Chapter 3
He listens to Ezra's voice trail off, listens to him take a slow breath like he's meditating.
He knows at any second, Ezra's parents could come back, could realise that they've left their injured son in a room with his biggest rival, could decide to kick Sasha out on his ass.
Or a nurse or doctor could come in, or even fucking Gavin Sterling, which could potentially be worse that Ezra's parents, actually.
Sasha doesn't doubt that he wouldn't hesitate to get physical, to grab Sasha and drag him away, even if it hurts him.
Which, really, Sasha respects about him.
He's glad Ezra's best friend loves him, even if it's detrimental to Sasha.
But, even as his mind swirls around the possibilities of the door behind him swinging open, he can't help but slide a hand over Ezra's back, tucking under the thin fabric of his hospital gown to touch his skin.
It's warm from laying on the bed, but it still feels a little cool to Sasha's touch.
Ezra hums softly.
He presses closer somehow, and Sasha pushes his whole hand under the fabric, tracing the curve of his spine.
"Sasha-a-a..." Ezra sings.
Sasha smiles against Ezra's head.
"Yes, Солнышк," he says softly.
"Can I ask you something?"
"Mm.
Go ahead."
"I was..." Ezra pauses, rubbing his nose along the side of Sasha's neck for a moment before he relaxes again, close enough that his lips brush Sasha's skin.
"I was thinking about you— how you go back to Sarmatia every summer."
Sasha blinks his eyes open.
"Yeah?" he says when Ezra stops again.
"What about it?"
"And, uhm..." Ezra pauses.
"I was thinking.
You don't need to give me an answer right now, right you can— you should think about it."
"What am I thinking about?" Sasha prompts.
Definitely," Ezra says firmly, nodding against Sasha's neck.
"But maybe, if you want.
You should spend the summer with me.
Or part of the summer."
Sasha looks at the wall across from them, above the headboard of the bed.
It's a plain wall, warm brown wood that's probably not actual wood, like the kind of stuff they use to make the desks in hotel rooms.
"At the cottage.
It would be fun," Ezra says, insisting, his voice light and almost musical.
"We could have a week, or maybe two.
We could do this every day.
And we could swim in the lake, and we could watch movies, and I'd cook for you, and we could do this all the time."
This.
Sasha thinks about it, eyes unfocusing, the wall blurring until he can't see the fake grain of the wood.
He thinks about having this all the time, even if only for a week or two, being able to hold Ezra, to cradle him, to listen to him breathe and feel his breath on his skin.
To play with his hair and feel the way he melts, to see him first thing in the morning.
To hear the sounds he makes when he's waking up, when he stretches and rubs his face.
To touch him whenever he wants.
"A-a-and it's really quiet out there," Ezra says.
"Nobody would bother us, or see us.
We would be... completely alone.
Together."
He finishes softly, almost whispering.
Sasha's eyes sting, and his throat tightens.
"You can— You can think about it," Ezra says when Sasha doesn't say anything.
"'S okay.
I know it's... it's kind of a lot, you know, it feels like— like a step, or something—"
"Ezra," Sasha interrupts softly.
"—but I— I hate to think about you going back to Sarmatia and being miserable, and I want you to— to have fun, and to be happy, and I wanna make you happy.
If you let me."
A tear falls down his cheek.
He doesn't remember the last time he cried.
He almost cried on his way over here, when he was in a cab, ignoring the driver's attempts to chat about Sasha's accent.
His throat had tightened, his eyes had stung, and he'd rubbed his nose and bit his lip and done everything in his power to not.
He's not a crier.
He hasn't been since he was old enough to know better, to be scolded by his father and his brother into growing the fuck up.
"Because I..." Ezra is quiet.
He brushes his nose over Sasha's neck again.
"I really care about you, Sasha."
"Ezra," Sasha says finally.
He immediately regrets it, because his voice breaks, and Ezra realises that Sasha is crying.
He sits up, turns to look at Sasha with wide, worried eyes, lips parted like he's in awe.
"Sasha," he says softly, breathlessly.
"You..."
"Sorry," Sasha chokes, looking away, blinking hard, wiping his cheek roughly, but Ezra pulls him back, his arm shifting in its sling like it wants to reach for Sasha.
He wipes Sasha's face for him, brushing his knuckles over Sasha's cheek gently.
"Sorry."
"No, don't," Ezra says, tilting his head to look into Sasha's eyes.
"'S okay, you...
God, you're so fucking beautiful."
Sasha scoffs, letting out a wet laugh, and Ezra's face shines with a smile.
"Sorry, just..." He trails off again, caressing Sasha's cheek again.
"Wow."
Sasha laughs again, shaking his head, and he reaches for Ezra's face too, cradles his cheek gently.
"What's wrong?" Ezra says, looking at Sasha intently.
"Is it— Is it too much?
You can say no, you don't— you don't have to, it's okay, maybe we can— we can VidCall or— or just call while you're gone, you know, 'cause I wanna see you still, and I wanna hear you, and I don't want you to feel lonely while you're away, and I—"
Sasha leans in and kisses him softly to shut him up.
Ezra's hand slides into Sasha's hair, fingers tangling in curls.
Sasha suppresses a sob, squeezing his eyes shut, sliding a hand to cradle the back of Ezra's head as gently as he can.
"Is okay," he says when they part, foreheads pressing.
"Sasha..."
"Ezra, you..." He stops, sniffling, pulling away just to look at him.
His eyes are shining now too, glistening like just looking at Sasha crying is enough to break him.
"You are so fucking perfect."
Ezra's head drops as he laughs quietly, tiredly.
"I'm not trying to have a fucking...
moment with you," he says when he lifts his head, smiling.
"This is very serious."
"Very serious," Sasha repeats, nodding.
"You don't need to... to have an answer now," Ezra says.
I think it would be really fun."
"What would we do?" Sasha says, wiping his cheek quickly again.
Ezra watches, his head tilting like he's curious before he leans down again, resting against Sasha's chest.
Sasha tugs him a little closer as gently as he can.
"Mmm...
We could sleep in. Take naps together.
And we could work out together.
Or I could watch you work out because you're hot."
His cheeks flush with warmth, and he's glad Ezra's head is down so he can't see it.
It's stupid that he still affects Sasha like this, still manages to fluster him even after they've done this for so long.
It's hot, the idea of Ezra just sitting and watching him, sitting on a bench or maybe the floor, eyes scanning Sasha's muscles, shining with sweat.
Maybe he'd touch himself, hand tucked under his pants while Sasha uses the weights.
"We could get drunk," Ezra says lightly.
"You could bring that awful vodka you like."
"Is very good vodka."
"Whatever.
We could just hang out," Ezra says, shrugging.
"Without worrying about... sneaking around, or— or people seeing us.
We could..."
He falls quiet for a moment, breathing, nudging his nose against Sasha's neck.
Sasha brushes a hand through his hair.
"We could just be normal," Ezra says quietly.
"For a little while, instead of...
We can just be boys."
Sasha exhales.
Ezra sounds mournful, sad, and Sasha wonders if he grieves what they could have too, if he thinks too much about the possibilities if they weren't...
Whatever they are.
Famous.
Celebrity athletes.
Sarmatian, on Sasha's part.
An immigrant, kind of.
Almost.
Boys.
Gay.
If they were different, if they were nameless, faceless, if they weren't recognisable in public and didn't have their names in magazines and on TV, if they weren't so fucking passionate.
If hockey wasn't everything to them.
Almost everything.
Really, if Ezra asked Sasha to quit, Sasha would do it in a heartbeat.
It scares Sasha, how much Ezra means to him, how much Sasha fucking loves him, even if he refuses to say it aloud, to use that word.
It scares him that Ezra drowns out everything, the way he's taken over Sasha's entire life.
Sasha doesn't think he's ever really cared about hockey the way Ezra does.
He was good at it, he thinks, so he just... kept going.
Kept practicing, kept improving, kept impressing.
It was his, when he didn't have anything else.
He was lonely, and tired, and he was sad.
His father was cruel and sick, spiralling downward before he was even diagnosed, and his brother was mean, and his mother was dead, but he had hockey.