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The atmosphere in the club is heady, alcohol fumes mixing with the cloying scent of perfume; colorful lights flash over and over again in tune with bass-heavy EDM. Mikhail's head is pulsing with dull pain as he downs another shot of straight vodka. It's a cheap, American variant that tastes nothing like the liquor he grew up with, but it's strong, and that's good enough for Misha. He fights back the urge to call over the bartender, reminds himself to be responsible. He's got classes tomorrow morning.
He wills himself not to look at the dance floor and fails miserably within ten seconds. He doesn't have to search long - Ilia's right in the center of the crowd, surrounded by a cluster of people, none of whom Shaidorov recognizes. Ilia moves with the fluid grace of a dancer and no hesitation. His pale hair takes on different, fantastical hues with every pulse of the loudspeakers. More and more party-goers gather around him, and he soaks up their attention with elation; different hands stroke at his sides, shoulders and torso, his mesh top serving as a weak barrier against the fondling.
He's a siren, a fae prince, a fallen angel.
Hot, bitter bile rises in Mikhail's throat; he just about runs to the restroom, elbowing people right and left without apology.
Once in, he doubles over the sink, dry heaving, as another wave of nausea takes over. He catches his own reflection in the mirror: watery eyes and a splotchy complexion, mouth wet with spit. The fit seems to be over - Misha turns on the faucet and sprays his face with cold water, then settles down on the grimy floor with his back against the wall.
This isn't new, per se. Ilia is a human magnet, a social butterfly, an extrovert through and through. He is the Sun.
Mikhail doesn't want his best friend to be different, doesn't want him to be something he isn't - but it is hard to love the Sun; after all, it's quite self-sufficient.
He cannot help but resent himself over his possessiveness. Back in Kazakhstan, he didn't have many friends, mostly on account of his terrible shyness. During his first few weeks in college, no one spoke a single word to him outside class - in the evenings, Misha'd leaf through second-hand novels and stare at the other, empty bed in his dorm.
When the Dean announced she'd be accommodating a late transfer student into his room, Mikhail had long resigned himself to the fate of a hermit. But then Ilia arrived, all infectious, easy laughter and adorable, accented Russian, and, for the first time in his life, Misha Shaidorov felt like he had been chosen.
He pulls his knees against his chest and curls into himself, with one palm pressed flat against his heart, which flutters like a dying lovebird inside his ribcage.
This is the position Ilia finds him in, after what feels like hours, but is probably no more than minutes of increasingly desperate search.
From the moment his frantic gaze settles on Mikhail, he knows that something is very, very wrong, and that somehow it is his fault. Recent news headlines crowd at the forefront of his mind, horror stories about drugged drinks, illicit substances passed around in clubs. Misha's sensible, there's no way he'd take anything by himself, but if some psycho forced him…
“Misha? Misha, are you okay? Can you hear me?” Ilia drops to a crouch in front of the other boy. His voice is shaky with barely concealed panic as he curses himself internally for napping through the mandatory first aid classes back in high school. The remnants of his last pornstar martini are sour on his tongue.
Mikhail's head snaps up - his lovely, dark eyes are red rimmed, but clear and alert. His pupils double in size with worry as he notes down Ilia's anxious expression - he wastes no time, pulling his best friend against him into a tight embrace. Ilia releases two shaky breaths into the fabric of Misha's shirt, replacing the smell of the dingy bathroom in his nostrils with the familiar scent of Shaidorov's cologne.
“I'm okay.” The dark haired boy reassures him quietly in Russian while rubbing soothing circles into Ilia's back. “My head hurts a bit, and it's so loud out there. I just wanted to leave for a little bit.”
Ilia knows Mikhail's lying from the slow, deliberate way with which he picks his words, but he decides to drop the subject for now. Misha's terrible at keeping secrets from him, so there's a chance Ilia'll find out what he's concealing soon enough. When they break apart, he avoids eye contact, which only confirms Ilia's suspicion.
“Why didn't you just say so? We could've gone home right away.” He nudges Mikhail playfully in the ribs in an attempt to relieve some tension. A shadow passes over his friend's face and he turns his head away from Ilia, but Malinin's prepared for that - he places himself directly in Misha's view and lifts his brows.
“You were having fun. I didn't want to… spoil it.”
Ilia scoffs in irritation, but Misha keeps going, his gaze fixed on the ugly graffiti decorating the wall to his left.
“I know we're best friends, but you don't have to… you don't have to pretend, you know?”
“Pretend what?”
Something in Ilia's chest seizes painfully - he's never seen Misha this dejected. His sweet, puppy-like features radiate pure misery, clearly driven by whatever train of thought he's following now.
And that precise train of thought was somehow inaugurated by Ilia himself, although clearly without his knowledge.
“Like you need me the way I need you.” It's barely a whisper, but it knocks the wind out of Ilia anyway. He scrambles onto his knees, cradling Mikhail's face in his hands. There is no way in hell he can pass off this kind of touch as platonic, not even given his affinity for physical affection, but he doesn't give a flying fuck. He's been in love with his best friend for two agonizing years. It's time to go all out.
“God, Misha, how could you even… Of course I need you.” Their faces are inches apart, Ilia's breath mingling with Mikhail's. The other boy's pupils are blown out wide - he makes no move to stop Ilia or push him away.
“Need you”
Ilia shortens the distance by an inch.
“Want you”
And another one.
“Love you”
And another.
He stops.
One heartbeat. Two. Three.
Ilia begins to pull back when Mikhail crashes into him like a storm. He pushes one hand into Malinin's golden curls, pulling him closer, and brushes the fingers of his other one against the curve of Ilia's spine. Ilia has conjured countless visions of this kiss in his mind's eye, but they all pale against the real thing. Each of his nerve endings is a tiny bonfire, complete with flying sparks and urgent, burning heat. Misha is warm and solid against him, and he tastes like cheap alcohol and cherry lip balm.
Ilia decides this is now his favorite flavor in the world.
It's as if every thought he's ever had simply evaporates from his mind. The kiss is open mouthed, needy; it's dissolving Ilia's bones into jelly in real time. It is impossible to communicate how right it all feels, how perfectly their bodies slot together in their own, mysterious rhythm.
He's on the verge of losing himself completely, when Misha gently forces him back.
“We should really get out of here.” He proclaims seriously. His voice is delightfully raspy - presumably from all the kissing - and Ilia just about melts on the spot. “This place is kind of gross.”
Ilia hums vaguely in response, as apparently his mouth isn't so smart after such an excellent make out session.
Mikhail stands up and gently tugs Ilia up. They walk out of the bathroom together, holding hands.