Chapter Text
The sound system is cranked too high so the sound of the horns that introduce the Russian national anthem is almost deafening.
Rossiya – svyashchennaya nasha derzhava
“I don’t know how the fuck you managed to claw your way up to the podium, but I am so fucking proud of you.” Among Yuri’s many talents, it includes talking through his teeth and never making his podium smile budge.
Rossiya – lyubimaya nasha strana.
His free skate wasn’t a disaster by any means, but it wasn’t easy. There were a lot of changed spins, and he had to reduce one of the single quads to a triple. No raised arms today. He collapsed on the ice as soon as the music faded away.
Moguchaya volya, velikaya slava –
In the back of his mind, he knows that he should feel proud to have the flag of Kazakhstan fly high in medal ceremony at all. Yet and still, this is the first time in a long time that he’s competed against Yuri and hasn’t taken gold to Yuri’s silver, or silver to Yuri’s gold.
Tvoyo dostoyan'ye na vse vremena!
Otabek is a man of habit, and it’s often difficult for him to remember that the world does not accommodate men of habit. The world which is filled with unpredictable people, unseen consequences, and unknown futures. The world knows few true habits.
Slav'sya, Otechestvo nashe svobodnoye
From the corner of his eye he can see JJ on the other side of Yuri glaring at both of them, not in annoyance at their disrespect. He looks upset that they’re speaking in Russian, and he’s being purposefully left out of the conversation.
Ot yuzhnykh morey do polyarnovo kraya
“How badly are you in pain?”
Raskinulis' nashi lesa i polya.
“I’ll manage.” He manages to mumble.
Odna ty na svete! Odna ty takaya
“We should talk about our plans for the summer. Shouldn’t we?”
Khranimaya Bogom rodnaya zemlya
Otabek can’t talk through the corner of his mouth as skillfully Yuri can. So he bites his tongue and waits to speak until after the anthem is over. During the closing versus of the Russian national anthem, Otabek clutches his medal to the satin of his costume for fear that his heart will beat out through his chest.
Yuri has grown so much since he reintroduced himself in Barcelona. He’s found a way to process and refine his raw natural talent without losing a bit of the unbridled momentum and bite which demands the audiences’ attention when he skates. Somehow, against all odds; Yuri has let him in and allowed him see all of that and more.
As if he can sense the other man’s discomfort and anxiety, Yuri pulls him close. Too close for a friendly press photo, not close enough to quell the torrent of emotions that swell just below his throat.
“You’re the world champion. Your pride should belong to you and you alone,” he says for lack of ability to process much of anything else. It was a long time coming for Yuri. Like him, he climbed the ranks season by season. First bronze, then silver, and then gold. “I do feel pride for you Yuri.”
It’s crowded in St. Petersburg, even when he’s wandering through the large vacant corridors of Lillia’s Russian Revival style home looking for whatever object it is that Yuri had forgotten to move from the main home to the carriage house.
It’s crowded when he wakes up in Yuri’s bed between unimaginably expensive white tiger striped Versace sheets. The bed is jammed into the small living room of the carriage house instead of where it should be, upstairs in the bedroom. He’s healed enough by now that he could probably make the trek up the narrow spiral staircase each night to go to bed, but Yuri insists that the mattress isn’t going back upstairs until he’s fully healed. The sofa and arm chair wasn’t moved upstairs in its place. They’re pushed haphazardly against the wall, and because the carriage house is small to begin with, the living room looks stuffed. Otabek has suggested they bridge the slight gap between the couch and the bed and just push it up against the bedframe in case if Yuri falls out of bed (again).
The full-sized bed would be barely large enough for the both of them, if Yuri were a restful sleeper. Otabek endures the tossing and the turning. He’s usually able to kiss away Yuri’s distress and sooth him back into a restful sleep. That alone is worth the occasional elbow to the chest, or waking up with a mouthful of satin blonde hair. Sharing a bed with Princess Organ Grinder on the other hand is a different task. The cat lives up to her title of royalty, and she commands her share of the bed. Her favorites include laying on his chest, or right between his and Yuri’s feet where she’s easily kicked off the bed.
This morning he wakes with Yuri laying on his side, albeit taking up the bulk of the space on the bed. He lays in a “c” shape, and his is rear pressed into Otabek’s crotch.
Carefully, Otabek cards the long flaxen strands of hair away from Yuri’s face, and plants a feather light kiss on his neck.
“Where the fuck do you think you’re going?” Yuri catches his wrist when he turns to rise from the bed.
“Physical therapy,” he says simply.
Yuri fishes his phone out from underneath the pillow and stares at the screen. “It’s so early,” Which is accompanied by a roll of his hips. “Lay with me a little longer.”
Otabek leans onto Yuri’s side of the bed, tilts the other man’s chin, and goes in for a lazy and barely there kind of morning breath kiss that he pretends to hate. Of course, it takes Yuri seconds to deepen the kiss and continue to roll his hips in ways that Otabek can only describe as sinful.
“Yuri,” he warns with a firm hand on the other man’s hip.
“I’m the World Champion,” Yuri says in a jumbled mass of sleep addled syllables that are intended to sound firm, yet captivating.
They’re endearing to the opposite effect of what Yuri wants. Otabek wants to caress Yuri’s cheeks and give him chaste butterfly kisses, not turn him over and ravish him.
Yuri turns over so that they’re facing one another. Yuri hooks his legs over Otabek’s hip and grinds into him once more. The action makes his own arousal undeniable, and it finally wakes up in Otabek what Yuri was goading all along. Yuri wets his lips with his tongue before he speaks again “Let me show you just how humble a winner I can be.”
Otabek doesn’t mind that Yuri’s still riding the high from his gold at Worlds almost two months onward. He felt the same way last year.
Not to mention, in St. Petersburg, there are no informal races to determine who makes dinner. No informal bets on who bottoms or tops based on who can land the most quads during practice. His body won’t allow for this kind of playful competition between them just yet.
Otabek runs a hand down Yuri’s flank. Yuri’s skin is far silkier than the 1000 thread count sheets he’s twisted up in, and in an instant he decides that he can take the later train. It’s worth it, even if that means dealing with the morning commute crowd.
He lets Yuri tease him to full arousal with a few flicks of the tongue. He holds his hair high on the crown of his head in a sloppy makeshift bun so he can see the hollow of Yuri’s cheeks and the delicate bob of his throat.
Yuri pulls away when he’s satisfied with the state that Otabek is in: hard, dripping, and needy. He climbs up onto his chest so that he’s straddling Otabek. Then, he presses the pads of his index and middle finger gently to Otabek’s mouth. “Suck.” It’s an order, not a request.
With an arched eyebrow, Otabek asks him, “This is how you show me your humility?” He complies with Yuri’s request by accepting his fingers and mirroring the actions that Yuri just performed on his cock.
“You like it,” Yuri says simply. “When I tell you what to do.”
He’s rewarded by the sight of Yuri’s eyes going wide when he breaches himself, first with his index finger and then with his middle. Otabek would prefer to open Yuri up with his own fingers. He loves to tease Yuri…To the point that if he had to choose one or the other: teasing or going all the way, he’d chose the teasing every time. However, with Yuri’s hands occupied, it gives him the chance to tease in other ways. He rubs Yuri’s perineum until he relaxes around his own fingers, then his hands slide upward. He lets the weight of Yuri’s sac rest in his hand, and gives him a few slow teasing pumps with his fist.
“That’s enough Altin,” It comes out as a low growl, but Otabek knows. Eyes blown wide and covered in a sticky sheen of sweat, Yuri is ready for him. He reaches to the side of the bed and locates the bottle of lube they always keep nearby.
The rest he leaves up to Yuri. He lets the other man pin his wrists down to the mattress. He watches Yuri slide down his body passively, as if this were some kind of dream. He gets lost in the drag and the friction as Yuri rides him. Can hardly believe it when Yuri comes on his chest, completely untouched.
Aftewards, they sip coffee in bed. “Let me take you?” Yuri asks. Yuri has at least two coffee mugs, and he takes great pride in reminding him this each day when he pours two separate cups of coffee and adds sugar only to one.
Otabek almost misses the taste of black coffee, that is until he kisses Yuri and gets the taste thick and bitter on his tongue.
“No,” Otabek rises and stretches. He places his palms on the small of his back and rubs slightly. He wonders what clothes he has in the suitcase stowed downstairs. He hopes there’s something suitable in there, so that Yuri doesn’t have to clamor upstairs and get him something else. “You need to run. I’ll take the train.”
He can see Yuri’s face fall slightly. “You can pick me up.” That pushes a smile back onto his face.
St. Petersburg is crowded, especially when he misses the early train, and is forced to mingle with the commuter crowd. On the train, he’s wedged between an old woman with a shopping basket filled with far too much summer squash for one person, and a man who is dressed in a fine suit. Inexplicably, he smells like pungent cheese. Otabek hopes the scent isn’t contagious. He chose to laze in bed for an extra hour, and so he may be deserving of the punishment. His physician is an innocent party, and does not deserve to deal with that smell on this clothes.
Dr. Rebane is a mousy woman who is clearly middle aged, but has the voice and the face of a child. She’s an Estonian transplant. She blinks at him through large cola bottle glasses and says “I attended medical school here and never left. I doubt you will either.” She says it with a smile before having him get onto a yoga mat and do stretches. Her husband is Yuri’s chiropractor, and his examination rooms are right down the hallway.
Otabek wants to respond, “You’ve never been to Almaty then,” but the response dies in his throat when she has him switch over to a hamstring stretch. These always make him shiver and sweat like he’s run a great distance immediately after performing his free skate.
“Your making good progress Otabek,” she says after subjecting him to her scrutinous, over the rim of her glasses stare. “You’re not still in pain are you?”
“Not really,” there’s still an aching tenderness in his knee, especially after physical therapy sessions, but it’s lessened substantially since before his surgery in mid April. For that he is grateful.
“I expect you to make a full recovery.” Dr. Rebane’s smile is almost as unnerving as her smile. Tight and thin lipped, it contrasts starkly with her high pitched, round ended voice. He hopes he’s not subjected to it again any time soon.
“When can I get back on the ice?”
“Not yet. Your progress is good, but you’re still human and need time to heal.”
“Not full practice. Compulsories?” He misses the long and languid figure eights that cleared his mind like nothing else. He can manage off ice exercises just fine. But there’s no off ice alternative to clearing his mind like the way a smooth and nonplussed loop around the rink. Running is a close second, but he’s limited to the artificial terrane of ellipticals and treadmills. Reading is good, but it’s difficult to enjoy literature when it is the body holds the excess energy, not the mind. In short, Otabek suffers from a cluttered mind and little outlet.
“I can’t tell you those are fine. If I do, you’ll just go back to regular practice.”
After Dr. Rebane escorts him out of the examination room, Otabek can hear the low roll of the Ducati’s engine. The sound hits his ears before he can even get out of the “waiting room” which is little more than a glorified living room. Dr. Rebane’s office is little more than the downstairs portion of a large art deco home on the edge of the city’s center.
“Hey,” Yuri greets him simply.
St. Petersburg was crowded, and this was never more apparent than when he was on the back of the Ducati. She was brand new, with a fresh coat of factory issue, “Star White Silk,” paint. The gas tank had a very non-standard tiger decal hastily slapped on. The Multistrada, would begrudgingly hold a passenger, but not without protest. It’s painfully apparent whenever Yuri takes turns too quickly and the bike dips low to the pavement. It’s something that is never a problem with the Harley.
However, Otabek understands the love and fascination of a new toy. Especially one that has been coveted for so long. He and Yuri poured over almost every model on the market just after his surgery. It may have been the only kept him sane during the few short weeks they spent in Almaty together just after Worlds.
Mother had moved him into the only bedroom on the main floor. It was a large room that housed two full sized beds which were separated by an end table. Yuri of course was intended to occupy the other bed...Unless he didn’t want to. Of course, he didn’t want to. Each night, he slunk under the covers of his bed and left the other untouched.
Otabek had found it unsettling. “Yuri, I’m being toyed with.” He said the day after the procedure, while Yuri was trying to coax him into taking his pain medication. Rapidly, he explained that the bedroom was one that his cousin and her boyfriend of nine years, happily unmarried of course, stayed in when his particularly prudish aunt traveled with them. She would insist they stay in separate rooms, and his mother would house them in the same room with separate beds when his aunt insisted on the arrangement.
“Don’t be stupid,” Yuri says while he aggressively offers him a bottle of pomegranate juice. “First of all, and don’t take this the wrong way. I don’t think your mom would know a joke if it bit her in the ass.”
To that Otabek nods blankly. There’s no malice in Yuri’s voice, just something that is almost close to the truth.
“Second, your mother said that this is the only bedroom on the ground floor. Trust me, you do not want to have to climb up stairs. Plus, she knows I need to be close.” To this, Yuri shakes the bottle of juice in his face again and he finally accepts it. “I’m the only one that can get you to take your fucking pills on time.”
He takes the few pills from Yuri’s hand. He puts one pill on his tongue at a time, and follows it up with a small sip of juice.
“Your mother’s obviously cool with everything.”
Otabek nods. That is true, he’s asked her for help enough times in the past.
“Yusef is cool with it too, I think. I can’t tell. He’s kind of a weird guy. Nice but weird.”
Otabek nods. It’s an apt descriptor of his stepfather. It helps ease the discomfort he’d felt towards sharing a bed with his lover in his parents’ home, but doesn’t make it dissipate completely.
“He was showing me their wedding china yesterday. No context at all just, “Hey, look at these. Look at that gold leaf inlay. Aren’t these nice?” Then, he dropped a serving plate explaining how to tell the difference between bone china and regular china.”
Otabek laughs.
“But I think I understand. When we go to Moscow next month, I’ll probably freak out too.” Yuri opens his laptop and climbs in bed next to him. “I’ll take your mind off of it. Help me pick something. I’m doing an ad campaign for the IFS magazine when we get back.”
“It’s imprudent to spend money you don’t yet have.”
In the end Otabek can’t steer him away from racing models, even though there are several styles that would give him just as much sleek and speed as the Ducati. Yuri wouldn’t be bothered with vintage styles either, even though Otabek knows that Yuri would’ve looked stunning on a 70s Scrambler. They decided on the 950 together. Although the raw power of the 1200 was appealing, Yuri would be using the bike mostly for commuting. The 950 served that purpose better.
Despite his qualms with the Multistrada, he finds himself on the back of the bike often. He’d had his bike shipped to St. Petersburg as soon as they left Almaty, but there’s something about wrapping his hands around Yuri’s slim waist and burying his face in Yuri’s shoulder. It feeds that painful addiction to be led wherever Yuri’s whims decide to take him.
Yuri leans up to let Otabek situate himself on the bike.
“Can we ride past the beach?”
Otabek carefully arranges himself on the back of the bike.
“You’ll have to settle for the riverfront if we’re going to make lesson on time. You wanna drive?”
Otabek nods “no,” into his shoulder. He’s already sunk forward into Yuri’s back, and has no intention of moving again any time soon. Perhaps sensing the spark of rebellion in him, Dr. Rebane put him through the wringer during floor exercises today.
The fact of the matter is, Otabek had expected his uncertainty to recede with the passage of time and tangible proof of progress. This isn’t exactly so. The pain in his knee is reduced, and that raises more questions, Is it fixed, or did he just by himself a little more time? His range of motion is improving, but what will that mean in less than an hour when he steps into a dance class for the first time in almost a decade?
The people of Kazakhstan were kind enough to find importance in his off ice training with the top dancers in St. Petersburg over the summer. His fans were thrilled that his routines for the next season were to be choreographed by figure skating legend, Viktor Nikiforov. Yet and still, it implied that they expected more of him this season than ever before.
St. Petersburg is loud. It’s filled with the indistinguishable chatter of millions of strangers going about their lives, much like Almaty, but the context and the intensity is vastly different. It’s not uncommon for he and Yuri to get stopped at the market by the shrill cry of “Yuratcka,”while fans ask for photos. Lilia’s neighbor is a conductor in training at St. Petersburg’s Philharmonic Orchestra. His young daughter has taken an affinity for the trumpet, but her talent does not match her ability. Her father makes her practice outside on the porch.
St. Petersburg is loud, especially when he experiences most of the city against the low and constant purr of the Ducati’s engine. The whip of the wind blocks out the rest, and the noise distracts him from thinking about all of these newer, little uncertainties that crop up.
It’s perfect riding weather. The breeze is cool, and it balances the heat that comes with the days which skirt on the end of spring at the cusp of summer. They’re lucky today. The riverfront smells of wet-meets-dirt petrichor and little else. Their past few visits have been sullied by the pungent odor of algae bloom.
Yuri takes them the long way around. Across the Troitskiy bridge and around the long curvy road near the museum. No matter how many time they take this route, the long golden spire of the cathedral makes him go slack jawed. In the absence of other, taller buildings around it, the cathedral does in fact look as if it successfully reaching upward into the heavens and touching god.
Yuri revs the engine and pulls forward past several cars in the slow lane. The thunder of the engine causes several pedestrians on the side walk to turn and gawk. Otabek can’t blame him for the flashy behavior. When he does this, Yuri pulls his body closer on the bike without fail.
Otabek does the same, and he wonders just how many bad habits he’s instilled in Yuri over the past year.
Yuri stops and pays for by-the-hour parking near a small tourist trap on the riverbank. There are a few small souvenir stands, kiosks which offer guided tours of the island, and lots of food stands. Yuri buys them some kvas and savory blinchiki. “Lilia will not be pleased,” he notes as he takes a small bite of the crepe. Typically, they have an early lunch at the main house before going off to other things. Usually for Otabek it’s upper body strength training, repeating his physical therapy exercises, and putting as many kilometers as he can on the treadmill at an agonizingly slow pace.
Lilia can’t prepare an appetizing meal to save her life, but she can provide something that is designed to help them hit all of their macronutrients.
Yuri scoffs. “You wanted a distraction right?”
“Hm.”
“I don’t understand it,” Yuri huffs. Otabek opens his mouth to respond, but doesn’t get the opportunity. A seagull wanders up to Yuri’s feet and begins screeching loudly, demanding a piece of crepe. “Fuck off, fucking bird,” Yuri yells through his teeth and waves frantically at the bird to get it to go away. “That’s always the fucking problem with hanging out down here. It takes a lot of fucking nerve.” He shakes his fist at more nearby gulls in an attempt to get them away.
Yuri pauses after the birds have scattered. After a long while, he speaks again. “Look, I know. There’s more than one path, or whatever. But you’ve dealt with way scarier shit than a dance class.”
Otabek cannot deny the truth that’s embedded in the statement, but the feeling of something dark and indiscernible still clenches at his gut.
“Besides, I’ve made arrangements so that you’ll be begging to have Lilia staring down her crooked hag nose at you while you’re at the barre.”
“Huh?”
“You’ll see.”
“Yuri, tell me.”
It becomes very apparent what the “arrangements” are when Yuri arrives at Lilia’s studio ten minutes late and finds the door locked. “Oi, fuck heads.” Yuri pounds on the door. “I’m coming in, so put your clothes back on.” Yuri extracts his key ring from his pocket, and takes extra time to find and extract the long silver key from the rest.
Otabek knew that he and Yuri would be working with the Katsuki-Nikiforov duo, although they’d been pretty tight lipped on when he’d actually arrive in St. Petersburg. “Well you know, my Yuuri,” and of course he always says it in that way. “My” Yuuri to differentiate from “his” Yuri. “Has to finish out the semester. I can’t believe he’s finished with the first year of his MFA already!” During these calls, Otabek has to wrestle the phone from Yuri’s hand to keep him from hanging up on their choreographers.
Yuri locks pinkies with him and leads him into the studio. They find Yuuri inconspicuously stretching at the barre while Viktor stretches on the floor.
“Whatever made you think that we wouldn’t be clothed Yuri?” Viktor beams. But it’s obvious in the way that Yuuri’s face flushes and the dust of a blush on Viktor’s collarbones that perhaps the door had been locked for a reason.
It’s loud in St. Petersburg. His career is no longer himself and Anton quietly discussing what needs to be done in order to medal as much as possible this season. It’s Lilia catching him fumbling with his key to the carriage house with a latte in hand. She scolds him relentlessly for having the extra sugar and caffeine.
It’s Viktor Nikiforov and Yuuri Katsuki arguing about which choreography to reveal first while they change clothes “Yuri’s is so exciting.”
“Yes, but Otabek’s will require more time to explain, Viktor.”
Otabek tries to tune it out. He focuses on the contrast of soft meets hard lines on Yuri’s body while he changes clothes.
Yuri looks up from his bag and locks eyes with him when the feeling of being stared at becomes too intense. “Later Altin,” his tone is heavy and no-nonsense. Otabek hasn’t heard it off ice before, but it makes sense given the context.
Later; once he gets back out on the ice, it will be Yakov. He’s sure of it. Contrary to Yuri’s prediction that he would take on another student he hasn’t done so thus far. Time is running out if he wanted to have a third skater competition ready by this year’s season.
While Yuri skates, it’s not uncommon for him to rotate through his physical therapy exercises in the spaces between where the foldable bleachers are pushed back and stowed away and the low rink wall. Earlier in the week, Yakov corrected his work with the resistance band, and then asked, “are you doing it like that because you want to fuck up your knee worse?”
It's loud in St. Petersburg. When they emerge from the changing area, and Viktor Nikoforov proudly proclaims, “We have planned two gold medal worthy short programs.” His gaze shifts from Otabek to Yuri and back again. “So which one of you will capture their full potential?”
It’s a needlessly histrionic question.
“Otabek,” It’s loud in St. Petersburg, even when Yuri Katsuki says softly, “we’ve decided we’ll show you your routine in off ice form first, and then we’ll work on some of the basic motions that you might need to alter for off ice training.”
“And don’t worry!” Viktor gets up into his space and grasps onto his forearms like their old friends. Perhaps Plisetsky was correct. He’d understand and be able to process being barked at by Lillia right now. The screeching noise of a crow can be understood because crows are cunning and intelligent. Viktor’s current behavior makes Otabek want to crawl out of his skin and hide from the veteran skater. “My Yuuri’s insisted that the movements are all very modern. You can’t escape the ballet elements, but under no circumstances.” Viktor releases his forearms, “should you think of this as a ballet class!”
Yuuri cuts in, “that’s correct. We decided on a mixture of-“
The sound of one lovebird squawking to another is garbled unintelligible, as the only one who can truly understand is the love bird’s mate.
“Let’s begin,” Yuuri decides and queues up the music.
The shriek of birds with delicate plumage is deafening in St. Petersburg.
May melts into early June, and very little changes. It’s still loud in St. Petersburg, even if the bickering between Mila and Yuri has finally stopped. Yakov said they could go home, and Mila actually listened. It’s loud still in St. Petersburg, even after Viktor, Yuuri, and Yakov have called it a night. Yakov has finally accepted Viktor’s invitation to go drinking with them.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” Yuri’s yelling, but they’re only a few feet away from one another.
Otabek sits on a low bench and tests the laces of his skates. He looks up at with his mouth open slightly. They’re separated by the low rail around the rink, but he feels exposed. He doesn’t quite know what to say to make the crease in Yuri’s forehead and the venom in his voice go away.
Slowly, like he’s trying to deactivate a bomb or show the police that he’s unarmed, he fishes a small piece of paper from the front pocket of his pullover. “Here.” He hands Yuri the piece of paper. This afternoon, Dr. Rebane cleared him for the following activities on ice: compulsories and step sequences EXCLUDING sit spins and layback spins. The letter even had it in big capital letters which were then highlighted in yellow. Jumps were also off limits, but he could practice a handful of upright spins.
Otabek watches Yuri’s eyes crawl across the paper.
“So, why’d you wait?” Yuri’s often the last in Yakov’s trope to leave the ice. They don’t actually have to vacate the rink until public skate finished. The rink on the other side of the arena was open for public skate, but this one was kept empty for the rest of the evening, just in case if the skaters needed to practice late into the night. Otabek always knew that Yuri had access to more resources than he did, but the option to have so much additional time on the ice really solidified the differences in their training regimens.
Yuri hands the slip of paper back to Otabek, and he zips it back up in his jacket. He locks eyes with Yuri, looks into those deep green stained glass window like eyes, and hopes that is answer enough.
“Well I know there’s no way the former World Champion would have any reason to feel self-conscious. So, you must want to show me something good.”
“Hm,” Otabek hums in response. Maybe. No matter how many times they exchange “I love you’s”, Yuri is still able to shock him and awe him by handling his emotions as if they were made of glass. Yet he simultaneously forces him to be stronger.
Otabek has always found that the past isn’t worth mulling over. It’s gone and it’s done, and as long as something is learned from the past, then it’s better to look forward to future action. It’s increasingly hard to do the longer he spends with Yuri. It’s hard not to think of his haphazard attempt at teaching Yuri the death spiral in a fool hearted and lovesick attempt at showing him, “something good.”
The differences between them, both on the ice and within their relationship, are monumental. Still, he cannot help but draw parallels between now and last summer in Almaty. It’s hard not to think about how a year ago, he picked the other man up at the airport, and tried not to stare too long when he walked around his apartment half naked.
“Something like that.” Wordlessly he moves to the ice and skates a few figure eights, long and slow. It’s like he’s just started skating lessons again. It’s like he never left the ice at all.
Yuri follows right behind him, and with an almost clairvoyant instinct picks up in his subtle changes from laps, to figure eights, to diagonals. Otabek pulls back after a few laps alone and grabs Yuri’s hand into his.
“How does it feel? You’re clearly taking your sweet time like always.”
It’s true, he longed for the slow drift of a compulsory movement around the rink more than any crowd stunning jump or spin during his time off.
Otaek closes his eyes and does nothing but listen to the sharp and distinct sound of blades against ice. He takes special care to listen to the constant sound of four blades, and notes how it differs from the steady hum of two. It reminds him of the gold medal buried deep within the bark of the date tree in Almaty, and all of the rest which he keeps tucked away in his old room at his mother’s house. It intensifies the weight of Yuri’s hand against his own. Yuri’s right hand, the one that if you held it just right in the light, you could still see the faint scar from last summer.
“Good,” Otabek responds simply. “Better than you know.” He leads Yuri out to the middle of the rink and they spin around and around hand in hand several times.
“I understand more than you think,” Yuri responds with a scoff that tries to displace the softness that’s hidden there in his voice.
“Hm.” Otabek speaks again after a long silence. “Can I teach you another pairs move?”
“Nothing crazy. I know what you can and cannot do,” Yuri responds in the gruff, too fast tone that indicates he’s this close to showing more emotion than the situation warrants. He’s self-conscious about it.
“Nothing complicated,” Otabek says as he notes the red and blue lines beneath the ice. Absent mindedly, his eyes drift upward toward the hockey scoreboard and then to the high rafters of the ceiling. “Something simple. A pair camel?”
Yuri makes another incredulous scoffing noise. “That’s a legit pairs move? And you had me out doing the most dangerous one?”
“I’d wanted to impress you Yuri. You’re not easily impressed.”
“Whatever,” Yuri breaks eye contact to stare at the ice. “I still think we did it ass backwards.”
“Hm,” Otabek agrees. “We’ll go out for momentum, and meet at the center line? Your back to my front?”
“Standing on your left leg?”
“Correct.”
Yuri gives him a sharp nod in acknowledgement. They do a long half lap around their respective ends of the rink at Otabek’s pace. Then, almost as suddenly as they’d separated for momentum, they rejoin one another. Yuri falls into place behind him, and Otabek grabs the other man’s hand firm in his own. He lifts his right leg, and for the first time in almost a month and a half does something on the ice that’s more advanced than simple laps.
Yuri lifts his free leg too, so that both of their legs are extended outward and perfectly parallel. Although the way that Yuri grips him isn’t lost on Otabek; it’s loose and ready to separate at a moment’s notice of the first sign of something going wrong. After four rotations their natural momentum is gone, and they break away from each other.
Naturally, as if they hadn’t spent the nine months apart, they slide seamlessly into an impromptu step sequence. The movements are simple, and of course wildly unsynchronized. Yet, Yuri follows them without question letting Otabek set the pace.
Side by side Ina Bauer, because Yuri rarely has a routine without one. His long legs always look fantastic when splayed out on the ice. It highlights his slim frame as well as the new found elegance he worked tooth and nail to harness last season.
Then, onto a spread eagle. That’s about all he can do without violating the doctor’s orders. He’s at a loss for what to do next, and so is Yuri so they just sort of drift on the ice in opposing directions.
His body itches for more. He’d love to the end of the rink and do a long and loud cantilever all the way back to Yuri, but he knows his body’s limits and he knows why he’s only been cleared for mild work on the rink.
Yuri’s on the other end of the rink, unabashedly taking photos of him. He’s noticed that it’s habitual for him to break off whatever it is that he’s doing and reach for his phone.
Otabek closes the distance between them. Yuri, without missing a beat shoves his phone back into the pocket on his pullover and kisses him. Otabek hasn’t completely stopped, and Yuri has to steady them both. Their noses don’t quite slot against each other properly. They bump awkwardly against one another, which only makes Yuri double down on the kiss. He tilts his head slightly and demands even more of Otabek, teeth and tongue, and something else too that Otabek can’t describe. It’s deeper than simple affection. It’s more innocent than desire. Simultaneously, it says, “let’s go home,” and “let’s keep skating.”
“You’re still a sap,” Yuri insists when they part. Never mind the fact that he’s laced both of their hands together. “First time back, and your first thought is to ice dance with me?” From the moment he wakes up til the moment he falls asleep, Otabek is teased relentlessly by his partner. He has the wit and the patience to give as well as he gets with Yuri, but sometimes he doesn’t even have to try to rib back. He lives for the moments when Yuri’s façade cracks away, and there’s nothing left in the jest but tenderness in his voice.
Moments like right now.
“You like it,” it’s not a question. Otabek knows the truth.
Yuri breathes a simple response, “yeah.” Otabek notices how Yuri’s wormed one of his hands out of his grasp.
Yuri slides behind them so that Otabek’s back is pulled close to his chest. With his other arm draped across Otabek’s chest, Yuri holds his phone out in front to snap a photo. “Smile Otabek. Show me how much you love St. Petersburg.”
Yuri snaps a few photos, and then tries to make Otabek look at them. He’d much rather kiss at the places on Yuri’s body that he can reach. His strong jaw, his cheek, maybe he can catch his mouth if he turns a little more…
“Are you going to post those?” he asks when Yuri’s done scrolling. From the step sequence to the pose Yuri placed them in, they’re largely chaste.
“Maybe a few,” Yuri says with a tinge of uncertainty. “For sure, I’m going to print them and put them in frames.”
Otabek raises an eyebrow. “Sounds serious.”
“Are you fucking kidding me Altin?”
Otabek breaks away fully from his boyfriends’ grasp and races to the other end of the rink. Nothing matters except for the cold bite of the ice against the tips of his ears, and the sound of Yuri’s skates scratching the ice in alternative succession to his own.
Otabek smooths back the dogeared page in Yuri’s copy of God Bless You Mr. Rosewater. It doesn’t surprise him that his boyfriend enjoys the strange and occasionally circumlocutions satire of Vonnegut. He liked Player Piano well enough, he’d just never bothered to pick up anything else by the author.
“Why even bother?” Yuri looks Otabek up and down. He’s sprawled out on the sofa, which is butted up close to the bed. Otabek’s arm is draped up onto the bed, and pats at a disinterested Princess.
“Change of scenery.”
“Hm,” Yuri climbs into his side of the bed. Otabek can hear the unmuted electronic clack clack of Yuri typing something on his phone.
Otabek’s phone makes a chiming noise, which indicates a notification from…some app. Otabek doesn’t look at his phone for another two chapters.
@yuri-plisetsky tagged you in a photo.
It’s a front facing photo. The top portion of Yuri’s face is in the foreground of the photo. Otabek is in the background, practicing a solitary camel spin. You can’t see Yuri’s smile, but it’s undeniable that he’s beaming in the way that his eyes are wide and glimmering. His own form is sloppy and unpracticed, but in that moment, it felt so good.
From Almaty to St. Petersburg. We’ll see you in #Turin #2019.