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Ilia isn't sure whether their teacher paired him and Mikhail Shaidorov up because of their similar hobby or the fact that they're both equally as bad in science. They sit together in the middle of the class room - right where their teacher can see if they're paying attention or not - the tables preassigned as if they're still kids completely unable to concentrate in class which is not that far from truth. Ilia finds the subject horribly boring and apparently so does Misha if the vacant, glassy look that clouds his eyes when the teacher starts talking is anything to go by. He and Misha have some classes together, and they get along well.
Misha is leaning his cheek against his palm, half slumping over the desk, staring at the chalk board in front of them clearly not understanding anything. Ilia’s given up the fight long ago, instead looking around the classroom, first staring at the neck of the student sitting in front of him, her brown, highlighted hair, twisted up into a bun, then at the periodic table on the wall that appears so old the color have washed out and Ilia can no longer tell if it was yellow to begin with. The teacher, Ms. Chen, says something and Misha glances at him, nudging his open book closer to Ilia and pointing at something on the page spread before them.
“Did she say 2B or 2D?” Misha asks unclearly - at first Ilia thinks it's because he has a bit of an accent and it's sometimes hard to understand what Misha’s saying in any case but that's not it, this time.
“Huh?”
“You werrrren't listening too?” Misha raises an eyebrow, giving Ilia a look that says, oh well, whatever. His r's sound funny, even thicker than before, and Ilia’s totally not expecting it when he sees something a bit sparkly glistening inside the other boy's mouth.
“Sorrrry, I can't speak rrrright,” Misha tells him, noticing Ilia’s confused expression, "I got my tongue pierced on Saturday."
“Boys,” comes the teacher's voice, now closer than before, “Exercise 2B please.”
Ilia tears his gaze away for a second to read the assignment - it's something about the stuff the teacher was just saying, something about cells, what was the topic even - and Ilia finds it even harder to concentrate as he steals another glance at the brunette at his side. Misha has his tongue out, he's playing with the piercing and even though it looks as if it would hurt, pulls it between his teeth and moves the barbel around. Misha can feel him staring, he's just as restless as Ilia in the boring class, and so he makes eye contact again and sticks out his tongue to show. Somewhere deep inside his stomach, Ilia feels a surprising lurch. How unexpected.
“Did it hurt?” he asks, resisting the urge to reach out and pull Misha’s tongue out of his mouth to take a better look. Misha doesn't seem like the type to be into piercings and tattoos, he's a bit of a dork honestly - if anything, it should be Ilia to go out and get his nipple pierced or something on a drunken whim. It's the type of shit Ilia pulls just for a laugh.
“A bit,” says Misha, making sure the teacher's not looking before leaning closer and continuing with a lazy grin on his lips, “The girl who did it was cute.”
Ilia returns the grin and shakes his head.
“Oh yeah?”
“Oh yeah,” Misha makes a gesture with his eyebrows to let Ilia know just how cute she was. He turns his attention away, back to the book and reads out loud but Ilia interrupts him.
“Can you feel it when you... You know. Eat and stuff? When you kiss?”
“I haven't trrrried.”
“Eating?”
“Kissing, you idiot,” Misha tells him and for a second they pretend to be busy with the assignment when the teacher walks by. “Okay so we're supposed to... I guess... Uhm, what are we supposed to even-”
“You haven't tried kissing? Ever?” Ilia asks, a bit more loudly than he intended and Misha gives him a look somewhere between pity and compassion. Ilia gets those looks sometimes, like people think he's fallen on his head one too many times in the skating rink.
“Ilia,” Misha lets out a soundless laugh, the piercing in his mouth catching Ilia’s eye again, “I haven't kissed anyone with this on. Может быть, воспалится (It might get infected).”
“Whatever.” Ilia huffs, slightly embarrassed. He tries to turn away, he really does, but somehow Misha has taken over every single thought on his mind and Ilia just can't help it, he's easily distracted. The bell rings and Ilia opens his mouth to say something but instead, closes it and starts stuffing his things into his backpack while Misha does the same. Some students shuffle past them, knocking Ilia on the side as he stands up and pulls on his hoodie.
“Mr. Malinin, Mr. Shaidorov,” the teacher calls, eyeing them disapprovingly which doesn't come as a surprise, “Come over here for a second.”
Misha and Ilia exchange defeated looks and walk over to her desk. Ilia has math at eleven and he really wants to have a break.
“You're not going to keep up with the course work if you continue like this,” she says, tapping her pencil to the notebook on her desk, “Both of you. You don't pay attention in class and it's not fair to the other students so I paired you up to give you one more chance to improve together. You sure you can do that?”
“Yes, Ms. Chen,” Misha tells her uninterestedly, shifting his weight from one foot to another, backpack hanging from one shoulder.
“I don't want to fail you two,” she turns to look at Ilia who nods in agreement. “Go over the exercises together and write a brief summary on what you learnt today, alright?”
“Yes, Ms, Chen,” Ilia’s voice sounds bored but she doesn't seem to notice, giving them one more glance over and a permission to leave with a brush of her hand. They exit the class room together, both dragging their feet with the annoyance of an added work load.
“I have arrrrt next,” Misha tells him, struggling with the words again.
“You should take English to learn how to talk again, you sound like an idiot,” Ilia helpfully suggests, delighting in the way Misha huffs out in mock annoyance, clearly enjoying a bit of bickering. His eyes crinkle up in an endearing way when he smiles.
“тихo (Quiet), I have braces and a piece of metal in my tongue.”
“Haha,” Ilia laughs pleasantly. Misha’s eyelashes are long, he's never noticed that before.
“So you want to do the work after class?” Misha asks, the traces of a smile still evident on his lips.
“Can't, I have practice," Ilia tells him, “We don't have lab until Thursday, how 'bout tomorrow?”
“Tomorrow.”
It's Wednesday and Ilia’s waiting for Misha at the broken drinking fountain in the main hallway. The teacher let them off ten minutes early from gym and after showering quickly, Ilia’s right on time. His hair is still wet, pushed away from his face, and he feels mellow watching the students pouring out of classrooms when the bell rings. It's ten past three in the afternoon when Misha finally arrives, hurrying down the corridor with his denim jacket open, still stuffing papers into his backpack. He's wearing a burgundy beanie, it suits him, makes the brown of his eyes really pop and Ilia smiles at him, giving Misha a subtle nod as a greeting.
“Sorry I'm late,” Misha apologizes, out of breath, “I had to finish this... This... Yeah, sorry.”
“Don't worry about it,” Ilia grins, heading out the front doors side by side, “So where do you want to go?”
“хочу есть (I want to eat). Lets get food and make notes while eating.”
They step outside and it's raining. The day is gray as ever, the sort of drizzle that seeps deep inside your bones - the type of day you decide not to get out of bed at all. Ilia pulls his hood over his head, starting to walk faster to keep up with the other boy while Misha looks over his shoulder at Ilia, and there's that smile again. His eyes look like half moons, and his front teeth are sort of big but in a way really cute. Looking at Misha’s face is nice.
They don't make any notes or even take out their books when they eat. Ilia thinks it's because they're too hungry and besides, there's a re-run of a TV show he used to love as a kid and they watch it while gobbling down their platefuls of kebab and fries, talking about the things they used to love when little.
“Teenage ninja turtles,” Misha says, “I always wanted to be Leonardo.”
“Nah, Michelangelo's way cooler. He's got nunchucks,” Ilia takes a gulp of his large Coke.
“The pepperoni pizza always looked so good,”
“I know right!” Ilia says excitedly, pushing his plate away after he's finished with his food, “Why does the food in cartoons always look so good?”
“I dunno,” Misha agrees, smiling and then purses his lips in deep thought.
It's silent for a moment. The music from a loud and annoying pasta sauce commercial comes from the TV and they both turn their eyes away, realizing the eye contact has lasted for an awkwardly long time. Misha taps his long fingers on the table, tap tap tap, and Ilia focuses on the sudden uneasy feeling in the pit of his stomach. Glancing up, he sees Misha twisting his tongue piercing around in his mouth again, sticking it between his lips and moving the barbel back and forth. He can pronounce his r's again. Maybe the piercing's all healed now?
“I have, ah… weed at home,” Misha leans in and says in a much quieter voice, the tone dropping to a low murmur, “Want to come over?”
“Yeah,” Ilia smirks lazily, gets up and pulls his hood over his head again as they exit the restaurant together. The rain's turned to a weak mizzle, barely there at all but still making everything unpleasant outside. They walk hurriedly, shoes making splashing sounds on the wet ground. Ilia’s stomach is pleasantly full and he feels stupidly giddy, listening to Misha talk about how he accidentally emailed an assignment to his English teacher titled as blahblahblyat.rtf.
“You’re such a jerk,” Ilia lets out a barking laughter, “What'd she say?”
“Nothing, I don't think she saw!”
They laugh uncontrollably for a moment, both unable to stop grinning and turn to a side street filled with small, cozy houses with small gardens and bikes parked out front. A couple of kids walk past them, arguing loudly and spitting out curse words at each other which seems ridiculous as the two can't be older than eight. Misha and Ilia glance at each other and start laughing again and Misha bumps his shoulder to Ilia’s, coming to walk closer to him.
“My mom won't be back until nine,” Misha tells him as they enter a small yard, the tile path that leads to a regular sized house - the garden battered and unkept. The house itself is nice enough, looks a bit smaller than Ilia’s home, the window on the front door covered with a polka dot curtain, a welcome sign hanging on eye level. Misha pulls his keys out of the pocket of his denim jacket and lets Ilia in first.
“Сними обувь (Take off your shoes),” he says.
Kicking his sneakers off, Ilia follows Misha up the stairs and into his room. They drop their backpacks by the door and sit down on the floor, leaning against Misha’s bed as the brunette digs through a drawer on his night stand to find the joint. He has a desk, a rather old laptop and a huge amount of pictures, magazine cutouts pinned to the wall behind it. Some books - a framed, dusty picture of a younger Misha together with another boy who has severe acne - a pummeled piggy bank that's clearly been through a lot. Ilia grins at the cardboard box on the lowest shelf of Misha’s bookshelf that's filled with kinder surprise toys. Perhaps at some point in time, Misha’s collected them which Ilia finds awfully cute.
“Found it!” Misha exclaims, pulling out a zip bag with an already rolled up spliff. Turning his attention back to Misha, Ilia watches with calm eyes as Misha lights up and takes a long drag before passing the pot to Ilia who takes the joint between two fingers and brings it to his mouth. Misha’s looking at his lips - Ilia can feel it - as he sucks on the spliff and breathes in deeply, holds it in, and relaxes against the bed frame before exhaling.
It's some pretty good pot. He takes another inhale and gives it back to Misha whose eyes have already started to look a bit red. The sweet scent of smoke curls around them, swirls in the air and Ilia’s eyes feel heavy - god, he's high as a kite - and he inches closer to Misha, their thighs brushing as they sit on the floor side by side. Misha’s next inhale is a bit too large and he coughs around it, then lets out a laugh, glances at Ilia to see whether he's noticed. One more hit and the joint's back in Ilia’s fingers, he's holding it loosely as most of his attention is directed at Misha again. Misha’s lips as he opens his mouth and breathes out shakily, eyelashes fluttering, the full shape of his lips forming a lazy smirk. Damn, his mouth is beautiful.
The spliff's almost done now and so, Ilia takes one more deep lungful of smoke before letting Misha finish it off. The other boy is clearly just as relaxed as he is, head hanging low, breathing through his nose - would it be so bad to reach out and touch him? Misha’s resting the nearly finished joint between his forefinger and thumb, trying to collect himself before putting it out.
“How's...” Misha turns to look at him, grins goofily and seems to lose all track of thought. “How... Are you... Yeah?”
Ilia catches the sight of the tongue piercing glistening inside Misha’s mouth like a valuable pearl inside a clam. He's there again, unable to stop thinking about it - and Ilia’s not a coward and so he reaches out, brushing his fingers to Misha’s lower lip. Without offering an explanation, he slides two of his fingers into Misha’s lax mouth, touching his tongue with his fingertips. Misha doesn't pull away. His eyes are glued to Ilia’s face - as they've been all evening - and he doesn't seem to be bothered by the fact that Ilia’s got his fingers in his mouth, touching the piece of jewelry on his tongue, leaning closer and closer, their breaths a mere inch apart. Ilia’s breath hitches when the tips of his fingers graze Misha’s front teeth, leaving his tongue in peace for a moment, forefinger slipping under Misha’s upper lip. He pushes it around, the soft, wet skin of Misha’s lip giving under his touch and then Ilia’s hooked the finger under his tongue and lower teeth instead, flicking up the piercing. Misha’s mouth is so hot and wet.
Misha still doesn't budge. Chest heaving with laborious breaths he stays unmoving, letting Ilia continue the exploration of his open mouth. Over his upper lip, across his mouth and back in, feeling the skin between teeth and lip. It's the most exhilarating thing, his fingers warm and wet from Misha’s spit, the feel of a soft tongue, his hot mouth, and that's the moment when Ilia understands what's happening and pulls his hand back abruptly. Fuck. He likes Misha. He want to kiss him, to stick his own tongue down Misha’s throat and kiss the life out of him, wants to pull him close and do filthy things to him. With him. It's not like he isn't used to this, Ilia’s been with plenty of girls before but it's humiliating not to have realized until now. Now that it's with a guy. Misha’s lips look stupidly red and ravished after Ilia’s done with them.
Unsure of what to say - should he even try to explain? - he catches Misha’s eyes darting down to his crotch and back to his baffled face. Why on earth did he decide to put on sweats after gym class? Ilia’s arousal is evident, a clear tent in his sweatpants and fuck, Misha’s hard too - Ilia can't help but glance down, up and down again, mortified by the prolonged moment. Misha’s pasty skin has flushed a deep shade of blotchy red. Their eyes meet and Misha shifts uncomfortably, tossing the now put out spliff in an empty coke can on the floor and adjusts himself through his jeans, the zipper an inconvenient pressure on his arousal. Ilia’s about to start beating himself up about ruining a perfectly good friendship when Misha salvages the situation by letting out a breathless laugh.
“Haha,” he huffs, eyelids heavy, “I'm... Really high.”
“Yeah,” Ilia laughs too and it's all good again. They lean against the bed rail, looking around Misha’s room at the knick knacks scattered here and there, clutter all over. Misha reaches out a socked foot and knocks a box of art supplies over with his toes. Brushes and pencils go rolling around the wooden floor, purposely making an even bigger mess than his room already was. Then glancing back at Ilia, Misha flashes him a playful smile and it's perfect. They start to laugh again.
It's only when Ilia gets home does he realize they never even opened their course books and the assignment is still due tomorrow.
Ilia feels bad when he shows up late the next day. The lesson's already started and Misha’s sitting behind their shared desk all alone when Ilia stumbles into the classroom and with a quiet apology, takes his seat. While Ilia struggles with pulling out his pencil case from his back pack, Misha takes a piece of folded paper from between the pages of his book and shows it to him. It's the assignment Ms. Chen asked them to do and Misha’s written both of their names underneath it. He finished it all alone while Ilia spent the little time he had last evening before going to bed, masturbating in the shower.
“Thanks bro, you're the best,” he mumbles, really meaning it.
“No bother,” says Misha, poking Ilia’s bicep with a long forefinger and then turns away to take notes. The tips of his ears are red. Ilia’s smiling to himself, he can't help it, and Misha’s smiling too even though he's trying to conceal it.
Time flies by faster than ever. Never before has Ilia enjoyed a double period of science as much as he does now, hyper aware of the other boy sitting next to him. Their knees bump under the table, their hands rest on the table almost touching. Ilia hasn't got a clue what the class is even about but it doesn't bother him in the slightest. He's almost hoping the teacher will give them additional work again just to have an excuse to bitch about it later with Misha.
They return the assignment after class and for once get an approbative smile from Ms. Chen.
“I have math in the East wing next. I need to go,” Misha says apologetically, as they step outside to the hallway. He looks truly sorry, almost grudging.
“Oh okay.” Ilia feels strangely disappointed. He tries to look like it isn't a big deal but it sort of is. It's Thursday and they don't have any classes together on Fridays and then it's the weekend and Ilia won't see Misha again until next week. Misha opens his mouth to say something but nothing comes out.
“I'll see you around?” Ilia offers blankly and Misha nods, reluctantly adjusting his backpack on his shoulders and then turning around to the opposite direction to head out. Ilia watches him for a moment, expressionless, and then goes out.
The next time Ilia sees him is on Friday night. He's out with his friends, Petr and Maxim, just popping out from the bar when he spots Misha on the opposite side of the street with another guy. Ilia recognizes his friend from the dusty picture frame on Misha’s bookshelf. It's the kid with the acne though he doesn't have acne anymore - he seems close, too close, as he and Misha stagger about in front of a 24/7 store with cans of beer in their hands. Maxim nudges him in the shoulder rather roughly and points at Misha, too.
“Isn’t that Mikhail? The one with the braces?” he mutters drunkenly, and Ilia shoves him right back in his drunken state of mind. His feet are a bit unsteady when he takes a few steps away from his friends and calls out.
“Misha!” Ilia bellows, sounding slightly more drunk than he intended to, ”Misha! Get over here!”
“Ilia?” Misha turns around, flashes him a smile and pulls his friend along across the street by the sleeve of his jacket, in an equal state of drunk. “I'm not deaf!”
“Misha!” Ilia says again happily, reaching out and grabbing the boy away from his friend like he's a precious toy only Ilia’s allowed to play with. Misha nearly falls over in Ilia’s overly eager greeting. He's wearing a blue sweater under his jacket, black skinny jeans and converse sneakers, a scarf wrapped around his neck in a clear attempt to look fashionable.
“You look like a hipster, what's with the scarf?” Ilia tells him without really thinking about it and steals the can of beer from Misha’s fingers to take a swig.
Misha gives him a roll of his eyes but still manages to look sort of pleased. “Nika, this is my... This is Ilia. Ilia, this is Nika.”
“How's it going?” Ilia passes the beer back to Misha and grins at Misha’s friend drunkenly. Nika doesn't seem all that impressed with Ilia.
“We were going to go see a band,” Nika says but Ilia’s not even listening. He's got his arm wrapped around Misha’s shoulders, pulling him along, showering him with attention.
“We were just going to order shots, you have to join us,” Ilia slurs, “Right Jun? Max?”
“Join you guys?”
“Yeah,” Ilia gives him a sincere smile as Misha looks back and forth between Ilia’s wolfishly grinning lips and his friend. “The band can't be that good?”
“Yeah. Yeah, okay,” Misha agrees, eyelashes fluttering and tosses the now empty can of beer as they enter the bar together, looking over his shoulder at Nika. “Come on, a shot or two and then go. It doesn't start until ten thirty.”
It's ten thirty and Misha’s at the counter ordering more drinks together with Petr who has just joined the group. Ilia’s back at their table with a nearly full glass of beer in front of him, empty shot glasses scattered all over the table. Nika and Maxim are talking about an Xbox game Ilia’s not familiar with and so, he entertains himself with observing Misha.
They get their drinks and wobble over to the table - Misha slides down next to him, the foaming beer in his glass spilling all over as he crams closer to give room to the other guys. Placing his hand on Ilia’s thigh under the table, Misha squeezes it softly, unaware of his own actions. The hand leaves him as quick as it came for Misha needs both of his hands to grab his glass and take a gulp - he's that drunk.
“Ilia, you're drunk,” he giggles, actually giggles, the blinding focus of his bright eyes now back on Ilia.
“You're crazy. Look at you.” Ilia points at the wet mess Misha’s made of the wooden table. “You're getting more beer on the table than down your throat.”
“Should I lick it up?” Misha’s grin is obscene. It isn't funny.
“Crazy,” Ilia says again with more emphasis, proving a point and takes a draught of his own beer - the cheapest one the pub offers. The music's suddenly louder, blasting from the speakers right above their corner table as more and more people enter the already crowded bar.
“I didn't really want to go see the band,” Misha tells him, leaning in closer until his breath's tickling Ilia’s earlobe, “I don't really care about the band but Nika wanted to go and pick up girls. He says girls at concerts are easy.”
“Are they now?”
“I have no idea.”
They grin at each other for a moment. It's hard not to look at Misha’s lips now that they're right there - Ilia can still remember exactly how hot his mouth felt on his fingertips. How pliant his lips were.
“He doesn't like you much. Nika, I mean,” Misha continues in a quieter voice.
“Why? He doesn't even know me. He has no idea what I'm like.”
“Oh, I don't know.” Misha’s clearly lying. He takes another gulp, looking slightly red in the cheeks.
“Misha,” Ilia repeats, leaning closer now that Misha’s further away, “Why doesn't Nika like me?”
Misha gets up from the table, bumping it with his hip and causing a few of the drinks to spill. He grabs the shoulder of Ilia’s jacket to pull him along, ignoring the disgruntled mutters of their fellow entourage.
“Let's go outside?” Misha wails, trying to raise his voice high enough for Ilia to hear him even with the bustling of people all around them. Ilia staggers along, following Misha out the door and it's loud outside too so Misha leads him away from the bar, down to the back alley. He hoists himself up to sit on the low brick fence that separates the backyard of the building from the street and Ilia mimics him, taking a seat from the slightly damp fence.
It's calmer here. The music from the bar is a low, continuous thump in the background and the voices of the people nearby is pleasantly muffled and unclear. They sit in silence for a moment, breathing in the fresh air. Ilia steals a glimpse of Misha from the corner of his eye. His hair's a bit tousled, he's gotten it messed up at some point in the evening, and so, Ilia reaches out to brush it back down the way Misha usually wears it. He gets a smile in return, one of those lazy, unrestrained smirks Misha doesn't show him often enough.
“Your tongue... Is it all healed up?” Ilia then asks, just to have something to chat about.
Misha doesn't say anything. He's looking at Ilia now, turned his upper body towards him, resting his hand on his knee. It's clear now as the heavy gaze in Misha’s eyes strays down to Ilia’s lips - Ilia isn't imagining this, he can't be that drunk. He won't push Ilia away. Fuck it. With a sudden surge of self-confidence he leans in and presses his lips to Misha’s in a soft kiss. Misha sighs against his lips, mouth completely relaxed and parts his lips languidly as one of Ilia’s hands finds its way in his hair. Heart pumping madly in his chest, Ilia starts off slow, taking Misha’s upper lip between his. Their lips move together in a chaste pace, figuring out how they fit together and god, it's perfect, having Misha’s breath mingling with his.
They're breathing faster now as Misha’s hands sneak underneath Ilia’s jacket to wrap around his waist, inching closer, their lips never leaving one another. The hand Ilia’s got in Misha’s hair slides to the back of his head, taking a hold of his neck and tilting his face to the side to deepen the kiss. When their tongues touch Misha moans in the back of his throat, pushing his tongue into Ilia’s mouth and it's far from innocent after that. The metal of his piercing drags against Ilia’s bottom lip, warm, just as the rest of his mouth, and they're kissing faster, sloppy mouths all over each other. Misha’s kisses are eager, like he's been starving for it and it's got Ilia’s blood boiling, devouring Misha’s lips with just as much vigor.
“Fuck,” Misha whispers against his lips, nearly gasping, “Fuck, Ilia.”
They kiss again, open mouthed and filthy. Ilia’s scrambling for a better hold of Misha, pushing his hand up the back of his shirt and taking a hold of Misha’s bare hip underneath his clothes. His skin is so soft and Ilia caresses it with his open palm, thumb gliding over his hip bone wanting to feel more. With no air left in his lungs, Ilia breaks away for a second, slides down the fence as Misha does the same - they're both standing up now and Ilia’s got Misha’s back against it, their lips finding each other in the neediest kiss yet. Ilia presses their bodies together and Misha wraps around him like a snake, luring Ilia closer and before he knows it, hips start to rock - he's thrusting, and fuck, Misha’s just as hard as he is.
They both moan quietly, foreheads pressing together, eyes closed with their mouths ghosting over each other in heavy exhales. Misha shudders in his arms, fingers wound up in Ilia’s hair, squeezing the blond locks in a slightly painful grip. He goes for Misha’s neck next. Ilia kisses a path from his lips, down his jaw and all the way to his Adam's apple, sucks on the pale skin of his throat as Misha’s swallows back a sound, hips bucking in Ilia’s hold. Ilia’s fingers are already opening the buttons of Misha’s jeans when a loud sound breaks them apart.
It's someone's car alarm, a loud, sudden wail in the air, as the noises coming from the front yard of the bar momentarily get louder. Someone's coming this way, there are footsteps, and Ilia lets go of Misha’s clothes, baffled by what he's doing. Their eyes meet, Misha’s are just as wide as his must be, his face red and blotchy, mouth angry red and kissed to bits. Ilia looks down at Misha’s body and helps him with the buttons before a group of people walk past them, talking loudly about grabbing something to eat without sparing the two a single look.
“Ilia,” Misha says slowly, stilling Ilia’s hands that are still fumbling with his ruffled clothes, “Don't panic.” He sounds considerably more sober than he did inside but is still out of breath.
“I'm not panicking,” Ilia tells him angrily like it's all Misha’s fault - he's hard, confused and he really needs another drink right now. He must look extremely disgruntled for Misha takes a hesitant step closer and wraps his arms behind Ilia’s neck to give him an awkward hug. It makes it a bit easier and Ilia melts into the touch, nosing the soft waves of Misha’s dark hair behind his ear. Oh God, Ilia really wants to fuck him. He could do it right there, he would, and the thought of it is so thrilling it makes him shudder.
“I'm not panicking,” Ilia repeats, calmly now, “Well... Maybe I am a little.”
“Good. This isn't a big deal,” Misha mutters against Ilia’s cheek, trembling still, “Just kissing. It's nothing.”
“It's nothing?” Ilia pulls back to be able to look into Misha’s eyes. His gaze is wild, eyebrows furrowed in a weird expression Ilia’s never seen on his face before. Thumbs caressing the sides of Ilia’s neck feverishly, Misha’s staring at him intently, willing him to understand.
“да (Yes), kissing's not a big deal.”
Ilia isn't sure whether he's trying to convince himself or Ilia but he nods anyway.
“Good. Good... It's good,” says Misha, again and again. Clearly, it's Misha who's panicking now but Ilia doesn't know how to make it better - he isn't sure what's wrong. They're looking at each other's lips again, already missing the touch, but Misha’s the first to pull away from Ilia’s embrace, wrapping his arms around his thin form. He's got a purpleish mark right by his Adam's apple and Ilia swallows thickly, making a vague gesture at his neck that has Misha covering himself up with his scarf.
Unsurely, they start to head back to the front entrance of the bar. Ilia wants to pull Misha close, wants to ruffle his hair and give him one more kiss, feel that tongue touch his, but for once, he isn't certain Misha wants his touch. So he does what he knows best and shoves Misha’s shoulder rather roughly, bumping his fist against it almost causing the other boy to fall over.
“I’ll buy you a drink, how 'bout that? You clumsy panda.”
“Дурочка (Stupid),” Misha rolls his eyes, punching Ilia’s arm in protest and lets out a laugh. Good, it's a start, Ilia thinks as they return to the warmth of the crowded bar. Ilia still can't keep his eyes off him.
Ilia isn't sure what he's doing when he sends an awkward message to Misha via Facebook messenger on Sunday. Only now does he realize he doesn't have Misha’s number and the only way to contact him is through Facebook which feels oddly formal like they aren't even really friends. He's been through all of Misha’s social media pictures, jerked off to a picture of his grinning face - embarrassing but true - but now that the hangover from Saturday has passed, he's got nothing to do.
I have weed Im coming over. Ilia types and presses send before he can begin to second guess. He doesn’t actually have a spliff but he knows Amber does and he goes over to his friend’s room to steal one from her purse as she's currently busy watching anime on the TV downstairs. Misha replies almost immediately.
ok by myself. The text reads and Ilia’s up on his feet, pulling on his sweatpants and zipping up a hoodie over his worn t-shirt. Ilia makes it to the 5pm bus. He's filled with pent up energy, tapping his foot nervously as he stares at the view from the stained window of the bus. He forgot his airpods at home which is why he has nothing else to think about besides seeing Misha soon. Maybe once they're both high, they'll kiss again. Maybe this time, there'll be nothing to stop them. Maybe... Ilia has to shake his head to get the thoughts out of his head. He needs to keep it cool.
It's the first day it hasn't rained even a bit in what feels like forever. The street that leads to Misha’s house is dry - it's a Sunday so it's fairly quiet - and Ilia’s feet take him there like he's been programmed to know the route. He checks his phone and puts it on silent before crossing the yard and knocking on the door.
Misha opens it quickly, also in his sweats and lets Ilia in without saying anything. He's barefooted and wearing the dumbest t-shirt Ilia’s ever seen. It's clearly something he only wears at home - it's got a picture of a surfing turtle with the word Spain printed on it, so well worn it almost looks like his shirt says pain instead.
“Nice shirt,” he offers, grinning sarcastically while kicking off his shoes and for a moment Misha seems mortified to notice he forgot to change it before Ilia’s arrival.
“You can't keep quiet, can you?” he bites right back, showing Ilia the print by pulling the hem and stretching the fabric a bit, “This shirt was very cool when I was 12.”
“And it still fits you?”
“It used to be too big,” Misha tells him and it isn't awkward at all which is a huge relief. Ili’s done with his shoes and follows Misha into the kitchen where it appears he's been in the middle of making tea.
“I haven't got your number,” Ilia tells him, leaning against the kitchen counter as Misha takes out two mugs and fills them with tea. “I had to use facebook messenger.”
“Nobody under twenty uses Facebook messenger.”
“I know,” says Ilia, accepting the mug Misha’s probing him with.
Misha grins over his drink, taking a sip with a mischievous look in his eyes. His hair's fluffy and clean and looks like it smells great.
Ilia lifts his mug in a mock cheer. They go on for a bit, bickering good heartedly, both leaning their hips against the counter, standing close to one another.
Ilia’s tea has gone a bit cold once they make their way into the living room. Misha shoves his mom's knitting work away from the couch to make room for them to sit down comfortably and turns on the TV just to have some noise in the background. It's nice and cozy and warm, and after Ilia’s finished with his tea, he places the cup on the nearest side table and sinks further into the appeasing depth of the sofa. Misha’s bitching about the show currently on, lying on his back telling Ilia how he really doesn't like it - apparently the characters are stiff and the dialogue doesn't make any sense - and Ilia listens even though he's always kind of enjoyed the story of the series. In fact, he's still got season 1 on DVD.
“I told Nika, the part where they jump off the boat in episode five doesn't make sense,” Misha rants theatrically, bumping his bare toes against Ilia’s thigh playfully, “like why? All of a sudden they freaking jump-”
“You never told me why Nika doesn't like me,” Ilia interrupts. He isn't sure Misha even remembers. It's the first time the subject of Friday night has come up and Misha does remember, his face flushing a deep shade of red.
“I don't know.”
Ilia gives Misha a look that says, really I'm not that stupid.
“I showed him your picture,” Misha mumbles in a low voice.
“Why'd you show him my picture?”
“Does it matter? What's with all the questions?” Misha’s chest expands from annoyance - he's fuming now.
“I asked you one question,” Ilia says thickly, licking the side of his mouth, also getting angry. “Why can't you just answer??
Misha sits up and he's so close to Ilia now, eyebrows scrunched up with his lips in a deep scowl, “Sometimes I just want to punch your stupid face!”
“Then why don't you?!”
“Because… Ты такой горячий (you’re so hot)-” Misha barely gets the words out of his mouth before Ilia crashes his lips to Misha’s. It's sort of violent but he can't help himself, Ilia’s about to explode and he has to let out it all out somehow. Misha’s tongue pushes into his mouth and down his throat, the metal barbel of his piercing pressed against Ilia’s palate, their lips smashed together in sheer eagerness. Shit, shit, shit, Ilia’s chanting in his head but he can't stop, fingers flying up and down Misha’s back, pulling him closer, swallowing the deep groan Misha makes in the back of his throat.
Before he knows it, Ilia’s on top of Misha. Their bodies come into full contact, Misha’s legs spread with Ilia between them, and Misha’s full on licking Ilia’s mouth now, the kiss turning into a big mess of tongues and teeth. There's no alcohol in his blood now, no excuse to blame their behavior on something else but Ilia’s not going to mention it. He's not going to ruin this and so he keeps kissing, down Misha’s upper lip to his jaw, biting on it and a sucking a bit of skin on his neck. He leaves a trail of marks on Misha’s sallow skin - it bruises so easily - across his throat, under his ear, mouthing over a sharp collarbone. Misha’s a mess underneath him.
He whimpers, hiding his face in Ilia’s blond hair and keeps his lips where he wants them, hips buckling up to encourage Ilia on. And Ilia moves. Burying his face into the crook of Misha’s neck and his shoulder, he breathes roughly, moisture gathering on Misha’s skin and rolls his hips down to meet his. He can feel everything. The worn fabric of his sweats does nothing to hide the fact that Misha’s equally hard cock's pressed up snugly against his. It's so hot Ilia nearly chokes as Misha pushes up to thrust against him, their hips finding a natural rhythm.
“Come on,” Misha’s voice comes out raspy, he's panting into Ilia’s hair, “Ilia, don't stop-”
“Shit,” Ilia moans in return, keeps on rutting against him, and with a sudden urge to touch more skin, slides his hand down Misha’s pants, touching the naked, damp skin of his cock. It's warm, a perfect size to fit in his fist and Ilia squeezes it loosely. Misha pulls Ilia’s head up, searching for his lips and kisses him in a frenzy, his body going haywire as Ilia palms his cock with his hand sloppily. The tip of his erection is already wet, precome smearing all over Ilia’s fingers and with another thrust of his hips - Misha comes into Ilia’s palm without a warning.
He shudders, breath coming out strained, squeezing his eyes shut and for a moment all Ilia can do is look. Misha lifts his hips to push into Ilia’s hand, grasps his shoulders and rides out his orgasm, mouthing the side of Ilia’s face, coming fully undone under Ilia’s weight. It's most definitely the hottest thing Ilia’s ever seen.
“Yeah,” Ilia murmurs breathlessly, the little air left in his lungs leaving him as he speaks, “That's it...”
Misha opens his eyes, blinks and lets out a weak moan - he looks adoring, like having Ilia touch him is the best thing ever - guiding their lips together again in a sticky, languid kiss. Still painfully hard, Ilia pulls his wet hand out of Misha’s pants, cum staining both their clothes as Ilia wipes his palm to the side of his own sweatpants. He's shaking too. They kiss for a moment, Misha finally calm and his lips as wonderfully relaxed and pliant as they were the first time they kissed. Ilia pushes Misha’s shirt up, fingers brushing the pale skin of his stomach, thumb rubbing against the soft trail of black hair near his navel disappearing beneath his clothing. Tentatively, he moves his hips once more, just to see if Misha’s still fine with it and then just sticks his own hand down his pants to get himself off.
Just as Ilia’s got his fingers wrapped around the shaft of his erection, Misha pushes him off and switches their positions. Shoving Ilia’s hand away, Misha takes over, pushing Ilia’s shirt up and dives in for his stomach, placing feverish kisses down Ilia’s abs. He's got his hand on Ilia’s cock faster than Ilia’s managed to grasp what's going on, first palming it over his boxers and then, simply tucking in and pulling it out completely. Ilia’s eyes widen as Misha looks down at his cock openly, long lashes shadowing the heated look in his eyes as Misha feels the weight of it in his hand. Pondering, gathering courage. Then his mouth is on him and Ilia can no longer breathe.
“Shit,” he cusses, first squeezing his eyes shut and then, realizing what he's doing opens them to the sight of Misha’s lips wrapped around the tip. He's not going to miss a second of this. He pushes Misha’s hair out of the way, trails his fingers into it and grabs a fair handful, not pressing or guiding but letting Misha do as he pleases. It takes a while for him to try and take the entire length. He breathes through his nose, trying his best to relax and swallows around him before pulling away and just licking. The barbel on his tongue feels fucking amazing, flicking the tip of Ilia’s cock as Misha’s tongue swirls around it, then it's back down his throat as he starts to suck in the earnest. Ilia’s not going to last long.
It's obvious Misha hasn't done it before but he's more eager than anyone Ilia’s ever been with in the past. Misha’s got one of his hands wrapped around the base, one still holding down the waistband of Ilia’s sweatpants when Ilia tightens his hold of Misha’s hair in alarm, trying to tell him he's close. Without budging, Misha continues and it's so wet, so good, that Ilia comes within the next minute, hips buckling up and thrusting deeper into the warmth of Misha’s keen, devoted mouth. His mouth falls open in pleasure, head thrown back and barely notices Misha struggle with trying to swallow. He hears a cough but barely registers it as Misha’s face appears above him, wiping his mouth to the back of his hand and then they're kissing again. Ilia tastes his own release on Misha’s tongue.
They break it off after a moment, Misha cuddles up next to him and they face each other, eyes meeting hesitantly. The TV flashes, light flickering on Misha’s features - his sharp cheekbones, the colors of the screen reflected in the brown of his eyes. Ilia’s still out of breath and blissfully sated. Half expecting Misha to freak out again, Ilia brushes Misha’s cheek with his knuckles in an attempt to calm him but Misha’s not saying anything. This time he isn't telling Ilia it's nothing. One can't honestly think sucking someone off is nothing. They stay like that for a while in silence. Misha’s the first to break it as he first bites his lip and then open his mouth to speak.
“Do you want cereal?”
“Huh?” Ilia grins - he hadn't expected that and it's sort of funny how desperately Misha’s trying to still play it cool.
“I'm hungry,” he explains simply, brushing off Ilia’s hand that's still caressing his cheek as he sits up.
They don't kiss on the doorstep when Ilia leaves, it would be too much like dating. Misha does give him his number - stealing Ilia’s phone and forcing him to tell him the passcode before typing in his phone number and saving it under the name Misha is the best. Ilia decides to walk home, smiling the entire way with his phone beeping in his pocket as Misha bombs him with messages Ilia ignores just to piss him off.
He doesn't see Misha the entire day on Monday but on Tuesdays they've got class together. They both arrive early, sit down at their desk as more students shuffle in and take their seats, chatting loudly before the teacher arrives. It's the first time Ilia’s seen Misha blush so obviously, from his face and neck to the tips of his ears the moment he sees Ilia slide down next to him. He's still got a couple hickeys under his ear he hasn't even bothered to try and hide.
“Who did that?” Ilia asks like he doesn't know, grinning wildly and Misha rolls his eyes at him in a familiar way.
“Oh, this huge idiot,” Misha tells him quietly, leaning closer. “I look like I'm fourteen, Ilia.”
“You look fourteen even without them.” Ilia barks out in laughter as the teacher arrives and tells the class to settle down. Still eyeing each other cheerfully, Misha grasps his hand under the table and holds it for a moment before they have to start taking notes.
Ilia’s not expecting to see Misha for the rest of the day as science is the only period they share but ends up running into him anyway. He's dragging his feet down the corridor, returning from the nurse's office with a bag of ice wrapped around his wrist and after turning a corner, spots Misha at the lockers rummaging through his in search of something. He looks pleasantly surprised when Ilia corners him, pushing his face next to Misha’s to look at the mess inside. It's filled with crap: books and pens and gum wrappers, a picture of a band glued badly to the door. Misha has doodled over the band members faces.
“Aren't you supposed to be in class?” he asks, wanting to wrap his arms around the other boy's waist but afraid to do so in the open where anyone could see.
“I have a skip period,” Misha explains with a smile, turns around and takes a hold of Ilia’s hand to look at his wrist. “What happened?”
“I twisted it during P.E. We were playing basketball and Nikolaj knocked me over and I landed on my butt with my hand under me,” Ilia tells him like it's a great war story and he's just come back from it victorious, “The coach insisted. I told him it was nothing - the nurse just gave me some ice.”
Lifting Ilia’s wrist higher, Misha takes the ice bag and holds it for him. The focused expression on Misha’s face is so cute Ilia can't help but take a step closer, their bodies about an inch apart. Without looking up at Ilia’s face, Misha tends to his wrist and worries on his lower lip, wanting to say something. Ilia waits while mindlessly admiring Misha’s high cheekbones and the shape of his brows.
“Did you have fun on Sunday?” he asks insecurely without meeting Ilia’s gaze.
“Yeah,” Ilia replies at once.
“Did you like it when we... When we...”
“Yeah.”
“You don’t care that I'm a...”
“No,” Ilia shakes his head. Glancing briefly at Ilia’s face, Misha looks back down and shifts his weight from one foot to another. He's got a lot on his mind, that much is obvious to the eye, and the next time he speaks, Misha’s voice comes out a lot lower.
“I can't stop thinking about it.”
“About what?” Their eyes meet, unflinching. Misha seems a bit out of breath.
“Us. Fucking,” he mutters roughly and they're standing so close if anyone were to see they wouldn't be able to pretend to be simply good friends in the midst of a hushed conversation. Ilia’s stomach makes a violent lurch, his heart thumping madly in his chest as he searches Misha’s gaze for a sign of hesitance but finds none.
“I really wanna kiss you right now,” Ilia sounds equally frenzied and Misha lets go of his arm to clutch at Ilia’s chest through his shirt instead. Their lips brush against each other and Misha lets out a surprised gasp, the thrill of getting caught coloring his cheeks as he looks around to make sure no one saw. The hallway is still empty.
“Closet over there?” he offers gently and Ilia nods, following Misha down the aisle with blood rushing down south so fast they really need to hurry. The bell rings just as they make it out of sight, slamming the door to the tiny space shut behind them and Misha turns the lock before Ilia pulls him close to bring their mouths together.
Simultaneously, they reach down to grab each other's asses as their lips meet in an open mouthed kiss, crotches pressed together in the hurried movement of their hips. Misha ends up with his back against the wall. He knocks several things over as they grope each other feverishly, sliding under clothes, touching skin. It's Misha’s turn to attack Ilia’s neck as the latter pulls away to take a deep breath before taking a hold of Misha’s hips to thrust against him. They both moan - Misha against his collarbone, his hands roaming under Ilia’s shirt, nails pressing into his chest. Ilia lifts the hem of Misha’s t-shirt with his uninjured hand, bare stomachs touching as he looks down to watch their bodies rut against each other. It's too risky to take off their clothes entirely but Ilia wants to see and so he lifts up the shirt even higher. Misha’s chest is just as pale as the rest of his body - a dash of faint dark hair down the front, his nipples rosy just like the color of his lips.
They kiss again, and Ilia lets Misha’s shirt fall back down to be able to yank open the buttons on his jeans. Misha helps him, pushing down his jeans together with his underpants without any shame and Ilia gropes his ass for a moment, drunk on the feel of his skin. He goes for Misha’s cock next, wrapping his fingers around the base and pulling on it loosely, thumb gliding over the tip with ease. Withdrawing his tongue from Misha’s open mouth, Ilia drops to his knees. He's never done it before - taken another guy’s cock in his mouth - but Ilia’s eager to try and if Misha managed to get him off in less than five minutes, Ilia can do it too. It can't be that hard. Looking down at him with wide open eyes, Misha gasps violently, cock jerking in Ilia’s hold. There are voices coming from the hallway outside the closer, students pouring out of classrooms. His legs shake but Ilia steadies him with a calming hand on the back of his thigh, caressing the skin as he brushes his lips to the tip of Misha’s erection. It twitches and pokes him on the nose.
“Sorry,” Misha blurts, his voice so deep it's almost a groan, looking mortified as Ilia glances up and grins. As Misha seems so close to fainting, Ilia lets him out of his misery and opens his mouth to suck it in. Both of his hands now on the back of Misha’s thighs, Ilia moves them in soothing circles, kneading the flesh of his white ass while his head bobs up and down on Misha’s length. Misha’s fucking his mouth now - rolling his hips in a steady rhythm - hands clasping Ilia’s hair, head thrown back. It's difficult to relax his jaw but Ilia tries his best, to use as much tongue as he can and Misha seems to enjoy it for he keeps letting out quiet noises - desperate enough to drive Ilia mad. In the heat of the moment he slides his fingers down the crack of Misha’s ass, bluntly pressing them against his hole.
Misha’s body goes taunt, the snapping of his hips turning erratic. Ilia lets him fuck his mouth, nose brushing against the soft curls above Misha’s cock and breathes through his nose as the muscles in Misha’s thighs twitch with the impending power of his climax. His cock slides against Ilia’s palate and then he's coming, doubling over and fisting Ilia’s hair. The moan he makes is loud enough to be heard from outside but for the moment Ilia’s only worried about choking. He swallows down Misha’s release, gagging a little but not wanting to show any weakness and then lets his half hard cock fall out of his mouth. Misha’s nearly hyperventilating as Ilia makes it back up, hurriedly pushing down his sweats together with his pants.
“Fast,” Misha breathes against Ilia’s lips, their mouths brushing but both too out of it to actually kiss. Taking his own erection into his palm, Ilia leans his forehead against Misha’s as the latter wraps his arms loosely around Ilia’s neck. He's forgotten all about the pain on his wrist as his other hand sneaks back down to touch Misha’s ass, testing the give of his hole with the tip of his middle finger and then just sticks it up his ass to feel Misha from the inside as he jerks himself off.
Misha lets out a surprised oh, eyelashes fluttering and Ilia tears his eyes away from his face to look down. He rubs the tip of his cock on Misha’s flat stomach, dips it into his navel as he moves his hand in rough, purposeful strokes. Misha’s looking down as well, helping Ilia by lifting the hem of his own shirt to get it out of the way. Ilia curls his finger and Misha whimpers - he closes his eyes, breathes roughly and he can almost feel what it would be like to fuck him. Ilia comes hard, spilling his seed all over Misha’s stomach.
Misha’s tongue licks the side of his lips and Ilia groans deeply, feeling slightly dizzy as he pulls his finger out, the tip of his cock now rubbing against the mess on Misha’s stomach. He's too dazed to do anything as Misha pulls out a few paper towels from somewhere and with shaking hands, starts to clean himself up. When Ilia’s finally come to his senses Misha’s almost done but he grabs a paper towel anyway, not wanting him to do all the work.
“The bell rang a long time ago," Misha says, still out of breath as he nuzzles Ilia’s cheek with the tip of his nose.
“I don’t give a shit,” Ilia moans, sleepy and blissful.
“Do you think anyone heard?”
“They will if you don't be quiet, Misha,” Ilia tells him and Misha’s laughter bubbles up from deep within his chest as he pulls his pants back up.
They leave the supply closet still giggling. The hallway's empty again as classes have already begun and Misha nudges Ilia’s side playfully, then smacking him on the ass and taking a few running steps in an attempt to escape before Ilia catches him by the wrist. It turns into a weird scuffle, their shoes squeaking on the floor tiles, both trying to make the other fall over. A door to a classroom near them opens and a teacher pops her head out to tell them off. Ilia takes Misha’s hand as they leave the school and holds it all the way down to the kebab place they last visited together, only letting go to grab the menu.
Misha comes over to Ilia’s house on the next Friday. They've been hanging out at school - Misha joining Ilia and his friends for breaks which he never used to do before, Ilia joins him in the cafeteria at the table where Misha usually eats with his friend Sofia, and when they run into each other in the hall, they never walk past each other without a brush of fingers. Ilia’s been asked out to go and get drinks with Jun and Maxim, but as soon as Misha texts him telling Nika’s cancelled their plans for the evening and that he's coming over, Ilia decides to forget his. His dad's out of town for the weekend as usual and his mom is out with friends so it'll be just the two of them. Ilia takes a quick shower, washes his hair and then puts on his joggers and a t-shirt he knows he looks good in.
Misha doesn't arrive until 8pm - Ilia had texted him the address - explaining how he took the wrong bus on the way there as Ilia lets him in. He's wearing a graphic t-shirt and some battered vans sneakers, a beanie, jeans and a grey hoodie. Ilia likes this Misha better than the one who tried to look fashionable going to the bar. Misha’s outfit looks like he just put on whatever.
“Do you have no other pants?” Misha asks him while kicking off his shoes, grinning brightly at Ilia’s comfortable clothes.
“It's just you,” he says confidently, “They're gonna come off anyway,”
“Ha ha,” Misha rolls his eyes but doesn't look uncomfortable. He hangs his hoodie on the coat rack, next to Ilia’s jacket. “You’re by yourself?”
“Yup,” Ilia spreads his arms, “We can have a wild party. Take drugs and have the whole school over.”
“So it's just going to be only us?” Misha seems pleased, looking like he sort of wants to walk into Ilia’s open arms but doesn't. Ilia lets his arms drop awkwardly and sticks them inside his pockets instead.
They head down the hall, up the stairs and into Ilia’s room. Misha takes a seat from his queen sized bed and looks over at the TV Ilia has on the opposite wall to his bed. For a second Ilia feels like he's trying to sell Misha something, turning on the TV and showing him the features before realizing what he's doing and taking a seat from the bed next to him. He doesn't want to seem like a show off. Misha’s looking at him pleasantly, lips curled up to form a lazy smirk.
“What?”
“Nothing,” Misha shakes his head, nudging Ilia’s knee with his and shifting a bit closer. “It’s just… you.”
Ilia’s sort of out of words and so he reaches for Misha’s beanie, pulling it off his head and tossing it to the armchair next to the foot of the bed. He plays with Misha’s hair for a bit, making it stick up from the front and then patting it back down, tucking it behind his ear. Gaze glued to Ilia’s face, Misha lets him, eyelids heavy, looking perfectly content. Smitten even. Overwhelmed by the sudden need to swallow down something creeping up his throat, Ilia pulls Misha closer and breathes in the scent of his hair. Wrapping his arms around Ilia’s waist, Misha hugs him and they stay there for a long moment until Ilia lays them both down on the bed facing each other.
Misha’s smiling now, eyes crinkling up into half moons the way they always do. He brushes his lips to Ilia’s mouth, still grinning and Ilia hugs him close, holding him so tight Misha smacks him on the back telling him he can't breathe. They cuddle for a bit before Ilia puts on a movie and Misha settles comfortably against him, playing with their joined fingers as the screen flashes, the colors vibrant enough to tint the entire room.
Ilia isn't sure when he fell asleep. Misha’s still wrapped up in his arms, nose pressed to a pillow and the TV has shut off by itself, the room calm and serene with only the pale glow of the nearest street lamp piercing the curtains from outside. Glancing over at the nightstand, Ilia wants to check the time but the alarm clock has been knocked over in his haste to leave for school on Friday morning. He reaches over Misha, turning it around and then returning to his position behind the other boy. It's four thirty in the morning. Misha stirs, mumbling something and pushing back to get closer. He seems uncomfortable for a moment, wiggles and pushes his socks off with his toes, then calms again. Ilia presses a kiss to his neck, hand sliding under Misha’s t-shirt and ghosting his fingers over the pale expanse of his flat stomach, toying with the soft hair under his navel. Ilia does it for a while before he realizes he's fully hard pressed up against Misha’s behind.
“Feels good,” Misha mutters, his voice wonderfully rough and sleepy. Ilia continues, dipping his fingers inside the waistband of Misha’s jeans and continues to play with his skin. His lips find the nape of Misha’s neck again, suck on it for a bit leaving a red spot and then move on to kiss the first visible bumps of his spine. He tugs the button on Misha’s jeans open, unzips him to get more room for his exploring, fingers now flying over his lower stomach, digging into the soft curls of hair down below. Ilia can feel the hitching in Misha’s breath like it was his own with their bodies plastered so close together. Misha’s eyes are closed as Ilia sucks on his earlobe briefly before withdrawing his hand to take off his shirt. Glancing over his shoulder, Misha does the same, tugging on the hem of his tee and with Ilia’s help pulling it over his head.
It feels different somehow with the first contact of naked skin to skin. Ilia with his front to Misha’s back, mouth finding his bony shoulder, one of his hands wrapped around Misha’s torso while the other palms his chest. He's thin but there's a definite strength to his body underneath the wiry limbs. Ilia groans, rubbing up against him but there's too much fabric, too much separating him from where he wants to be. His palm glides down from Misha’s chest to the front of his unzipped jeans, cupping the shape of Misha’s cock with his hand. There's a sound of something close to a whimper and Misha’s hand joins his, both working on ridding Misha of his pants. His cock springing free, Ilia reaches for it but Misha takes a hold of it instead to direct Ilia’s touches. He guides it down to the base of his cock, holds it there for a moment and mewls into the pillow. Ilia sounds about the same, his clothed erection now a pressure on Misha’s naked ass.
Panting against his neck, Ilia rocks against him as Misha uses Ilia’s hand to caress his balls, then up the shaft and wrap around the tip for a brief moment before Misha pulls it away. Ilia’s about to take over but Misha’s not done yet - he reaches behind himself and places Ilia’s hand over his ass, pressing his fingers to the cleft.
“Fuck,” Ilia groans, his hand starting to shake and Misha looks over his shoulder, eyes heavy-lidded and his breath shaky. He's making sure Ilia knows what to do. Reaching for the lube hidden between the mattress and the sideboard of the bed, Ilia fumbles with it for a moment before taking a solid hold of Misha’s body by pulling him closer and then, sliding his now slippery fingers back between his ass cheeks. Ilia’s fingers circle the rim for a moment, listening to the way it makes Misha’s breathing speed up as he pushes two inside at a time. It's easy as Misha’s completely relaxed, his eyes closed and mouth hanging open, concentrating on the feel of Ilia’s fingers starting to move inside him. Ilia yanks him even closer by the waist, going in and out, fingering Misha’s ass in a steady pace. It's clear it doesn't feel bad or hurt - Misha gasps, pushing back, hips rolling in a way that has Ilia nearly coming in his pants.
Not wanting to make a mess, Ilia removes his fingers for a moment to push down his sweats before adding a third finger. Misha keens, hurriedly reaching down for his cock and squeezing it at the base. For a moment, Ilia’s afraid he hurt Misha but it's quite the opposite. He pulls his fingers out and thrusts them back in, Misha makes the sound again and shakes in his hold.
“Slow down,” he moans into the pillow.
It's the hardest thing anyone's ever asked of Ilia. He ruts against Misha’s ass, pushing his cock to the cleft and somehow there's lube all over - or is it precome - in any case, Ilia’s so close to coming from just doing that to him. Misha reaches down for his jeans that have landed on the floor, fumbles with the pocket and pulls out a strip of condoms. He prods them into Ilia’s other hand that's free of his ass, and Ilia pulls his fingers out immediately, accepting the condom so eagerly that he nearly tears it in his hurry. Using his teeth to open the package from the top, Ilia pulls out the rubber and rolls it over himself with practiced ease. Face buried to the crook of Misha’s neck and his shoulder, Ilia mouths the skin feverishly as he takes a hold of himself to push inside. He's so hard, so close to climaxing that he's grateful for the condom numbing the sensation a little.
Ilia misses on the first try, testing the give but with the second thrust of his hips he's there. The tip slides in with a bit of effort and gosh, he's inside Misha, just like that. It's slippery and so very hot, and Misha’s trembling in his hold, having closed his eyes again. Ilia fumbles for a better hold of him, cock sliding in deeper until he bottoms out. Misha gasps, the first snap of Ilia’s hips causing a surprised sound to escape his lips. It must hurt, Ilia’s a lot bigger than three fingers but Misha’s not telling him to stop.
“Ah… Fuck,” Misha groans, also scrambling for a part of Ilia to grasp and ends up gripping his thigh. Slowly, Ilia pulls out and thrusts back in, settling for a languid rhythm that has them both panting with every push. A clear sheen of sweat makes Misha’s shoulder look like it's sparkling and Ilia mouths it hungrily, his thrusts faltering when he feels Misha’s orgasm build up like it was his own. Letting go of Ilia’s thigh, Misha pushes a hand between their bodies, feeling the hidden place where they connect with his fingertips, moans and then searches for Ilia’s hand to pull to his chest. He's pushing back now, rocking his ass giving Ilia the courage to go faster and he starts fucking Misha in the earnest, pulling low moans from his lips. Misha’s orgasm is sudden, almost crippling, as he goes tense around Ilia’s cock, nearly pulling Ilia over the edge with him.
His cum splatters all over Ilia’s duvet cover. Misha goes limp in Ilia’s arms, mouth open and drooling a little - he's too out of it to move at all and so, Ilia flips him over to his stomach and just rolls on top of him, never leaving his body. Muttering a litany of curses into the pillows, Misha goes ah ah ah with every thrust until Ilia’s climax courses through him like a powerful electric currant. He burrows his face into Misha’s hair, rocking once, twice, and comes, filling the condom. It's so good Ilia’s eyes water. He doesn't wait long before pulling out, carefully grabbing the base of the condom to keep it in place as he withdraws his cock. Ilia collapses on the bed next to Misha, removes the condom and ties it in a knot before chucking it on the floor without really caring where it lands. With a forceful hand to the back of Ilia’s neck, Misha pulls him in for the first kiss of the night. He tastes like sleep and the gummy worms they ate while watching the movie and Ilia kisses him back, trying to put everything he's feeling into the kiss but being too tired to actually pull it off.
Misha turns over to his side and cuddles up to him, pulling Ilia’s head to his chest and hugging it a little too tight. He kicks Ilia’s sweats that are still somehow wrapped around his calves away, one of his legs sliding between Ilia’s. Misha’s giddy, not a trace of sleep in his bright eyes and Ilia can't help but grin, quite proud of himself for turning Misha into such a mess.
Being with Misha is easy.
Ilia pulls up the blanket to cover them both, their bodies melting together, holding each other for a long time before falling asleep again.