Chapter Text
This was Ilya's third time going to the HLTV awards—that didn't make it any less stressful for him, though. Through and through, he will never consider himself a people's person; he needs his alone time, peace, and quiet on his own, the only sounds around him the clicks of a mouse, clacking of a keyboard, and whirring of PC fans. Alas, today is not that day for him: he is well aware that sometimes, even if he doesn't really want to, he needs to push himself out of his boundaries and enjoy an event like this.
The Russian patted himself down in front of the mirror, the black suit tailored for him hanging comfortably by his arms, sitting on him ideally. He sighed internally, gathering his thoughts… Last time he went, it was so much fun, wasn’t it? He was placed in the top five; he tried to fight back the smile creeping up on his face at the idea of how much he has improved in the span of a year. From top five to top three… He brought his head back up, having let it droop down to the suit buttons he was fiddling with.
He almost gasped at the figure behind him, a Bosnian he could gladly call his love appearing behind him in complete silence—maybe he was just that engrossed in his thoughts instead. Ilya sighed in fake anxiety, “You scared me,” he breathed out, putting a hand on his heart, the fabric of the suit a nice, smooth texture underneath his palm.
The said Bosnian laughed in turn, placing his hands on Ilya's shoulders. Nikola leant over the boy's shoulder, looking at him from the mirror in front of them. Ilya almost shuddered, feeling the warmth of Niko's breath near his ear before he turned to look, too. He smiled, cocking his head slightly to eye Nikola, only the side of his face in view, “Is it okay?” Niko hummed a response, “More than okay.” He raised a brow, admiring his boyfriend in the mirror, “No tie?” to which Ilya responded with a little shake of his head, his hair styled already, not a single lock of blond hair moving.
Nikola squeezed his shoulders, urging Ilya to turn around. Once they were facing each other, the two stood in silence for a short while, Niko reaching his hands up to the nape of Ilya's neck to his cheeks, caressing him gently. The Russian closed his eyes, relaxing into the sweet, careful touch. This time, he couldn't fight the smile on his face as he felt a pair of lips peck his own, light stubble scratching his face, chuckling greedily as he chased Niko's face for another kiss. As such, they stood for a while, enjoying each other's company and closeness.
“Your suit is all messed up, Ilya,” he chimed, pulling away with a cheeky grin as he adjusted the black on white. Ilya looked up before turning down, spotting that, indeed, the collar of both his jacket and button-up had gotten turned. Today, with his mood now turning upwards for the better, Ilya decided to push his luck a little bit, angling his head upward to give Niko space.
Nikola, never one to turn the boy down, shook his head before reaching up, getting a light hold on the top collar of the black suit, adjusting it to sit normally on the boy again. The smile never dropped from his face. “You're so handsome, you know?” Once the top collar was fine, he went to unbutton the first white, barely noticeable button on Ilya's dress shirt. Ilya pretended to cough, his face tinting a light pink as the button popped open.
“Niko, hey…” he started, trying to reach up to grab a hold of Nikola's arm, his fingers trembling slightly—didn't Niko himself pull away? The older just hummed a questioning tune in response, fixing the boy's shirt collar, the smaller hand on his arm doing nothing. He adjusted the rim, setting it down properly before stepping away, “There, all good.” Ilya let his hand fall down, his mind a little numb as he stared at Niko with a dumbfounded expression. Oh. He really did just want to fix the collar, nothing more… Ilya cursed at himself internally.
Nikola, on the other hand, immediately became worried, noticing the red on the Russian's face, placing a hand on his forehead, “You're warm,” he stated, “You're not sick, are you?” Ilya pulled away, rushing up to button his shirt again, “No! No, I’m fine,” his nimble fingers struggled, mind too foggy with, well… Thoughts. Above him, he could hear a sigh followed up with a little chuckle, pushing Ilya's hands away and deftly fixing the button into its designated area.
Nikola patted down Ilya's neck, “What are you thinking about?” he drawled, teasing him. The hand on his nape made it increasingly difficult for the sniper to function properly, images in his head of his suit a mess and utterly unwearable for the event. Oh, Niko one million percent knew what he was doing… For better or for worse, the Bosnian is well aware of the effect he has on Ilya, even with such simple things.
Ilya snapped himself out of this trance, “Nothing! You're the one over here trying to take off my shirt,” he joked, hitting Niko on the arm, “what are you thinking?” The older’s grin was as self-confident and full of it as was possible; he embraced the shorter, “Nothing,” he mimicked Ilya's panicked tone before turning back to normal, “just admiring my boyfriend.” It was impossible for Ilya to hide the way his stomach turned at that, how butterflies immediately floated up, and how his head suddenly felt light. He returned the hug, burying his face into Niko's neck, “Stop it,” he giggled.
Niko rubbed Ilya's back, comforting and familiar. Meanwhile, the Russian inhaled the riflers scent, fresh and clean, smelling directly of the apple-scented shampoo Ilya had bought just yesterday. Something inside of him felt giddy and warm, like a little schoolgirl excited at going on a playdate with her new boyfriend; he grinned into Niko's neck, happy at something so little but so domestic to him. His smile faded for but a second—if only this was still possible every day, now that Nikola left the team…
Before he could get into his thoughts, Ilya snapped that line of thinking, squeezing Niko tight.
“I love you.”
“Love you, too, but you should really keep that first button unbuttoned.”
“No! Wh—stop!