13Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡYvb1Y5Nvy2Artyom knocked twice with his knuckles, short and sharp.
"Yeah?"
He walked in and pulled the door shut behind him, as if cutting off any route of retreat. Vlad was sitting on the bed, absorbed in his phone. When he saw Artyom, he drew the headphones slowly down around his neck. His expression still, watchful made the silence in the room feel almost physical.
"Sokolov?"
"I want you to promise me something." Artyom didn't come any closer than three steps.
Vlad stood. He was fractionally taller, and in that small room his presence seemed to take up more than its share of the air.
"Promise you what?"
"That it won't happen again. What happened on New Year's Eve. In the shower." Artyom swallowed, feeling his voice turn wooden against his will. "None of it. Not any of it."
"I already promised."
"Promise me again!" Artyom took a step forward, forcing himself to hold Lebedev's dark gaze. "I mean it, Vlad. No touching. No 'accidental' looks. No " he faltered, searching for the right word and finding only blank space, " nothing. We're housemates. Stepbrothers. That's all."
Vlad was quiet for so long that Artyom became aware of the blood in his own ears.
"Promise," he said again, more quietly. "Or I can't be responsible for what I do."
Something cracked in Vlad's eyes. Understanding? Or hope, fine as a razor's edge?
"What do you mean, can't be responsible?" he asked, almost in a whisper.
"I mean I'll leave. I'll find a room, a cupboard in a student hall, anything, as long as "
"As long as you don't have to be near me?"
"Yes."
That single syllable hung between them like a final verdict. Vlad looked away first. A crooked, humourless smile touched his lips.
"I promise."
"You mean it?"
"Yes, Sokolov. I promise." He moved to the window, turning his back and pulling the headphones back on, as if Artyom had already ceased to exist. "No looks. We're just housemates."
Artyom went out. He leaned against the cold wall on the other side of the door and closed his eyes. He had expected the iron band around his chest to spring loose, to feel lighter. Instead there was only a grey, viscous murk.
"Why do I feel so terrible?"
* * *
The monotonous drone of the engine lulled the team toward sleep. The air inside the coach was stale and heavy: the smell of worn trainers, cheap crisps, and exhaustion. Beyond the windows, in the absolute dark, the occasional skeleton of a tree flashed past in the headlights.
Artyom sat by the window with his forehead against the cold glass. The vibration of the road travelled up into his teeth. Across the aisle, Voronov snored with a steady rhythm; somewhere behind him, Misha murmured something incoherent in his sleep. But Artyom couldn't sleep. He felt it on his skin, at the back of his neck that gaze. Vlad was sitting two rows behind him. And he wasn't sleeping. He was watching.
A week at home. Seven days in the same house since he'd come back. Artyom closed his eyes, and the memories came flooding in like a broken dam.
He had returned that same evening. Not for Vlad's sake, for his mother's. Irina had thrown her arms around him in the doorway.
"Tyomochka! God, I was so worried. Why didn't you call?"
Artyom had held her, breathing in the familiar scent of her perfume, and felt the suffocating weight of guilt wash over him.
"Sorry, Mom. Exams, training..."
Viktor had appeared from the study and shaken his hand firmly.
"Glad you're back. Your mother was beside herself."
And then Vlad had materialised in the living room doorway. Their eyes crossed for a single second, like a short-circuit, and Artyom had looked away immediately.
But perpetual evasion was impossible. On the fourth night, he broke.
It was around four in the morning. Insomnia had scoured his brain hollow. Artyom went to the bathroom, hoping cold water might wash Vlad's image from his head. The corridor was sunk in darkness, and only a thin blade of light showed under the bathroom door.
He should have turned back. Should have knocked. But his fingers pushed the unlocked door open on their own.
Vlad was standing at the sink. Barefoot, in nothing but boxers. His back was taut, his shoulder blades sharp and prominent. One hand gripped the edge of the sink; the other was hidden beneath the fabric of his underwear.
Artyom went completely still. Vlad slowly raised his head. Their eyes met in the mirror.
Time seemed to thicken.
Vlad didn't flinch. Didn't cover himself. He went on looking at Artyom in the glass, pupils dark and dilated, breathing heavy. It was a challenge. Naked, unashamed provocation.
Artyom felt a sharp, aching jolt go through him from his pyjama bottoms all the way up. Horror and desire knotted into a single tight mass. He turned and fled, barely missing the door frame.
He slid down the inside of his bedroom door and sat on the floor, jaw clenched until his teeth ached.
"We won't hold out. I won't hold out."
* * *
The coach lurched hard on a sharp bend. Artyom's head cracked against the cold glass.
He startled, surfacing from the feverish memory into the stuffy reality of the coach. Behind him someone stirred; Misha made a small sound in his sleep. Artyom rubbed his temple, staring into the darkness outside the window, but his heart kept beating in the rhythm of that evening the evening his parents had gone out.
* * *
The evening after, his parents left.
"Will you boys make dinner?" Irina smiled from the doorway. "You're grown men, you can manage."
They were left alone in the house. The narrow kitchen became a trap. Artyom chopped vegetables, feeling every movement Vlad made at the stove as if his back had eyes. When Lebedev reached past him for a knife, their fingers met. It wasn't an accidental graze it was a jolt of current. Both of them froze. Artyom could feel the heat radiating from Vlad's skin.
"Sorry," he muttered, pulling his hand back.
"It's fine," Vlad said, but he didn't move away.
They finished dinner in silence. Served the food, sat down at the table facing each other. Artyom stared at his plate. He had no appetite. He wanted only one thing: for this evening to be over.
"About yesterday morning " Vlad's voice was low and rough.
"Don't." Artyom cut him off. His hands were shaking. "I didn't see anything."
Vlad leaned back in his chair.
"You're lying. You stood in the doorway and watched. And you got hard."
Artyom's face burned.
"Shut up. We had an agreement."
"I'm not doing anything. Just telling the truth. Does it bother you that much, Sokolov?"
Artyom shoved back from the table, grabbed his plate and dumped it in the sink. The water came on, covering the sound of his ragged breathing. Footsteps behind him. Vlad came up close his breath grazed the back of Artyom's neck.
"Turn around."
"No."
"Turn around and say it to my face."
Artyom turned slowly. Vlad had his hands braced on the counter on either side of him, trapping him.
"Push me away," Vlad whispered. His face was only a few centimetres off. "Tell me you don't want this. And I'll go. Right now."
Artyom looked at his mouth those lips whose taste he still felt in his sleep. His own 'no' had lodged in his throat and turned to a rasp. He couldn't. He didn't want to.
Vlad tilted his head, their breath became one.
A sharp, rattling buzz at the door. The neighbour.
* * *
Artyom looked at his own reflection in the coach window. He looked broken.
The worst part wasn't that Vlad was breaking his promise with every single look. The worst part was that Artyom was no longer sure he wanted him to keep it.
The coach exhaled a hiss of air and stopped. Outside was night grey and wet and starless. Street lamps lay in puddles; the lights in the houses were sparse, the whole city already deep in sleep.
Artyom checked his phone: 00:12.
Midnight.
"We're here, boys! Rise and shine!" the coach called out.
* * *
Artyom was the last one off, working the stiffness from his legs. Seven hours on the road, not one of them spent sleeping. He'd sat by the window and watched the landscape change and tried not to think about Vlad sitting two rows behind him.
After that evening in the kitchen they had barely spoken. The neighbour's doorbell had arrived at precisely the wrong moment, and Artyom had retreated to his room. Since then the two of them had moved through the house like a pair of ghosts, skirting each other, avoiding even accidental eye contact.
And then Boris Petrovich had announced an away game.
* * *
"Alright, listen up!" The coach clapped once, pulling the room to attention. "The administrator is about to hand out room keys. Two per room, same as always."
Artyom stood beside Voronov, already looking forward to a quiet evening with someone who snored but at least didn't drive him out of his mind.
"Voronov and Misha Kuzmin, room 214. Kostin and Avgeev, 215. Sokolov and " Artyom tensed. " Lebedev, 216."
The world stopped.
"Boris Petrovich " Artyom stepped forward. "Could we swap? I could go with Voronov "
"Sokolov, you're captain. Lebedev's the best forward we've got. You two need to work as a unit." The coach fixed him with a long, flat look. "I don't care what your issue is. Sort it out. On the ice you need to be one person."
"But "
"Not up for discussion."
Boris Petrovich turned away and went on handing out keys. Artyom stood with his room card and felt the floor drop out from under him.
"Come on, Sokolov." Vlad's voice behind him, low and perfectly neutral. "The sooner we go up, the sooner this is over."
Artyom didn't turn around. He just walked to the lift.
* * *
The room was small.
Two beds with a nightstand and lamp between them. A window with a view of the car park. A wardrobe, a television, a bathroom door. Standard, characterless.
And yet the room felt miniature. Because Vlad was in it, a metre away, and the air between them hummed with tension.
Artyom dropped his bag on the nearest bed.
"I'm having a shower."
Without waiting for a response, he grabbed his towel and shut himself in the bathroom. Leaned back against the door.
Breathe in. Breathe out.
"One night. Just one night. I can manage."
He turned the water on cold and stood under it. Let his body freeze, let his thoughts go numb. Let him forget the way Vlad had cornered him in the kitchen, the way their lips had almost met, the way.
Stop.
Artyom drove his fist into the tiles.
"Enough. There's a game tomorrow. Focus."
He came out fifteen minutes later. Vlad was lying on his bed, phone in hand, and didn't even glance up.
Artyom got into bed and faced the wall.
"Good night," Vlad said into the dark.
Artyom said nothing.
* * *
He barely slept.
He lay there listening to Vlad's breathing and couldn't get him out of his head. Every rustle, every quiet exhale struck him like a bell being rung.
By morning he felt like something had driven over him.
"You alright?" Voronov asked at breakfast, studying his face.
"Fine."
"You look awful."
"Thank you, Voronov. Really helpful."
Voronov snorted but left it at that.
* * *
The game started at three.
From the first few minutes Artyom knew something was wrong.
He was slower than usual. His reactions lagged. Passes flew wide of their mark. Several times he lost the puck in situations where he would never have lost it if he were himself.
"Sokolov, wake up!" Boris Petrovich snapped after the first period.
Artyom nodded. Clenched his jaw.
"Get it together. You're captain. The team is watching you."
The second period was worse.
He stepped onto the ice and felt Vlad's gaze immediately. Heavy and fixed. Vlad played his usual way aggressive, relentless, effective. He scored once, set up two more.
And Artyom kept dropping.
After another lost puck he caught Vlad's eye across the rink. In those brown eyes was something unexpected. Not mockery. Not satisfaction. Something that looked like understanding. Like guilt.
Artyom was the one who looked away.
They lost three-two. Vlad had scored twice, but it wasn't enough. Artyom scored nothing.
* * *
The locker room was quiet despite the fact that a few of the lads were trying to talk about the match, a noise that was really an attempt to fill the oppressive emptiness. Everyone understood that key moments had been dropped. And everyone, in their own way, had seen that their captain hadn't been himself tonight.
Artyom sat in the corner of the bench, unlacing his skates with slow, deliberate movements. His hands usually sure and quick, were trembling. He kept his eyes down, but he could feel their looks on him: bewildered, disappointed, or worse, pitying. Each one landed like a blow. Something heavy had hardened in his chest, woven out of shame and a furious self-contempt.
"I let them down. I specifically let them down."
He was staring at his shaking fingers and thinking one thing: a captain cannot be the weakest link. A captain cannot allow a personal failure to become the team's failure.
Because he couldn't stop thinking about a person who was sitting three metres away and pretending he didn't exist.
The voices around him came as if through water. Voronov was telling some story; Misha laughed; someone discussed the goals.
"Hey, Sokolov!" Voronov called over. "We're going to a restaurant after showers. You coming?"
Artyom lifted his head. Nodded.
"Yeah. I'll come."
He had to go. He was captain. He couldn't sit in the hotel room while his team went out together.
Even if everything inside him hurt.
* * *
The team had been invited for dinner that evening.
It was a tradition after away games. The home team hosted their visitors at a restaurant everyone ate, drank, traded stories. A standard hockey ritual.
Artyom didn't want to go. But as captain, he had no choice.
The restaurant was loud and overcrowded. The two teams merged at long tables, waiters moved through the noise with loaded trays, and someone had already ordered the first bottle of vodka.
Artyom sat at the end of the table, between Voronov and Misha. Vlad had settled at the far end, beside some of the home team's players.
The dinner stretched on forever.
Artyom pushed food around his plate, gave one-word answers to questions, counted the minutes until he could leave.
"Hey, Sokolov!" The captain of the home team a big man with a shaved head raised his glass. "We're hitting a club after dinner. Come with us?"
"No, thanks. We've got an early departure tomorrow."
"Come on! One night won't kill you."
"Sorry, I can't."
The shaved-headed man smirked. Exchanged a glance with his teammates.
"Right. Your captain's a straight arrow." He scanned their table. "No wonder you lost tonight. Captain's a coward, team's a bunch of"
He didn't finish. The sound of a chair scraping back cut through the noise like a gunshot. Artyom hadn't stood up he had simply risen to his full height, palms flat on the table. There was no aggression in the movement, only a cold, dangerous precision.
"Finish that," he said, very quietly. Quietly enough that a hush fell around him. "About my team. Go ahead and finish it."
The silence became absolute. The shaved-headed man swallowed when he looked into Artyom's eyes.
"I "
"You had something to say about my guys?" Every syllable in Artyom's voice was honed to a point.
It wasn't only Vlad who was on his feet. Voronov came up, then Misha, Kostya, the whole of their end of the table. In silence, with identical stone faces. They weren't even looking at the other team every eye was on their captain, waiting for his signal.
"Forget it," the shaved-headed man muttered, dropping his gaze. "Bad joke."
"Very," Artyom said, in the same even tone. He sat down slowly, without looking away. "Don't make that joke again. Ever."
A pause. The other man held his gaze for a moment.
"Fine," he said, dropping back into his seat. But the contempt in his eyes was scorching.
Artyom turned to his team.
"Sit down. It's handled."
The boys sat, still throwing dark looks across the table.
Vlad hadn't moved. He was standing as if nailed to the floor, watching the captain.
"Vlad. Sit down."
Vlad lowered himself slowly. His jaw stayed locked for the rest of the meal, and his eyes never left Artyom.
* * *
Artyom was the first one out of the restaurant. He paused in the doorway to nod briefly at the neighbouring table.
"Thanks for the company," he said to the home team.
"Likewise. You played hard," someone replied.
His boys filed out behind him, forming a loose, untidy group. After a few steps Artyom turned to face them.
"Good effort today. Keep that up."
"You too, Captain," a voice said from somewhere in the cluster.
"Thank you. Good night, everyone."
He turned sharply and walked away at a quick, clipped pace.
"Hey, Captain! "
"I'll go," Vlad cut in. "I'll talk to him."
And without waiting for anyone's response, he set off after Artyom, leaving the team standing in puzzled silence.
Artyom hit the room door hard enough for it to bounce off the wall. He flung his jacket it slid from the chair and fell to the floor. He closed his fists, drew back, and drove one into the wall with everything he had. The plasterboard gave with a dull, muffled thud.
"What are you doing?" Vlad was right behind him, slamming the door.
Artyom stood breathing heavily, knuckles pressed to his forehead.
"I lost us the game," he forced out. "I let them down out there on the ice. Bloody hell." He dragged a hand down his face, smearing the wetness at the corner of his eyes. "I'm a terrible captain. Completely useless."
Vlad stepped forward, blocking him from the wall.
"Shut up."
Artyom lowered his hand. His eyes were burning.
"You went out there tonight," Vlad said, cutting each word clean. "Yes, you weren't at your best. But you were there. You didn't quit. And in that restaurant you stopped us from a brawl that would have sent every one of us home early." He paused, looking straight at Artyom. "You're the best captain I've ever played under."
Artyom blinked. Something swelled in his throat, half feeling, half fury.
"What?"
"You heard me," Vlad said, not looking away.
"But I I played like garbage. Because of " he stumbled, "because of all of this. Because of us."
Vlad sat down beside him on the bed. Close, but not touching.
"I know." His voice was quiet. "I saw. And that " he dragged a hand through his hair, " that's on me. What's happening between us, I started it. I provoked you. In the shower, in the kitchen "
"Vlad "
"Let me finish." He looked at Artyom. "I don't regret any of it. Not one moment. But I can see it's pulling you apart. And I don't want " he stopped, "I don't want to be the reason."
Artyom looked at him. At the exhausted face, the shadows under his eyes, the lips he knew far too well by now.
"Do you think it's only your fault?" he asked, quietly. "Do you think I didn't want it?"
Vlad went very still.
"Artyom "
"I wanted it. Every time. In the shower. In the kitchen. Right now." Artyom swallowed. "I'm losing my mind because I want you, and it's wrong, and I don't know what to do with that."
Silence.
Vlad raised his hand slowly. He touched Artyom's face. Carefully, barely there.
"Then stop fighting it," he whispered.
Artyom closed his eyes. He felt the warmth of Vlad's palm against his cheek. Felt something inside him something he had been gripping in a tight fist for so long finally open.
"I can't," he said. "We're stepbrothers. Our parents "
"I know."
"If anyone found out "
"I know."
"Then why "
Vlad leaned closer. Their foreheads met.
"Because I can't do without you," he said. "These weeks you spent avoiding me were the worst of my life. I couldn't sleep, couldn't eat, couldn't think about anything except you." His voice frayed at the edges. "I know it's not normal. I know. I don't care."
Artyom opened his eyes. Looked into the dark, desperate gaze.
"Vlad "
"Tell me to go. Tell me you don't need this. And I will. I promise."
Artyom looked at him. At the man he had despised for three years, whom he wanted so badly it had been unravelling him from the inside.
He could say it. Could push him away, stand up, walk out of the room. Could salvage whatever was left of his ordinary life.
Instead, he leaned forward and kissed him.
Softly. Gently. Nothing like the shower none of that frantic hunger. This was a question. 'What if?'
Vlad went still for one second. Then kissed him back, with the same gentleness, the same care. His hand moved to the back of Artyom's neck, fingers pressing lightly into his hair.
They kissed slowly, learning each other. No urgency, no panic. Just two people who had, at last, stopped fighting.
Then Vlad drew back. Looked at him.
"Are you sure?"
Artyom nodded.
"Yes."
"If you want to stop "
"I don't."
Vlad smiled. The familiar smile, but something new lived in it now. Tenderness.
"Then come here."
He pulled Artyom toward him, tipping him back onto the bed. Held himself above him, weight braced on both arms.
Artyom looked up at him. At the dark eyes, the parted lips, the strand of hair fallen across his forehead.
"Beautiful," Vlad said quietly. "You're so beautiful, Sokolov. Do you know that?"
Artyom felt heat flood his face.
"Shut up."
"Make me."
Artyom grabbed the collar of his jumper and pulled him down. Kissed him hard and deep. Vlad groaned against his mouth, pressing closer.
Their bodies met, and Artyom felt his arousal through the denim, felt his own in answer, insistent and aching.
Vlad's hands slid under his shirt. Hot palms on bare skin and Artyom shivered.
"Take it off," he breathed.
Vlad obeyed. Pulled off Artyom's shirt and dropped it somewhere, then stripped off his own.
Artyom looked at him. The broad shoulders, the defined stomach, the tattoo along his ribs. He ran his palm across his chest and felt his heart hammering underneath.
"Like what you see?" Vlad asked, with a trace of the old smirk.
"Yes."
The answer came out honest. Too honest.
Vlad leaned down and pressed his lips to his neck. Kissed, licked, bit gently. Artyom let his head fall back and groaned.
"Quieter," Vlad murmured against his skin. "Thin walls."
"I don't care."
Vlad laughed. Low, a little rough.
"That," he said, "I like."
His mouth moved lower. Along the collarbone, across the chest, down the stomach. Artyom felt each kiss, each touch of his tongue. His body was on fire, his thoughts dissolving.
Vlad stopped at the waistband of his jeans. He looked up, and their eyes met.
"Can I?"
Artyom nodded. He didn't trust his voice.
Vlad undid the button, drew the zip down. Pulled jeans and boxers off together, and Artyom lay bare under his gaze.
"God," Vlad breathed. "You"
He didn't finish the sentence. He simply leaned down and took him in his mouth.
Artyom cried out. He fisted the sheets, arched off the bed. The sensation was too vivid, too sharp. Vlad's hot mouth, his tongue, his lips
"Vlad " his voice broke. "I'm going to "
Vlad felt the body beneath him tighten, poised at the edge. He drew back, not entirely his lips stayed close, breath scorching the skin, a bittersweet warmth spreading across his tongue. He pulled Artyom up into a deep, wet kiss, making him taste himself, then moved lower, to the inside of his thigh, running his tongue slowly over sensitive skin.
"I want to draw this out," he whispered, his voice rough, almost apologetic. He raised his eyes and met Artyom's gaze full of unspoken question and the remnants of agony. For a moment Vlad went still, as if trying to read permission or protest in it.
But without waiting for an answer, he drew back. Got off the bed. His movements were sharp, slightly unsteady, as he shoved off his jeans. Artyom watched him, breath held. His body was still pulsing from the interrupted climax, tangled now with a new, aching anticipation. He watched Vlad's body come bare his cock hard, dark with blood. There was a vulnerability in it that Vlad usually kept carefully concealed.
Vlad came back to the bed. Lay down beside him and pulled him close, almost tenderly, giving him time to settle into the contact. Their bodies met skin on skin and Artyom moaned this time not from sharp want but from relief: the agonising pause was over, and they were together again, in the same place.
"I want you," Vlad whispered. His voice cracked on the words, as if they'd broken free on their own. "So much it's unbearable."
"Then take me."
Vlad went still. He looked at Artyom not as a rival, not as a brother, but as a person prepared to give himself entirely.
"Are you sure?"
"Yes." Artyom held his gaze without flinching. There was fear in his eyes, but also resolve and a hunger he was no longer hiding. "I want this. I want you."
Vlad kissed him. Slowly, deeply. It was a confession of a kiss gratitude, astonishment. Then he pulled back and reached for his bag.
"I have " he produced a small tube and a condom, and his hands suddenly moved faster, a little clumsy. "I wasn't planning this, I just "
"Vlad."
"Yeah?"
"Shut up and come here."
Vlad smiled and this time the smile was soft, almost happy. He came back to the bed.
Artyom lay on his back and let his legs fall open. His heart was going so hard he could feel it in his ears. He had never before the thought broke off, overtaken by sensation. The fear was there, but stronger than it was a complete and unguarded trust. He wanted this, with Vlad. He wanted all of it.
Vlad spread lubricant on his fingers. Leaned down and kissed his thigh. Lips soft, barely any pressure, breath warm and uneven.
"Relax," he breathed. "I'll be careful."
The first finger entered slowly, making Artyom shudder. It wasn't painful more the unsettling sense of something foreign, of intrusion. But as soon as Vlad began to move, the discomfort gave way to a slow, pulling anticipation. The strangeness retreated, leaving only the promise of something far more acute.
"Oh," Artyom exhaled.
"Good?" Vlad's voice held something in it.
"Yes. More."
A second finger. A faint burn, and then Vlad curved his fingers and caught something inside, and Artyom cried out with pleasure, his back arching without his permission.
"There you go." His lips grazed Artyom's skin again, the crease of his inner thigh now he couldn't stop touching him, couldn't stop kissing him. "Just like that, baby."
He worked slowly, patiently. Added a third finger, kept moving, until Artyom was rocking down against his hand, demanding more. His body had stopped obeying him; it was pleading, urging, and Vlad understood it better than any words.
"Please," he breathed. "Vlad, please "
"What?" Vlad raised his eyes. In their depths Artyom read a dangerous mix: hunger, and a strange tenderness, and desire barely kept in check.
"I want you. Inside me. Now."
Vlad groaned and pressed his forehead to Artyom's stomach, trying to collect himself. Then slowly withdrew his fingers, rolled on the condom, spread more lubricant.
"Tell me if it hurts."
"I will."
Vlad positioned himself and pushed forward.
The first few seconds hit Artyom like a wave. There was too much of everything: sensation, closeness, weight. He seized Vlad's shoulders, searching for air. Vlad went completely still, every muscle in his arms trembling finely as he waited, giving Artyom time to adjust.
"Still good?"
"Yes. Just give me a second."
Vlad kissed him. Softly, soothingly. He kissed his mouth, his cheeks, his eyelids, murmuring something low and shapeless, until Artyom's body unknotted itself and opened, until he had adjusted. He waited until he was ready.
"Move," Artyom finally breathed.
Vlad began to move. Slowly at first, letting him find his bearings. Then deeper, faster. And soon the pain was gone, replaced by pleasure sharp, overwhelming.
"Bloody hell," Vlad exhaled, all the bravado stripped from his voice. "You're so tight. So warm."
Artyom moaned, clutched at him, moved to meet each thrust. This was nothing like anything he had felt before. It was perfect. He felt simultaneously broken open and remade, filled to the edges, and that was the only thing in the world that mattered.
Vlad found the right angle and with each thrust caught that place inside him. Artyom was loud now, not holding back, the thin walls forgotten, everything forgotten.
"I'm close," Vlad groaned. "Artyom, I "
"Yes. Yes, come on."
Vlad wrapped a hand around his cock and moved in time with his thrusts. Once, twice, three times
Artyom came first. He arched off the bed, cried out Vlad's name, spilling across his stomach and his hand. The world collapsed to a white flash behind his eyes and a raw voice saying his name over and over. Vlad followed a heartbeat later, driving deep and holding there, shuddering. His muffled groan came right beside Artyom's ear, hot and defenceless.
Tangled and damp with sweat, they lay sharing one labouring breath. The air around them was saturated with the dense smell of heated skin, of effort, of intimacy just made.
There seemed to be no space left in it for anything else.
Vlad carefully withdrew. Dealt with the condom, knotted it, dropped it in the bin. Picked up a hand towel from the nightstand and cleaned them both with slow, considered movements, as if afraid of startling the fragile quiet that had settled over them.
He lay down beside Artyom. Drew him in. A hand came to rest on his side, fingers pressing gently but firmly.
"How are you?" he asked, quietly.
"Good." Artyom pressed closer, tucked his face against his neck, breathing in the familiar scent, now altered in some fundamental way. "Very good."
Vlad kissed the top of his head. His lips stayed there longer than they needed to.
"Sleep."
"What about you?"
"I'm not going anywhere." He said it simply and steadily, in a way that made it impossible not to believe.
Artyom closed his eyes and exhaled. He was, finally, exactly where he was supposed to be. This was his place in the warm tangle of limbs, under the weight of Vlad's arm. The silence had stopped ringing with loneliness; it had become the tangible continuation of their closeness.
* * *
In the morning he woke to sunlight pressing through the curtains.
Vlad was lying beside him, watching him. Something soft and unfamiliar in his eyes.
"Hi," he said.
"Hi."
"How do you feel?"
Artyom considered. His body ached faintly -- a pleasant ache. A reminder of the night.
"Good," he said. "Strange, but good."
"Any regrets?"
Artyom looked at him. At the dishevelled hair, the drowsy eyes, the lips he had been kissing all night.
"No," he said honestly. "None."
Vlad smiled. Not his usual smirk a real smile, open and unguarded.
"Neither do I."
They lay in the quiet, looking at each other. Outside, the city was waking up; somewhere below doors banged and the team's voices drifted up as they gathered for breakfast.
"What now?" Artyom asked.
"I don't know," Vlad admitted. "But we'll figure it out. Together."
He leaned in and kissed him. Softly, gently.
"Together," Artyom repeated.
And for the first time, that word didn't frighten him at all.
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and then Add to home screen.