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When the music ends, Ilia feels a huge weight lift off his shoulders. He grins, big. Despite the Olympics, Ilia knows he just delivered the redemption skate of his life. After the Olympics, he tried to work on his mentality, to have fun on the ice rather than be so focused on what could go wrong, what score he'll receive, et cetera. And he did! Ilia had really fun on the ice. But delivering that good of a skate after the Olympics is just a bonus. So was breaking his own personal record. When he saw it, laughter bubbled up in his throat uncontrollably. He felt so vindicated.
The rest of it is a blur. Ilia thinks he received his small medal and talks to the press a bit. He remembers talking to Yuma a bit, trying to reassure him after his fall. Ilia is so, so grateful for everything, but at this point, he just wants to go back to his room and breathe.
When Ilia finally shuts the door to his room, a smile spreads across his face, almost involuntarily. He feels the same laughter from the Kiss and Cry bubbling in his throat and out of his mouth as he almost throws himself onto the bed.
After a few minutes of giggling to himself and getting to breathe, Ilia opens up his phone and, as expected, he has several notifications from other American skaters congratulating him, some from his mom, some from his friends. He smiles at their messages and makes a mental note to reply to them later, when he's gotten a break. By a break, he of course means scrolling on social media.
He's met with a lot of support. Usually, Ilia would eat up the validation like a starved man. Today, he's proud of himself either way. He scrolls past a few videos talking about Yuma's falls, a few memes that he smiles and huffs at, before receiving another notification.
misha: ilyushka
misha: you did so well
misha: call me?
Warmth spreads through Ilia's stomach into his fingers as he presses the call button. He rolls over to lie on his stomach and puts his phone on speaker so he can put it down on the bedside table. The ringtones echo through the room before Mikhail answers after the third tone.
"Hi Misha," Ilia greets almost immediately, a shy smile on his lips that he's glad Mikhail can't see, or he'd definitely tease him for it.
"Ilia! You were amazing," Mikhail praises, and Ilia feels his cheeks heat up. He makes a vague noise of shy appreciation that Mikhail laughs at him for.
"No, but seriously. You even broke your personal record. I'm really proud of you, solnyshko." Ilia can hear Mikhail's wide grin even over the phone. The adrenaline rush from skating still has its hold on Ilia, and he feels heat pooling in his gut.
"I'm really glad you watched, Misha. It means a lot." Ilia feels the smile spreading on his face as his hand starts slipping down his waist and dips underneath his waistband before he stills his fingers. He thinks about what Mikhail would think if he knew that Ilia was debating about getting off to his voice.
"I just wish.." Ilia hesitates.
"I just wish you were here." He sighs, voice laced with not only lust, but yearning too. He really misses Mikhail, and while he understands why he withdrew from Worlds, Ilia would really like to see Mikhail's face again.
There's silence on the other line. Ilia wills himself not to start overthinking. Then some rustling.
"Turn on your camera, Ilyushka." Mikhail asks, no, more like commands, and Ilia can't quite discern what he's thinking.
Ilia sits up again, grabbing his phone to do as told. He supports himself against the pillows and the wall, hesitating when he's about to turn on the video. Ilia bites at his lip, nervous for some reason.
Finally, Ilia turns on his camera. His hair looks a mess, and his cheeks are flushed. He feels seen, almost exposed, even though he's completely clothed. Like he's willingly laying himself bare for Mikhail to witness. It doesn't last long because shortly after, Mikhail turns on his camera too, and Ilia sees the grin on his face.
"What?" Ilia asks when Mikhail just stares at him for a couple of seconds more.
"You're just so beautiful, malysh," Mikhail answers honestly, almost like confessing his sins at the altar. Except that Mikhail's only sin was the act of loving Ilia. Ilia doesn't come up with a good enough retort and instead just blushes harder and drags his free hand down his face. Mikhail laughs at him again.
"Don't cover your face. I wanna see you." Mikhail almost purrs at him, and it hits Ilia that Mikhail has the same lust laced in his tone as Ilia does.
"Misha.. Can I—" Ilia chokes on his words, embarrassment creeping into his fingers and prickling at them like they fell asleep.
"Can you what? You gotta ask me properly, Ilyushka." Mikhail smirks, and Ilia wants to melt into the mattress. He's sure now that Mikhail absolutely knows what he's doing. Ilia whines, bracing himself for the shame Mikhail's forcing him to experience.
"Can I please.. touch myself?" Ilia asks, pouting. He sees how Mikhail's lips quirk upwards, trying to hold himself from grinning too big at Ilia's humiliation.
"You're so polite. Yes, you can, kotyonok." Mikhail says, and with his assurance, Ilia's fingers immediately dip underneath his waistband once again, and he palms himself over his boxers. Immediately, his head falls back, and Ilia moans softly at the friction, and he distantly wishes he had a third hand so he could muffle his own sounds. Mikhail always teases him for being so vocal.
Mikhail says something under his breath that Ilia can't understand, and he lifts his head a little.
"What did you say?" Ilia pries, and Mikhail bites his lip with a smile on his face.
"I called you beautiful in Kazakh," Mikhail responds, and Ilia thinks Mikhail might be the death of him. Mikhail's voice, combined with his own hand against his increasingly hard cock might make him faint. Ilia sighs, eyelids fluttering shut.
"You like that?" Mikhail suggests, and Ilia knows Mikhail knows the answer, but he nods anyway. He hears Mikhail exhale shakily, and Ilia's lips twitch upwards when faced with the fact that he's putting on a good show for his dear Misha.
"Maybe I should say more things in Kazakh to you. Would you like that, Ilyushka?" It's rhetorical, Ilia knows, but he nods again anyway.
"I can't hear you." Mikhail teases, and Ilia whines.
"Yes, Misha, I'd like that,"
"Kózderiñiz kórkem. That means your eyes are beautiful." Mikhail helpfully translates, and Ilia moans. He lifts his hips, trying to maneuver out of his pants and underwear. It proves to be harder with only one hand and closed eyes than he thought, so Ilia briefly opens his eyes to discard his clothes.
With his pants off, Ilia grabs his cock in his hand. He briefly thinks about finding lube, but he can't be bothered and instead holds his hand close to his mouth and spits before returning it to its previous position. Ilia hears Mikhail swear, and when he looks to his screen again, Mikhail looks flushed, tongue briefly darting out to wet his lips. Score, Ilia thinks.
Slowly, Ilia mixes his spit with his pre-cum to make a much grosser version of lube, spreading it over himself. Ilia whines, embarrassingly sensitive because of the amount of time it's been since he last came. Competitions were busy, so he hadn't really had the time or energy. He hears Mikhail's breath hitch in the background.
"Sen menıñ.. jüreɣimsıñ. That means.. you are my heart." Mikhail stumbles over his words, seemingly unsure, but Ilia doesn't mind. He'll listen to Mikhail say anything, anytime. Ilia's hips stutter into his own grip almost involuntarily, whimpering while screwing his eyes shut.
Ilia thinks he hears a zipper on the other end of the line.
"You're so perfect, Ilyushka. You're so— ah— perfect." Mikhail praises, and Ilia drinks it up like it's sacramental wine at Communion. Heat curls around his fingers, his gut, his heart as he whispers small words of gratitude to Mikhail.
Ilia's pace gets more and more erratic as they go on, whining loudly.
"Fuck, Mish— Misha, need to cum, please, let me cum," Ilia pleads, almost cutting himself off with his noises.
"Yes, Ilia, you can, shit—" Mikhail sounds almost as bad as Ilia, and it tips him over the edge, staining his own stomach with glistening white streaks. Ilia's previously arched back falls back onto the mattress, and he attempts to catch his breath as he basks in the afterglow. All Ilia can hear is Mikhail's own sounds and occasional swears, and it makes him feel stupidly warm inside.
Ilia finally opens his eyes. He's greeted by the sight of Mikhail's head thrown back, lips parted with moans spilling out like prayers. His hair somehow still manages to fall into his eyes. Ilia finds it endearing.
Ilia spends a few moments staring at the blessed sight.
"I love you, Misha." Ilia admits. Mikhail cums with what almost sounds like a sob. Ilia watches Mikhail recover from his orgasm patiently, digging his nails into his palm to stop himself from overthinking his confession before Mikhail breaks out in a grin.
"I love you too, Ilyushka."