ilia too. That wasn't how he sounds when he's asleep, words melting together. He was awake, he was conscious, and he was—

God, fuck, Ilia couldn't do this to him. Not if he didn't mean it. Did he even know what he was saying? What he was letting Misha do? His sweet Ilia, fuck, he can't just fucking do this to him, not now, not like this—

"Keep going. S'okay. You don't have to—"

Misha hated that he cut Ilia off with a moan. Ilia sounded so fucking pretty and he was letting Misha listen to him and Misha was so fucking scared that one wrong move would shatter whatever this was. Still, he couldn't help himself, the moan spilled out before he could stop it.

"'m so fucking sorry—" He couldn't help but apologize. He was sorry, he was. Sorry he was getting off like this. Sorry he wouldn't have stopped even if he didn't have Ilia's permission. Sorry he wasn't brave first, days or weeks or months ago, brave enough to do something before it reached this point.

"No, nonononono, s'okay—"

Arousal must have severed the connection between Misha's brain and his mouth. He knew he needed to shut up, but he just kept talking and he couldn't stop. Couldn't stop his hand from frantically pumping his cock, couldn't stop the tears of humiliation pricking in his eyes, couldn't stop his cock from leaking.

"'s just, y-you—fuck, Ilyukha—you make s'much noise'n your sleep," Misha whined, "couldn' help it."

Misha heard the gasp climb in Ilia's throat.

"It's for me?" Ilia's voice was small as he asked.

Misha's hand flew to the base of his cock again, just barely stopping his orgasm from tearing through him. He felt like he was on fucking fire. His face was burning with humiliation, the tear that escaped his eye just as hot as it slid down his temple. He could feel his heartbeat in his ears, his neck, his hands, his fucking cock. Maybe Ilia could hear it too. Sweet, perfect Ilia, who woke up from the sound of his friend jerking off, and was still so unbearably sweet. He should've been angry, he should've yelled at him, and yet he wanted Misha to keep going. Ilia was so good to him. So kind to him. Thought so highly of him that he didn't even realize that Misha was a fucking pervert.

It's for me?

God, how could he ask such a thing?

Of course it was for him, it was always for him. It was for him every time he said something silly just to see Ilia smile. It was for him when Misha saved a seat next to him when Ilia was running late. It was for him every time Misha spilled over his hand, whether it was a rushed orgasm in the shower or a drawn out affair in his bed. It was always, always for Ilia.

He could never admit such a thing. Not now, not like this. Instead, Misha just choked out a yeah, the air in his lungs leaving with it.

The sound Ilia made was fucking devastating.

It was somewhere between a whimper and a moan, all high and breathy and whiny and so unbelievably fucking Ilia that it sent a pulse of electricity from Misha's brain down to his fucking toes.

"R-really? Fuck." Ilia was still fucking whining. Misha's hand remained deathly still on his cock. He refused to come when Ilia was like this, still talking to him and sounding so pretty that Misha thought he was going to be crushed under the weight of it.

Ilia's voice was even smaller, breathier, when it cut through the tension of the room again. "Can I do it too?"

Fucking hell.

Misha must be fucking dreaming. Every muscle in his body went taut. The nails of his free hand dug into his palm, eyes squeezing shut. Ilia, sweet sweet Ilia, the boy that could do anything, was asking Misha for permission to get off.

"What?" The question left Misha's lips in a wheeze, his lungs damn near giving up with the shock of it all. He didn't need the clarification, not really, and yet he still asked. Maybe his brain hadn't caught up through the fog of arousal. Maybe Misha was buying time, trying to prepare himself for what was going to happen as soon as he said yes. He couldn't think hard enough to know for sure.

"Please? W'na come too. I won't be able to sleep like this." Ilia sounded more desperate by the word, and Misha was certain his heart was going to give up too. He was going to come and it was going to be his final goodbye to this Earth, he wasn't going make it to the other side when Ilia was like this.

Please, please touch yourself, please come, please let me hear it, please let me do it and feel it and taste it and give you everything I fucking have forever—

Misha was still coherent enough to know he couldn't say all of that. Not tonight, not yet. He drew in a breath that was more of a gasp, almost sounding painful on the intake. "Yeah. Yeah, c'mon."

"Thank you, hah, oh-h-h, fffuck." God, Ilia sounded just as wrecked as Misha felt. How long had he been listening? Was he hard before he even woke up? Did he touch himself before asking Misha for permission? Something inside Misha knew he didn't. Ilia was too sleepy to perform, to ask a question like that just because he thought Misha would like to hear it. The realization made Misha's heart thrash wildly in his chest.

"Sound so fucking pretty, 'lyusha." The words nearly sound pained, Misha's chest seizing as his orgasm drew ever nearer. Not yet, though. He didn't care that he was so hard that it hurt. He needed Ilia to come first. He needed to hear Ilia come so bad it was burning him alive.

"Really?" Ilia hiccuped, almost like he couldn't believe it.

"Yeah, fuck."

"You like it?" Ilia sounded fucking delirious, and the shudder that ran through Misha was so intense it made his bones vibrate. Of course Ilia wanted praise in moments like this. Misha was so fucking close to losing it entirely. It was a miracle he hadn't came already. But, no, he owed Ilia this. If he got Ilia off first, then he would earn his own release.

"Like it so much, so good. You're so good." Even hearing himself say the words nearly pushed him over the edge, his cock aching so bad it forced a few more tears down the side of his face.

"Oh-h, Mish, g'na come, can't hold it."

Hold it?

Misha's back arched with the wave of arousal sent to his already aching cock. He was already so close. Ilia needed to come right fucking now.

"Do it. Fuck, come for me."

He felt Ilia's moan rattle around in his own ribcage. It was loud and raw, like it was ripped from his throat.

As Misha followed him into ecstasy, his brain was beyond sense. He was jealous of Ilia's hand for getting to make Ilia come. Jealous of the blanket that got to touch Ilia's skin. Thankful for the darkness that kept him from seeing Ilia, knowing he wouldn't ever be able to think about anything else if he got to see Ilia's face when he came. Mad that his dick was too sensitive for him to keep going.

The room was silent aside from the sound of them both catching their breath. Ilia crawled out of bed and headed to the bathroom first, Misha following suit returned to his bed. His hands were shaking as he washed them, his heart still hammering against his ribs. He turned the water off and clutched the edge of the sink. The implications of the situation were not lost on him. There was a way of life that died on the other side of that bathroom door. Things were never going to be the same.

He found his way to his bed again, each step cautious in the dark room. He found himself in the same position he did maybe a half hour ago, laying deathly still as he willed his heart to calm down.

Ilia cut through the silence with a content sigh, followed up with a soft g'night, Mish. Misha forced his tortured lungs to let him say g'night back. He appreciated the exchange. Neither were in any state to discuss whatever this was right now. The inevitable awkward conversation could wait until the morning.

Until the morning came, and the conversation continued to wait. Misha woke up first, stirring awake around 8:15. The hotel's breakfast ended at 9:00, and he spent his entire shower working up the courage to wake Ilia up.

It was 8:30 when his hand found his way to Ilia's shoulder, and they began their familiar dance. Ilia hated mornings. Misha knew that Ilia hated how startling alarms were, so he woke up first both mornings before this one. Misha would shake him gently, whispering a quiet time to wake up, Ilyukha. Ilia would whine and turn onto his side, and Misha would look at anything else before the scene sent a wave of arousal to his cock. Ilia would complain that it was too early, that he hated mornings, that he didn't even like breakfast anyway. Misha would insist, and Ilia would eventually open his eyes and get ready just enough to sleepwalk to breakfast.

That morning, Misha couldn't bring himself to withstand Ilia's protests. Not when he knew what his whines sounded like when they were made out of pleasure. Not when he had deprived Ilia of his precious sleep because of his own lack of self control.

"Alright, okay," He spoke softly, hoping his nerves weren't too obvious. He reached for Ilia's phone. He had already known the password, the date Ilia first landed a quad axel. "I'll set an alarm for 9:30, okay? That gives you enough time to shower before ice time at 10:00. I'll grab you a protein bar and a chocolate milk and meet you there, yeah?" Misha gently rubbed Ilia's shoulder through the blanket before he even processed what he was doing.

Ilia nodded. He still hadn't opened his eyes, a sleepy smile spreading across his face. "Yeah, okay."

Misha's hand was on the doorknob when he heard that same sleepy voice again, his breath catching. "Misha?"

"Yeah?"

"Talk later, okay?"

"Yeah," it was more of a sigh than a real word. "Yeah, okay."

That entire day, Misha had spent every second he was alone writing a speech in his head. I'm sorry. We can forget it ever happened. I don't know if you're gay at all but I think you made me kind of gay. I understand if you never want to talk to me again. 

I wish I could've seen your face last night. I wish I made you come instead. I want to fuck you so bad that it's making me feel crazy.

None of it seemed good enough to say to the boy that deserved the best.

Somehow, Ilia seemed completely fine. His tone was unbothered, eyes unwavering. His hands didn't shake when they were around each other. Misha could barely keep it together and Ilia was able to be normal. If not for his promise of a later that morning, Misha might have been able to convince himself it was all a dream. It all just made him feel like he was losing his mind instead.

Except they barely even talked about it when later came.

Misha made it back to their hotel room first, starting another familiar dance. Misha would shower and brush his teeth first. Ilia used his nightly showers as a moment to unwind after long days around people. Misha would use the time alone in the room trying to gather the strength to be casual about how domestic it all felt.

Misha tried to work on his speech some more in the bathroom. Sorry about that. I won't tell anyone. I need you to kiss me because I'm too scared to kiss you first.

Ilia was sitting on his bed when Misha entered the room again. They exchanged their usual half smiles and a quiet hey. Misha braced himself for the most awkward conversation of his life, but Ilia grabbed just his pajamas and headed towards the bathroom. God, how was he just so normal about it all?

Nothing on his phone was able to distract Misha from his heart in his throat. He picked it up and dropped it again three separate times before the shower even turned off. He resorted to practicing the deep breaths his coach taught him to do before hitting the ice. Was it crazy to say that this conversation somehow felt scarier than any skate he's ever had? There was always going to be another competition. There was no going back from this.

Steam followed Ilia out of the bathroom, his skin still flushed red from the heat of the water. His stomach lurched a little at the sight.

Ilia's movements around the room were infuriatingly casual. Putting his dirty clothes in his laundry bag, closing the windows. Misha almost laughed at the absurdity of it all.

Ilia was unpacking his essentials from his bag when he broke the silence with a blow to Misha's chest.

"So when did you know you liked guys?"

Fuck. He was glad Ilia's back was to him, unable to see the way he clenched his eyes shut with the impact of the question.

When did he know?

When Ilia fell asleep with his head on Misha's lap on that one bus ride? When he watched the video Ilia sent him that first time he landed a quad axel? When he got to see the beauty and the strength of Ilia's body, and then his giddy smile as he skated back to his phone that he propped up to record? That night with the vending machine and the apple juice and the stairwell?

He felt Ilia's eyes on him in the reflection of the TV above the dresser. He had been quiet for too long, Ilia starting again. "I mean–"

"No, I, uh, I don't know. A few months ago, I guess." the words felt funny leaving his mouth. He knew he was doing a horrible job at acting normal. It made it worse that Ilia was too nice to point it out.

Ilia nodded slowly, the same way he did when he was being shown new choreography for the first time. Processing, internalizing. The gears of his brain turning.

Gathering the strength of every cell in his body, Misha took another deep breath and found Ilia's eyes in the TV again. He had put his glasses on in the moments Misha just spent staring at his hands. "Do you? Uh, like guys, I mean?"

Ilia laughed a little to himself, a lazy smirk growing on his face. Misha begged his cock not to notice. "Yeah, I like guys. Girls too."

"Me too, yeah."

Ilia moved to grab a water bottle from the fridge, taking a couple sips before he spoke again. He didn't look at Misha. "Have you had roommates that sleep talk before?"

Ilia fucking Malinin, so unbelievably good at dancing around it. 

The implication of the question was clear. Have you done whatever that was with anyone else?

It was too hot in that room. Misha's stomach was twisting in on itself. They were saying everything and they were saying nothing at all and it was fucking suffocating.

"No." Just you.

Ilia was nodding again, his face turning red. Fucking finally. Finally, Misha had proof that he wasn't the only one suffering.

"Nobody's told me I sleep talk before." Just you, too.

Misha made a tortured noise in the back of his throat. It was quiet, but Ilia's head still snapped up from where he was making himself busy at the dresser.

Fucking hell. Ilia turned around slowly, walking towards where Misha sat on the edge of the bed.

Misha felt like he was going to fucking pass out.

Ilia had mercy on him, didn't say anything else. He just stalked closer and closer, standing between Misha's legs, leaning into his personal space. Misha stole a glance at his lips and immediately kicked himself for it. He was so fucking bad at being normal about anything when Ilia was involved.

Ilia caught it immediately, looking at Misha's lips in return. His hand hit the bed next to Misha, leaning even closer. His demeanor seemed so cool, so casual, but Misha caught the hint of fear in his eyes when they met. It nearly made Misha cry. 

His Ilyusha, his sweet and kind and brave boy. So, so brave.

Before Misha could talk himself out of it, he closed the distance between their lips. It felt like coming up for air after being underwater so long that it made his lungs hurt. Sweet, sweet relief. Fucking finally.

It was only gentle for a few seconds. Ilia's tongue swept across his bottom lip, and Misha gave him what he wanted. Anything Ilia wanted, always. He was so unbelievably weak when it came to him.

Ilia kept leaning forward, following Misha as he had no choice but to climb further onto the bed. Straddling Misha's lap as he leaned against his headboard. Still kissing.

That initial brush of their cocks against each other through their pajamas felt like being dunked right back underwater without taking a deep breath first.

Their lips broke apart as they both choked out a moan. Misha was already unbelievably fucking hard. He felt absolutely fucking insane, drowning in Ilia.

He nearly came in his fucking pants when he realized how hard Ilia was too.

They were kissing again, swallowing each other's moans before they could escape. Hands touching skin and pulling hair and tugging at waistbands. Ilia lifted himself off Misha just enough to tug his pajama pants down his legs, a soft c'mon leading Misha to do the same. Ilia wasn't wearing underwear. Misha's eyes rolled into the back of his skull.

Of course, of fucking course Ilia's dick was pretty. Pretty and long and flushed and throbbing and fuck Misha wished he could taste it without blowing his load immediately.

He was so distracted by the bead of precum rolling down Ilia's tip that he didn't even notice Ilia reaching for the waistband of his underwear. If Misha hadn't spent most of his life building stamina and mental fortitude, Ilia's fingers brushing against his cock as he pulled them down would've made him come.

Every nerve in Misha's body was begging him for release. He needed to come so fucking bad it could kill him. Even still, the visual of their cocks so close together in his lap paralyzed him. 

Mercifully, Ilia could still move his hands despite their trembling. He grabbed Misha's hand, meeting no resistance. Misha's eyes followed their joint hands up toward Ilia's face, finally meeting his eyes again.

Ilia didn't look away as he spat in Misha's palm, eyes fluttering at the whimper it earned him. The sound was so fucking needy that Misha had half the mind to be embarrassed about it. Except Ilia let go of his wrist and he made the sound all over again.

Misha didn't even try to speak. He couldn't string together a coherent thought, let alone a coherent sentence. All the wires in his head were crossed as all his blood pooled at his core. I need to come so bad. Please don't make me yet. You have to help me. I'm not brave enough to do it myself. Don't touch me again or I'm gonna come before this even starts. I need you all the time. You're gonna ruin me for anyone else.

Ilia kissed the corner of his mouth, tender in a way it wasn't before. He breathed out a you got it against Misha's lips, and he barely even heard it over the sound of his heart thrumming in his ears.

Misha's hand was moving before he even registered it. Giving Ilia what he wanted was as innate as breathing.

Misha wrapped his hand around both of their cocks and his vision started blacking out at the sides. Their simultaneous moans sounded utterly debauched.

The world ceased to exist outside of the pleasure Misha's hand was wringing out of them both. It was wet and hot and unraveling his very being. Each slide of his palm was fucking catastrophic, forcing noises out of Ilia so fucking pretty that Misha had no choice but to make them back.

He nearly fucking sobbed when Ilia squeaked out his name. He was fucking done for. It would never be the same after this. He knew that sound was going to haunt him forever. It would rattle around in his brain when he slept alone, when he slept with strangers to try and forget it. He had no choice but to spend the rest of his fucking life chasing that sound, desperate to hear it again and again and again.

He had never needed anything as bad as he needed to feel Ilia fall apart from his touch. He refused to come first, even if felt like his heart wasn't going to beat again until he did.

"So good," his voice was so raw that he barely recognized it through the haze of pleasure. It was a risky move. He had a feeling that the praise would undo Ilia, but watching him hear it might be enough to break Misha first. "Doing so good."

It was working. Ilia curled in on himself, dropping his head to Misha's shoulder.

"Can I come please?"

Oh.

Misha was so close. So, so, so close. It didn't even feel good anymore. He needed to come it hurt so bad and Ilia had the nerve to ask for permission. Was he trying to kill him? Did he even know what he was doing? Did he ask everyone that got him off for permission to come? Would he beg for it if Misha said no?

His other hand lifted from where it was clutching Ilia's thigh and buried itself in blond hair, gripping tight. He ripped Ilia's head from the crook of his neck, cock twitching at the filthy moan he was given. Not being able to see Ilia's face as he came last night was torture. He had spent more nights than he would ever admit imagining the sight. He just needed to see Ilia fall apart for him, and then he could follow him over the edge.

"Yeah. Be a good boy for me, Ilyusha."

He had hardly finished the words before Ilia was crying out. The sound was different from last night. He finished with a moan last night, sweet and wet. Tonight, Ilia cried out like he was in pain. It started with a gasp, turning into a moan that broke in half on the way out. Again. A gasp, a broken moan. A few sobs. Another moan, higher in his throat. Deep inhales, whimpering exhales.

Misha barely noticed he came too.

Their dance grew more elaborate after that night. Misha let Ilia catch him staring sometimes. Ilia would drag a slow hand across Misha's waist when he walked behind him. Misha drank directly from Ilia's water bottle instead of hovering it above his mouth. On nights when they had the time, one of them would mumble the question.

Later?

Later almost always meant Ilia showing up at Misha's door in the late hours of the night. Misha hardly ever had roommates, didn't have nosy Team USA skaters in the neighboring rooms. They would give each other everything they could with the time that they had. Most nights were a race against exhaustion, frantically touching and tasting each other before they were both too tired to think straight. 

Other nights, they had time. Misha would use it cataloguing every detail of Ilia that he could. Touching Ilia's waist made his breath hitch. Kissing his neck made him whine. Praise made his cock throb. Blowjobs evolved from uncoordinated and enthusiastic into a perfected technique to make Ilia unravel.

Ilia got better too. Each time he made Misha come was better than the last, Ilia doing something new with his hand or his tongue or his words. On nights when Misha was alone, he would worry himself sick thinking about Ilia practicing with someone else.

He knew it was crazy. He had no claim over Ilia. This was two friends hooking up sometimes, that's all.  Misha wasn't even supposed to want something exclusive. Whether or not Ilia was seeing other people was none of his business. Misha wasn't, of course. Not for lack of trying. He went home with strangers from parties a few times, but it didn't feel right. He had to close his eyes to get off, imagining it was a certain someone else touching him instead. It wasn't fair to them. They deserved to sleep with someone that wasn't ruined for everyone else.

Instead, Misha relied on only his hand and his memories in the stretches of time he went without seeing Ilia. If he was lucky, Ilia would want attention. The string of half-faced selfies they sent each other on Snapchat would be interrupted with one of Ilia half naked, his face out of frame. Misha would respond in turn, the time difference sometimes leading him to showing Ilia how hard he was in his pants tucked inside a public bathroom.

He would call Ilia pretty, earning him more pictures in return. There was an unspoken rule not to show everything in their pictures, both of them were aware they had careers to worry about. Of course he wished he could see Ilia's dick, but above all it made Misha's heart ache that he couldn't see Ilia's face in moments like this. He settled for videos of Ilia's hand moving underneath his sweats, the veins in his arms bulging with the effort. If he was lucky, Ilia would leave the sound on. If the universe felt like torturing him, he would get a picture of Ilia's come splashed all over his stomach.

The times they got off over the phone were his favorite. Friendly conversations over video games would turn sexual, neither really playing anymore. Misha would wait until he heard Ilia's breath start to stutter before he pounced. He would tell Ilia to touch himself, and Ilia would listen. The obedience always made Misha's blood surge into his cock.

They would trade off stifled moans and the few words they were brave enough to say. Misha would tell Ilia to spit in his hand, desperate to hear the wet sound of it sliding up and down his cock. Ilia always asked permission to come, and it made Misha feel insane.

One time, Ilia sounded different. Misha knew what Ilia sounded like when he jerked off, and it was never this breathy and high pitched. Ilia was so embarrassed to tell Misha he had two fingers inside himself and Misha came immediately.

The first time inside Ilia was a revelation. Ilia's wide eyes exposed how nervous he was as Misha opened his legs. Blond hair created a halo around his flushed face on Misha's pillow, beautiful whines punched out with each push of Misha's finger. Whines became moans when another finger joined the first. Ilia was crying when two fingers became three.

Misha was so fucked up. He wanted it to be good for Ilia so bad, trying to punch his ticket to another later. As long as he gave Ilia what he craved, Ilia would keep coming back to him. He needed this to be good, needed to be good for Ilia.

So why did he love watching Ilia squirm like this? 

From the moment he first had Ilia underneath him that night, he was letting off a constant string of check-ins. Good? This okay? More? Even as Ilia's eyes welled up with tears and his face burned red, he always said yes. Misha felt fucking drunk on it.

Once three fingers breached Ilia's hole, Misha was hardly checking in anymore. He would feel guilty about it later, when the arousal was gone and his brain needed something to fill the space it left behind. Guilt was always there. Guilt that he needed Ilia as bad as he did, guilt that he couldn't give Ilia more. Even when he gave Ilia everything he had, Ilia still deserved more. Ilia deserved everything. Deserved so much that the magnitude of it all would keep Misha awake at night.

But that would be later. Right now, Ilia was so hard it looked painful. Precum stained his abdomen, his cock twitching every time Misha's fingers brushed that one spot. Right now, when they were both delirious with arousal, he could tell Ilia loved this. It was so much for him to take and he was so nervous and he loved it.

Misha was out of his fucking mind as he sank inside Ilia. He was biting Ilia's shoulder, seeking any possible tether to reality before he floated away entirely.

He bottomed out, their thighs meeting, and Misha heard wedding bells.

His Ilyusha, strong and confident and desired by many, was being so fucking brave for him. Ilia deserved the world and still he gave. Gave Misha attention, gave Misha butterflies, gave Misha his virginity. He was just letting Misha do this, letting Misha fuck him. Letting Misha turn him into a wet, whiny, desperate mess.

Pleasure curled up Misha's spine, wrapping around every nerve and muscle and bone. It spread up his neck, sinking its tendrils into his brain and gripping tight. Nothing had ever felt this good before. How was he ever going to go without this again? How was he ever supposed to act normal around Ilia after knowing what it felt like to be inside him?

Ilia whimpered out a quiet move please, and Ilia always got what he wanted out of Misha.

His brain was thinking everything at once. Why isn't Ilia his boyfriend? Is it too soon to propose? Is it crazy to propose to your friend that you're hooking up with? Would Ilia say yes? One of them would have to move, probably. They could get a nice house somewhere and Misha could have Ilia's hands or his dick or his mouth or his ass whenever he wanted. He could come home and Ilia would be waiting for him, wedding ring on his finger and a body willing to please. He wouldn't need to wear a condom if they were married. He could fuck Ilia raw and he could come inside him and fill him up—

He had to cut off the thought before he blew his fucking load.

Ilia seemed equally blissed out when Misha's eyes focused again. His cock sat between them, flushed and leaking, bouncing with each thrust. Misha swatted Ilia's hand away as he reached for it, wrapping his hand around it instead. He could feel Ilia's heartbeat through his dick. He tried very hard to be normal about it.

Time ceased to exist. Ilia's back arched off the bed as he cried out, the sight searing itself into Misha's brain.

Ilia's eyes were wild when they met Misha's, the irises nearly swallowed by his blown out pupils. Misha knew what was coming and held his breath in anticipation.

"Can I come?"

Anything Ilia wanted, always.

They slept in the same bed for the first time that night. Ilia barely came back down to Earth after the force of his orgasm, still trembling as he held onto Misha in the shower. Misha let him borrow a pair of sweatpants to sleep in, stroked his hair as he drifted off to sleep with their limbs tangled. He promised to wake Ilia up early enough to do the walk of shame before anyone would catch them. The thought of Ilia leaving made his heart clench. But that would be later. In that moment, he had Ilia in his arms and his head tucked under his chin. 

He pressed a kiss to Ilia's forehead, and almost wished he was awake to feel it.

That first night back in Almaty, the first night without seeing Ilia in nearly a week, Misha tried to find the guilt. He tried to find any emotion that wasn't the soul-crushing despair at how his sheets didn't smell like Ilia. Ilia was always like a furnace, and the bed was so cold. There was no trace of Ilia in this room, in this city. He cried into the early hours of that night, unable to outrun all that he felt.

Guilt found him when he had no tears left. Guilt at feeling this way over a boy, over Ilia. Guilt at wanting someone so much he wasn't happy to be back home. Misha was fucked. He cried again when he realized he couldn't call Ilia about it.

The bed was still cold when he woke up.

They couldn't fuck every time there was a later. Time apart made them desperate, and Misha wasn't sure he could be gentle enough to prevent Ilia from being sore the next day. Sometimes Ilia would beg anyways, lamenting how empty he felt. It took every single ounce of restraint he had not to fold. It made his stomach hurt to tell Ilia no, especially when he wanted it so bad it made his heart pulse in his ears. All he could do was whisper apologies in between swallows of Ilia's cock, promising to fuck him soon.

When they finally could fuck, they were both insatiable. There were some nights when one orgasm wasn't enough for either of them. Withstanding overstimulation became an unspoken competition, pushing their bodies to the absolute limit. They would fuck and fuck until every nerve in their bodies were begging for mercy. Nights like these were so precious, so rare, that pulling out of Ilia hurt almost as bad as burying his overstimulated cock inside him in the first place.

Ilia always slept over on nights they fucked. He could barely stand up after, let alone walk back to his room.

Their usual dance evolved even further. It would start when Misha was still in Almaty, packing more clothes than he used to. When he made sure he packed the shirt Ilia said was his favorite. It continued when he would find a drugstore on his first day in every city and bought an extra toothbrush. Ilia never remembered to bring his to Misha's room. It started again when Misha would coax Ilia into taking sips of water and eating a few fruit snacks once they were done. It carried on when Misha washed the sweat and lube off of Ilia's body in the shower, when he tucked Ilia into bed.

The dance wound down with Misha pretending there was a platonic explanation to all of this as he fell asleep with the boy he knew he loved.

The question was so unbelievably inevitable on a night like this. They hardly needed to ask anymore. Misha couldn't imagine a world where they fell asleep in the same hotel but separate rooms. Hadn't lived in that world in years. Ilia was bold with asking this time. Usually one of them would ask the question at the afterparty, not in the locker room before it.

They killed time in the hotel bar with all the other skaters, celebrating another tour stop complete. In a perfect world, Ilia would've dragged him up to their hotel room in front of everyone, announcing that they would see them all in the morning. They could never be afforded the luxury of claiming each other publicly, doomed to a life of keeping up appearances with their friends before they could sneak away.

Misha was sitting in a booth when Ilia found him, balancing a vodka cranberry and screwdriver in one hand. Vodka cranberry for Ilia, screwdriver for Misha. He only ever drank screwdrivers when he was around Ilia, usually opting for vodka on its own. Ilia didn't like the taste of alcohol and preferred to conceal it in juice, but never too much of the same juice in one night, because then he could taste the vodka. He liked to take a few sips of the vodka cranberry, switch to the screwdriver, and then switch back. It made absolutely zero sense to Misha the first time Ilia explained it, a little embarrassed at how silly it sounded. Misha wanted to kiss him silly over it.

Of course, he couldn't kiss Ilia in that bar that night, could never kiss Ilia whenever he wanted to. All he could do was tell Ilia that he loved screwdrivers, that Ilia could take a sip of his whenever he wanted. Pressing his lips to the spot on the glass where Ilia's were just seconds before was the closest they could get to kissing when they weren't alone.

Screwdrivers are far from Misha's favorite, but they might as well be when Ilia always looks so excited to bring him one, taking pride in how well he knew Misha.

Ilia slid into the booth next to him, their bodies pressing together making the hair on Misha's arms stand up straight. They never had to justify sitting this close, Ilia always gently spoke Russian translations into Misha's ear if he knew Misha would need help following parts of the English conversation.

The dance started early tonight. They were always friends before someone asked for later, the two syllables flipping a switch. Once they knew they had later, they would practice being brave. Leaning into each others space. Hands brushing against skin. Eyes staring at lips. Never obvious, of course. Just part of the dance.

But they weren't friends at that bar. Ilia had already asked for later, the switch was flipped.

He wasn't letting Misha forget it.

Misha was trying to engage with their friends, really. What was he supposed to do when Ilia was whispering closer to Misha's ear than he needed to be? When Ilia was playing with Misha's fingers under the table? When he slid his hand up Misha's fucking thigh?

Misha gripped his glass so hard his knuckles were turning white. Someone was talking, but he didn't know who. The outside world barely existed when Ilia was this close. It disappeared entirely when Ilia's hand was so close to his dick.

Misha shot Ilia a look when he felt that hand reach into his pocket. What the fuck was he doing? He knew nobody else could see where Ilia's hand was, but Misha's casual act was slipping away by the second.

Ilia's hand found Misha's wallet, sliding it out. Misha sighed. If Ilia's hand lingered for a second longer he would've been tenting his jeans. He missed the warmth of his hand so bad it ached.

Ilia was whispering again. "Gonna leave after I finish this drink, okay? Wait a half hour, then come back to our room."

Misha just barely stifled a moan with a cough. Ilia was taking Misha's room key out of his wallet and sliding it back into his pocket before Misha had even recovered from his words. To the rest of their friends, Ilia must've looked like he was translating, not making Misha's head swim. He nodded silently, eyes a little dazed when they met Ilia's again. Okay. You called it our room. If you touch me again like that I'm gonna get hard right here and not even make it to our room. Our room. Our room. Ours. 

Ilia just gave him that half-smirk that made Misha want to climb into his skin and live there. He finished his vodka cranberry, washed it down with a sip of Misha's screwdriver. Misha was already dreading the loss of Ilia's body against his.

Misha's head was somewhere far away, but even he knew how ridiculous Ilia's excuse of being too tired to hang sounded. Ilia made his way around the table, giving goodnight hugs and doing his best to act too tired to stay. Misha was last, giving Ilia a brief side hug from where he sat. Ilia followed his fake goodnight with only a half hour, okay? You can make it.

He knew he could make it. Ilia wanted him to. Anything Ilia wanted, always.

Misha made himself endure 26 minutes of conversations he couldn't focus on before he excused himself. Two minutes for goodbyes, two minutes to make it back to his room, and he wouldn't have to wait more than a second longer than he had to.

His fingers were trembling as he pressed the elevator buttons, as he knocked on his hotel door. Something about it thrilled him. Ilia was in his room, making himself comfortable and making Misha invite himself into it. He wanted to come home to Ilia forever.

Ilia looks like an angel as he opens the door. His hair is damp and he smells like Misha's shampoo. The shampoo Ilia said smelled good once, and Misha's brought with him every time since. Ilia is in a pair of his sweatpants and his favorite shirt of Misha's, the one he packs every single time he knows there might be later. He's in Misha's clothes and they fit like they're his own. They practically are, really. Misha only wears that shirt when he's missing Ilia back in Almaty. The shirt is his, but its Ilia's because everything is Ilia's. everything Misha has, everything he is, belongs to Ilia.

Ilia steps aside with a shy smile, letting Misha into his own room. His own room that Ilia showered in, with his suitcase that Ilia went through and his bed that Ilia waited for him on. Misha couldn't kiss him fast enough.

Misha walks him further into their room and they're both smiling as they kiss and its so unfair that Misha cant have this every day of his life. He's smiling too hard for Ilia to even kiss him properly anymore. Ilia kisses the corner of his mouth, his cheeks, his jaw, his neck. He can't kiss him enough, it's never enough.

"Made yourself at home?" Misha's tone is teasing in the way he knows Ilia loves. He's running his hands up and down Ilia's waist, addicted to feeling Ilia's body heat through his shirt. Their shirt.

He can feel Ilia smiling into his neck before he speaks. "Yeah, well, you were taking forever."

"It was thirty minutes!" Misha's cheeks are sore from smiling. He can't stop.

"It was not." Ilia's tone was deadpan, but his smile was bright. God, he loved Ilia like this. His eyes always shined so beautifully when he got playful, when he wanted Misha to play this game.

"Yes, it was! I made sure it was exactly thirty minutes!" Ilia meets his eyes again. Misha's so thankful for it. He had already started to miss them.

Ilia is doing his best to hide his smile, his lips twitching at the corners. "I can leave."

He shoves Ilia onto the bed, climbing on top of him. He loves this game so much. Ilia only wants to play this game when he truly feels comfortable. When Ilia is like this, he wants Misha to prove how much he wants it. He gets bratty, making Misha earn his submission. Making him work for it.

Misha would play this game every single time if he could. Ilia only pushed like this when he was confident Misha wouldn't run away. Misha wishes he was brave enough to tell him he never would. Ilia could push and push and push and Misha would still be here, still work for it. He would play any game Ilia wanted if it earned him another later.

He kisses Ilia again. "No, you can't." He's trying to sound stern and failing miserably.

Ilia pretends to try to escape just to feel Misha pin him down. "What, am I trapped here?" Ilia's smile is breaking through and Misha's heart sings.

"Yeah, I'm keeping you here forever." Misha's answer is braver than usually lets himself be. He's too happy to care. He catches a glimpse of how hard Ilia is blushing before they're kissing again.

They keep kissing and Misha's in heaven. He could do this forever, but Ilia is needy. He's grabbing at the hem of Misha's shirt, twisting his head to the side to complain. "Why are your clothes still on?" Misha can't help but laugh.

It almost hurts get off Ilia, but the visual of Ilia frantically shedding his clothes while he empties his pockets onto the nightstand makes his brain short-circuit. Ilia didn't have any underwear on underneath his sweatpants and Misha groans like he's in pain. Ilia's just so fucking beautiful and he's naked in Misha's bed. Misha manages to take off everything except his underwear before he needs to be on top of Ilia again.

He slides his hand up Ilia's bare thigh, relishing in the whimper he's rewarded with. The path of his fingers is slow, up his thigh and around his ass and—

Oh, god.

Ilia is wet. The skin around his hole is tacky with lube and when Misha presses his finger against the ring of muscle it gives, swallowing the digit all the way to the first knuckle.

God, this isn't fair. How could Ilia do this? He showered in Misha's shower, dressed himself in Misha's clothes, and fucked himself open on Misha's bed. How is Misha supposed to survive long enough to leave this room? How is he ever supposed to go without this again? 

"Didn't wanna waste time. Just wanna feel you." Ilia's words make Misha's supporting arm give out entirely. He collapses onto Ilia, taking heaving breaths, afraid he's going to pass out from lust. The room was fucking spinning and his heart is pulsing behind his eyes. It feels like Ilia punched straight through his chest and wrapped his fist around his heart.

Ilia. Oh, Ilia. His Ilia. Did he really think that Misha fingering him was a waste of time? That Misha doesn't dream of watching Ilia fall apart on his hand, knowing that it wasn't even all that he could give him? Misha is so delirious that the thought nearly makes him cry. A waste of time. How can Ilia not know what he does to him? It hardly even computes that Ilia doesn't know how much Misha needs this. Needs him.

Misha's mouth is moving before he can stop it. Ilia in his bed, pliant and giving and desperate to be fucked breaks down the filter he's spent years upholding. "You got this wet waiting for me?"

Ilia moans with such force Misha can see his chest shake with it. "Fuck, yeah, I did."

His Ilyusha, so fucking brave all the time. His face was so red Misha could feel the heat radiating off of it and he was still so brave. Misha always had a feeling that he would like to be spoken to like this, but had never been brave enough to try it. Ilia carried so much, being Ilia Malinin demanded so much. To stop being Ilia Malinin in Misha's bed and to just submit to desire was a very brave thing to do. His brave boy. Brave enough to pretend that his desperation to be fucked found new ways to present itself, to say that he gets wet for Misha like he can't even help it.

Arousal was burning Misha from the inside out. "Fuck, Ilyusha, that's—fuck, that's slutty."

Ilia's spine curls off the mattress as Misha slides in another finger, fucks them in and out. "So pretty like this, 'lyusha. Wanna keep you like this forever. W'nna come home to you like this." 

He's saying too much. He's beyond fantasy, baring his soul to Ilia through the haze of desire. Ilia knows him so well, Ilia is going to know he means it. He's saying too fucking much and he's going to ruin this and he can't even stop himself.

Any hope Misha had of shutting up is ruined by Ilia frantically nodding, flushing down his neck and across his chest. Fuck, he likes it.

"Yeah? You like that? Tell me you want it." His words sound far away. Far away from his ears, far away from how he usually speaks to Ilia.

"Wan'it." Ilia's eyes are full of unshed tears. Misha's so fucking hard he can barely even see.

He gives Ilia a third finger. "Yeah, you want it. Made for it. Made to be my—fuck—my wife."

Fuck, it's too far. It's too fucking far and he knows it. Misha's eyes widen when he realizes what he said, trying to focus on Ilia's face.

Ilia starts crying.

Not his usual crying. He's cried before, when the pleasure is so intense he can barely take it. It scared Misha the first few times, but Ilia always gave him a fucked out smile, told him he was okay.

There's no smile now. He's gasping for air, squeezing his eyes shut and throwing his arm over his face.

The lava running through Misha's veins suddenly turns to ice. The haze breaks. All the thoughts he had about ruining Ilia are replaced by thoughts of putting him back together, of finding a way to fix this.

His fingers slide out of Ilia slowly, which only makes Ilia cry harder. Fuck, the wires of both of their brains are tangled beyond recognition and Misha thinks he's going to be sick.

"Ilia, Ilia, talk to me. What's happening?" He knows he sounds panicked and he hates himself for it. He wants to be strong for Ilia but he's so fucking scared and he's about to cry too.

""s fine, just fuck me already. Need you to fuck me, please." Ilia's voice is so weak it breaks something inside Misha. Ilia's shutting down, trying to hide. He has to tell Ilia no and he fucking hates it.

"I can't, malysh. Not 'til you talk to me." He holds Ilia's face with his clean hand, turning his jaw to face him.

Ilia's voice is barely audible. "Don't make me say it." He almost looks angry. It's flaying Misha open, breaking his fucking heart that he has to make Ilia be brave when he's already given him so much.

"Ilia." His name is loaded as he whispers it. Don't make me beg. Don't make me be mean. Tell me. You're brave. Tell me.

A sob rattles Ilia's entire frame. He's so fragile like this. His eyes squeeze shut again, hiding as much as he can. "I w'na be your wife and 'm not even your boyfriend."

The ground falls out from underneath Misha. Suddenly it feels like he's drowning. His body is twisting inside out, every inch of his skin being doused in Ilia's nervous energy. He only knew he was crying when he felt a tear slide off of his face onto Ilia's skin.

The inches between their mouths suddenly felt unbearable. He no longer cared about oxygen because he couldn't drink it from Ilia's lungs. The kiss is bruising, all teeth and tongue and the salt of their tears. Misha loved it. Fuck, he loved it so much. Loved this. He loved Ilia so much he could barely stand it.

"'m sorry, 'lyusha, so sorry." He couldn't pull Ilia close enough, kissing all over his face and neck as Ilia gasped for air.

"'s okay." Ilia's voice is small and unconvincing.

"No, 's not okay. I should've made you my boyfriend. I'm sorry, malysh. Forgive me. Fuck, please forgive me." He can't stop crying.

"Misha."

He recognizes that tone. It's the tone Ilia uses when he's begging for mercy, when Misha is overloading his senses and it's more than he can take. The tone Ilia uses when he's so desperate to come it scares him. When he's so beyond blissed out he's shooting blanks. Misha hates that his cock twitches. Hates that he's still unbearably hard.

"You already are, aren't you?"

Ilia makes a wet, confused noise as Misha's hand trails south again.

"Should've made you my boyfriend a long time ago." His fingers find Ilia's hole again. "I hold you, I kiss you, I fuck you. You wear my clothes, sleep in my bed." They're sliding in and out again, gentler this time. "Never wanted anyone else. Never had anyone else. Only you, malysh." 

"Only ever been you, Misha. J'st you."

The words nearly kill him on impact. Fuck, he wants to tell Ilia he loves him so bad. He can't, not like this. Not when they're fucking and Ilia can convince himself it was just a fantasy. The words are caught in his throat and he seals his mouth shut with a frenzied kiss, blindly reaching for the drawer on the nightstand.

The bottle of lube hits the bed first, and Ilia's hands are clutching at Misha's arm before he can pull out a condom.

"Nonononono, please, don't need it." 

"Ilyusha." 

"Never been anyone else, right? Don't need them with your wife. Lemme feel it."

Holy fucking shit.

It's a miracle the words didn't make Misha come instantly. They're so dirty, from somewhere so deep Misha's fantasies that he never let himself think too hard about them. Those nights back in Almaty when he had nothing but his hand and his memories, the fantasy of fucking Ilia raw was his favorite. The fantasy of finally feeling every part of Ilia at once, of Ilia trusting him enough to let him, would get him off so fast it was almost embarrassing.

And now here he was, Ilia squirming underneath him, begging for it. Calling himself Misha's wife.

Ilia was right, wasn't he?

It's only ever been each other. He didn't need a condom to fuck his wife, did he?

It's like Ilia can see the gears turning in Misha's head, brain trying to come back online after Ilia shut it down a few seconds ago. He reached for Misha's waistband, holding Misha's eyes as he slid his fingers inside.

"Cmon, lyubimiyy. Give it to me."

Anything Ilia wants. Always.

Misha's fingers trembled as he sat back on his ankles, pushed his underwear past his thighs. He couldn't uncap the lube fast enough, hoping his body was flushed hot enough to warm it faster on his skin. Every second without being inside Ilia felt like absolute fucking torture. He felt tears start pricking his eyes again as Ilia reached for his shoulders, pulling Misha's chest to his. The blood in his body stood still as he lined himself up with Ilia's hole.

"You're sure?" The words are wrenched from his chest, so thick with desperation that he wondered if Ilia could taste it when he kissed him. The universe has mercy on him, Ilia only whispering a quiet yeah against his lips. Anything more would've stopped Misha's heart before he could push inside.

He guides Ilia's leg up to his shoulder, desperate for any sort of leverage, any anchor to Earth. Ilia's body gives no resistance, muscles still loose from the show that night, and Misha nearly sobs. His Ilia, always so willing. He presses a kiss to Ilia's calf as a thank you. Ilia whines, and Misha can't deny him any longer.

Oh, fuck.

Ffffffuck.

Fucking hell.

Misha can't see anymore. Are his eyes closed? He's not sure. He doesn't know where he is, if he's even breathing. He's suspended in space, nothing existing that's not hot and tight and Ilia. It's never felt like this before. He's never felt anything so intense in his fucking life.

He must still be moving, he must have bottomed out at some point. There's a heat and a pressure on his pelvis, and Ilia is crying out. 

Ilia.

Misha can see now, and he's so thankful for it that he's crying again. Ilia looks so beautiful. He's falling apart on Misha's cock, panting and tear-streaked and looking at Misha with more reverence than he ever thought he deserved. He's so flushed, red down his neck and heaving chest. He's flailing against the mattress, seeking purchase for his free leg, his hands. He's getting fucked raw and he's falling apart and he's letting Misha do this to him.

Misha is deathly still. There was always a moment like this when they fucked, part of their dance. If he started moving his hips now, he might hurt Ilia. Even worse, he would come. He would hurt Ilia and he wouldn't even last long enough to make him feel good.

He allows himself to move just a few inches, peeling Ilia's hand off his shoulder and pressing it into the mattress next to his head. Misha's talking and he doesn't even care to stop himself. Not when he finally has Ilia like this.

"What hand?"

Ilia interrupts his string of whines and moans with a confused huh? He sounds so sweet, always does.

"My wife needs a ring, yes? They go on our right hands back home. Don't Americans wear them on the left?"

Misha watches the question wash over Ilia. His eyes flutter, mouth dropping open. His back peels off the mattress, arching into Misha above him. His cock twitches against Misha's stomach, leaving a trail of precum in its wake. Ilia's moan is downright pornographic.

"Fuck me. Oh, god, fuck me. Please."

Misha must be possessed. He has no other explanation for the teasing way he grinds his hips, draws them back slowly. He's torturing Ilia and he knows it. "What hand?"

"I—I dunno," Ilia almost sounds defeated. His brain is melting and he can't get what's left to formulate an answer, crying because he thinks he won't get fucked without one. It's so fucking hot. "You pick for me."

Misha's hips snap back into Ilia so fast it surprises them both.

His sweet Ilyusha. Always, always, always so sweet. Ilia, who wanted to be sweet for him all the time. Always so pliant and so willing. Willing to be fucked raw, willing to be his boyfriend. Willing to wear a wedding ring, willing to let Misha chose which finger he wore it on. Willing to be his wife.

Misha's thrusts are precise, a direct path to the most sensitive parts of Ilia. The place inside him where only Misha has been.

"You're mine." It's not a firm statement. He says it with the same tone as when he reviews instructions out loud, seeking confirmation. Ilia whimpers at the words all the same.

"Yeah, yeah. Always—hah—always been yours." Ilia's nose bumps into Misha's as he nods.

"My Ilyusha. My fucking wife." Ilia preens under the words.

"Yeah. n'you're mine too." Ilia's so far gone that he's slurring his words, accents mixing in a fucked out daze. Misha needs to make him come right fucking now.

He reaches for Ilia's cock, only for his hand to be swatted away.

"No. Don't touch it. Wanna come just like this."

It's like Misha's soul leaves his body through his dick.

He can barely breathe. He knows he moans too loud but he doesn't care. He can't bring himself to care about fucking anything because Ilia wants him to make him come hands free.

Of course he's fantasized about it. He's thought about making Ilia feel good in every way his brain could conjure up. But this fucks him up. The idea that Ilia loves getting fucked so much that it's all he needs to come is so fucking hot he can barely stand it.

His brain narrows in on a single-minded focus of giving Ilia what he needs. He's too fucking close. He won't have enough time to make Ilia come like this. He slows his hips down despite his body protesting. He's going to have to give Ilia everything he fucking has. 

The static blacking out his vision dissipates enough to see Ilia's face. He's pouting, eyes watering. God, he really loves getting fucked, doesn't he? Misha curses under his breath before kissing the pout off of Ilia's lips. 

He throws Ilia's other leg over his shoulder, folding him in half. He can feel how deep he is, and Ilia all but shouts at the shift in angle.

His pace is brutal, a constant assault on Ilia's prostate leveraged by Misha's entire body weight. Misha's never been this deep and he can't hold back anymore.

"You think you can come for me like this? Just from—ahh—just from getting fucked?"

"Please, please, please." Ilia's head is thrashing against the pillow, overloaded with pleasure only Misha can give him.

"Good boy, always so sweet, yeah?" He grips the headboard for leverage, putting everything he fucking has into each thrust.

"Misha."

"Love how sweet you are, malysh. Even when you're getting fucked." Pleasure is pulsing through Misha's spine and oh no, he's wants to say it. He's going to say it and he can't stop himself. He's wanted to say it for so long, he's waited so long. He knows he should wait but he can't, not when Ilia's eyes meet his and he's looking at Misha like that. He loves Ilia so much and he doesn't know if he can go another second without Ilia knowing it.

He's saying anything that he can think of that isn't those three words. "You feel so fucking good like this, Ilyusha. S'like you were made to made to take dick." It's the dirtiest thing he's ever fucking said. If he was of sound mind, the words would make him blush and apologize. Not now, though. Not when his orgasm is chasing him down and Ilia has to come first.

He knows Ilia is close. He knows how Ilia looks when he's on the brink of release, memorized the sight long ago. He just needs to hold out a little longer, and then he can come and tell Ilia he loves him and Ilia will know he means it.

Ilia's voice is so hushed he nearly misses it.

"Yours."

"What?"

"Made to take yours."

He moans far louder than he should. Someone is going to hear him, but he can't help it. It's the least of his concerns, anyway, because Misha's gonna tell him. He can't help himself with anything anymore.

"I love you. Oh, god, I love you. I didn't wanna tell you like this, wanted to wait, m'sorry. Iloveyouiloveyouiloveyou—"

He feels Ilia come before he even registers that he's watching it. Ilia didn't ask for permission like he usually did and it's so fucking hot. Ilia's so blissed out that he broke one of his own rules and it happened when Misha said he loved him. Ilia's squeezing his dick like a fucking vice and he's moaning so fucking loud and Misha can't fucking take it. He's trying so hard to fuck Ilia through it but Ilia just keeps fucking coming and Misha's so close that he's crying too.

"Where? Where? Ilyusha, where—"

"'nside." 

Misha is pretty sure he blacks out. Pleasure might as well have severed his fucking brain stem. But he knows that he gives Ilia what he wants. His body could be torn to shreds, split apart cell by cell, and he knows that his final act would be giving Ilia what he wants.

Anything Ilia wants. Always.

Misha comes back to life before Ilia manages to. He usually does. He's always loved this moment, when he can admire Ilia still lost in space. Getting fucked always took so much out of Ilia, both physically and mentally. He gets so fragile and it's the most beautiful thing Misha's ever seen.

There is nobody else in the world that Ilia trusts enough to do this dance with, to guide him back down to Earth. Ilia hates talking when he's like this, but also hates not getting what he wants. Anything can makes him embarrassed, even if Misha likes the aftercare just as much as the sex itself. Misha's perfected the steps of this dance. Nobody else has learned Ilia like this. Nobody else ever will. If Misha thinks about it too hard he'll start crying again.

Ilia's eyes are gazing right through him, mouth still dropped open. Misha waits there, hovering over Ilia's face, eyes running across his face. Making eye contact with Ilia before he's ready will startle him. He sees Ilia take a few slow blinks, and Misha knows he's ready.

"There you are." Misha's voice is quiet and so unbelievably fond. "I have to pull out, okay? Don't want you to be sore tomorrow."

Ilia's answering whine breaks his heart. He doesn't want to pull out, either. He would die buried inside Ilia if he could. But he knows his Ilyusha, and knows that he hates when he feels sticky everywhere after sex. He's cooing as he pulls out, the visual of his release dripping out of Ilia's hole making his spent cock twitch again.

"Did so good for me, yeah?" He guides Ilia's legs off his shoulders, rubbing one hand up and down Ilia's thighs as he does a cursory cleanup with a tissue. He steals a gentle kiss from Ilia's lips because he can't help it. "C'mon, we're gonna go shower."

He climbed off of Ilia, who made no attempt to move. He still doesn't move when Misha tries to him by his hands, and Misha can see the playful glint in his eyes. Sometimes Ilia wanted the princess treatment, and Misha loves it. Not everyone can carry Ilia to the bathroom on their back, but Misha can.

He sits Ilia on the bathroom counter, bending his knees slightly to twist around and face him. Ilia's giggle makes his heart sing.

He gives Ilia one more kiss, starts the shower, and exits the bathroom. Ilia always wanted a few moments to start the cleanup process on his own, and Misha knew better than to push when Ilia was like this.

He gathers Ilia's pajamas from the floor, grabs his own from his suitcase. He smiles as he's fishing Ilia's contacts case from his bag, the entire scene feeling intimate. The toilet flushes as he places a few packets of fruit snacks and two fresh water bottles on the nightstand. He almost sighs with relief knowing he can be close to Ilia again.

He pulls Ilia into the shower by his hand, letting him lean his entire weight against Misha's body under the stream. His chest feels so tight that his heart must be growing. He would do anything to have Ilia like this every night, sated and pliant as Misha washes his skin. They've done this more times than Misha can count, and the sweetness still makes his heart race.

Ilia's face is pressed into Misha's neck when he finally speaks. "Y'know I love you too, right?"

It hits Misha's ears like angels singing. He didn't know that Ilia loves him. He was pretty sure, and he was trying to be patient after he said it. Of course he wanted to hear it back, so bad it was killing him, but he knows Ilia. Knows what Ilia needs. Knew that he needed time.

He's smiling again when he speaks. "Yeah?"

"'m sorry I couldn't really get the words out earlier."

Underneath the elation, there's a twinge of guilt in Misha's heart. Even when Ilia was floating, he must have felt a bit of guilt at not being able to find his words. His sweet Ilia. He was always so caring. "No, 'ts okay, malysh. That's why I wanted to wait to say it."

Ilia lifts his head, finding Misha's eyes. The determination in them feels so far from where Ilia's brain was just moments ago. "Okay, do over. Tell me again."

"Ilyusha."

He's smiling so hard and his cheeks are so sore and he doesn't even care. He's so unbelievably in love that any ache he feels doesn't even cross his mind.

"C'mon, tell me again." Ilia's smiling too. It's shier, a crooked, vulnerable display. He should pick the hand for Ilia's wedding ring later.

"I love you, Ilyusha."

"I love you too, Mishenka."

He has to kiss Ilia before he cries tears of joy.

The hotel room is dark now, both of them tangled under the sheets. He's holding Ilia from behind, their hands tangled in front of Ilia's chest. Tomorrow is a travel day, a dull bus ride to some other city somewhere. Maybe Ilia will fall asleep in his lap again. Maybe Ilia will take his suitcase to Misha's room when they arrive.

Ilia's barely awake, breathing slow and deep. His tone is just as sleepy as that night all those years ago, when Misha first made him come. "'m your boyfriend, right?"

"Yes, you're my boyfriend." It's not a question. He knows that Ilia doesn't want to make decisions when he feels like this.

Ilia hums and Misha feels it against his chest. "Okay. G'night, Mish."

"Goodnight, Ilyusha." He kisses the back of Ilia's neck. This must be what heaven is like.

He's nearly asleep when Ilia is mumbling again.

"I want a gold ring, by the way."

Anything Ilia wants. Always.

that same night, some city, somewhere