Archive of Our Own

There’s lights still on in the diner, but it isn’t open anymore. Mama Lilia’s got the shades down and the OPEN sign turned off. There’s a fresh pot of coffee on the counter and the air smells like stale cigarettes, but the bodies in the corner booth don’t care. They talk in hushed voices while Mama Lilia finishes filling the salt and pepper shakers on the other side of the room. She watches them, mainly to make sure their cigarettes land in the trays, not on the tables, but it’s been many, many years since she’s bothered listening to their words.

The one with his back to the windows and his face towards the door is young, early twenties easily. But he’s built like a brick wall, muscles hidden under his suit, like the guns he’s got hidden in his dual holsters under his jacket. He’s all weapon, even his eyes scream with collective violence, a sharp knife in a wet dream body.

The other one is much older, slouched into the vinyl seat and drinking coffee in between discussion. He’s balding and speaking in rapid, harsh Russian with a bit of a gravel in his voice. Mama Lilia would rather wish they’d hurry up so she could go home. But it is Tuesday night, and nothing ever happens on Tuesday nights, so they will probably be there for another hour or so and she is doomed to finish filling the shakers, then go to the back and pretend there are things left to prep for the morning rush in less than six hours.

There’s lights still on in the diner, but it isn’t open anymore. Business is still booming, though, in an empire where cash and drugs are king.

He can hear the piano from outside, it follows him like a ghost as he weaves through the stairwell and down the hall to his own apartment. Walls are thin and rent is cheap and whoever is playing is good, so it doesn’t bother him. He’s listened to it for years, narrowed the sound down to the apartment below his and on warm evenings likes to open his windows to hear it more clearly. He’s seen the occupants only two or three times despite being here for years, it’s an older man, hunched and grey with a permanent scowl and a teen with brilliant blonde hair and a tiny waist he’s only seen from behind. He imagines it’s the blonde playing, but he’s not really sure.

Tonight the ghost of Chopin haunts him as he lights another cigarette before he unlocks his apartment door. There isn't much inside, a bed against the wall, some suits in the closet, a coffee machine in the kitchen. He comes here to sleep, not to live, and he doesn't spare anything a glance other than tossing his suit jacket on the lone chair in the room and shrugging off his tie. The music reaches its peak and he pauses to listen, lets it crash down then die out.

He finishes his cigarette while he waits, but the music doesn't restart, and he's a little disappointed. It's almost four a.m. so maybe the pianist has gone to bed. He decides he'll follow suit, after a shower.

The sun is coming up when he tugs the curtains closed. He plugs his phone in on the bedstand and tucks his gun under his pillow.

Mama Lilia knows his order before he's even sat down, a mug of coffee with a spoon in it, a plate with extra bacon and four fried eggs slid in front of him. She doesn't even greet him any more, just a quirk of an eyebrow and a nod of her head, then she's down the counter to talk to a regular. He watches her for a moment, then grabs the sugar and pours some into the mug and stirs it slowly. The diner is noisy, families and couples that ignore him. He prefers it that way anyway.

He's setting up a meeting in his calendar when a flash of light catches the corner of his eye, and he hears laughter. It's familiar, like the shadows that occupy the space around him, and it draws his attention. The ‘light’ is actually neon blonde hair, a halo cascading around an elfin face, sharp cheekbones and ocean-emerald eyes. They're probably the most beautiful creature he's ever seen, so he averts his eyes quickly.

He finishes breakfast as quickly as he can, and is about to dig out his wallet when someone settles beside him. He's not completely surprised to recognize his Brother, who signals Mama Lilia with a quick tap on the counter and a gesture to his coffee mug.

“You're not answering your phone.”

He hates the sound of Quebecois in an American diner, and shoots a dark look at the man beside him before he replies, “It was a long night, I was enjoying my solitude.”

The other laughs and slaps his shoulder, then thanks Mama as she drops coffee in front of him. He drinks it plain, savors it with a sigh, then spins on his stool to fully face him, “Otabek, Beks, my man. The drop is in three days,” he leans forward, as if anyone here speaks the Canadian variation of French, “You gotta play nice with these Chinese guys or they're gonna play dirty with you.”

He huffs, lifts his own coffee to his lips, but doesn't drink before he sets it back on the counter, “They'll play dirty anyway. They've been trying to get in on our territory for years, a few pleasantries isn't going to fix things.”

“Yeah, but it'll point the blame elsewhere. Shit,” He runs a hand through his own dark hair and scratches the back of his neck, “They've already asked if Izzy’s available for rent.”

He lifts an eyebrow and looks sharply at his Brother, “Better keep a sharp eye on her, Jean. I trust them to keep their hands off about as much as I trust you to keep your mouth shut.”

The other tilts his head back and laughs, then finishes his coffee and slaps his shoulder as he stands, “Turn your fucking phone on, mon amie. Can't have solitude in this business.”

Otabek watches the other leave, finishing his own coffee as he ponders that. He fishes out his wallet and sets a few bills on the counter. Jean-Jacques plays an entirely different role in this chess game, he will never understand that solitude is in Otabek's blood. He feels eyes on him when he stands. Nothing threatening, and Mama simply nods goodbye to him when she comes to clear his dishes, so he doesn't reach for his guns.

He's aware, as he's leaving, of the curious sea-green eyes watching his departure.

The world erupts like a flash bomb, but it's not his apartment that's been hit. He's snapped awake by the noise, hand pulling his gun from its hiding spot as the power in the building dies. His ears are ringing, but he can hear someone screaming over the sound.

Adrenaline pushes him across the room, which he's decided is still unoccupied and he shrugs on pants and then his holster, feeling better with both of his guns on his person. There's yelling from the hall and loud noises from downstairs. Piano keys clash out of tune, a symphony of destruction before it goes silent.

He tugs his window open and checks for snipers. They're here for him, clearly, but they've got the wrong floor, or they're trying to draw him out. He doesn't locate anyone on any rooftops or watching from windows, just a few suits standing around the front door of the building. He grabs his phone and hits Jean’s number, lets it ring and be answered and punches the 9 key six times before he hangs up and puts it in his pocket.

There’s a balcony below and just slightly over, one of the reasons he picked this apartment, a vague escape route he’s had planned for years, but the door is open and the sky-blue curtains are billowing out into the night. It’s a risk, but he levers himself on his own window, then drops to hang, before swinging himself over and landing with a roll. A quick pass of the door doesn’t reveal anyone in the room, but the door is wide open and smoke is coming from another part of the apartment. He crouches and listens, hears the harsh sounds of a Chinese dialect and angry Russian curses being hurled back and forth.

Something crashes, and there’s a single gunshot. It propels him into the room, some underlying sense that the two occupants of the apartment may die because of him. He finds the piano, a leg is destroyed, and it lays tilted on the ground, it’s keys scattered, in a corner near the balcony. It kind of hurts him to see, but the pain doesn’t last long when footsteps vibrate the floor and suddenly there’s another being in the room.

Ocean-emerald eyes, red-rimmed and flashing fury meet his. He’s wearing a tee-shirt and leggings and he’s covered in a dark stain. He looks somewhere between adrenaline-fueled fury and devastation as his eyes meet Otabek’s own. Otabek wants his heart to break for the young man, but there isn’t time. Instead, he reaches and grabs his wrist, hauls him down behind him, behind the broken piano, just as two shadows fill the doorway. He hears the other breathe and lowers his gun to put a hand over the other’s mouth for complete silence. The shadows move on.

“Stay here.” He hisses in Russian, which seems to surprise the man. He doesn’t wait for a reply, rising up and leveling the handgun as he goes to the door and sweeps the hall from the direction they came, then swings to the direction they went. It’s all empty, but the room at the end of the hall, the master bedroom if he remembers layouts correctly, sounds like it’s being torn apart. He moves, shoulder along the wall, safety off his gun and finger on the trigger. He wishes he had a silencer, regrets that this is the first-and last-meeting he has with the gorgeous blonde.

As he rounds the corner, he doesn’t hesitate to let the gun go off, twice, in quick succession.

“Thank you.”

The voice catches him off guard. He freezes, then spins. They are blocks and blocks from the apartment building. He wonders how long the blonde has been there. He’s got his arms wrapped around his torso, looking small and on his last shreds of bravery. Otabek feels his shoulders slump as he closes the space between them, “You should go back. The police will be there soon.”

The blonde looks behind himself, like he could see anything, then shrugs, “There’s nothing...nothing to go back to.” He exhales and it forms a light mist in the chilly air.

“Your grandfather-”

Thin shoulders vibrate, blonde hair shakes, he looks like he’s going to cry, but the watery eyes harden and meet his again, “There’s nothing there anymore. Take me with you.”

It’s not a question, and it’s not a request he can abide by. It’s his turn to shake his head, “Go back. Following me is the worst idea.”

There’s the roar of an engine that he recognizes as Jean-Jacques’ antique sports car. It’s approaching quickly and he needs to rid himself of this new, brilliant shadow. He takes another step, until he can feel the heat simply falling away from the small form, “Go.”

Long lashes blink, the pale lips shift out of nerves, then, “Why? You can keep me safe. You kept me safe before.”

“My job isn’t to keep anyone safe.” A horn sounds in the street behind him, “And you deserve the best, kitten. I guarantee that isn’t me.” He steps back from the other, sees him try to follow and holds a finger up, “No, I’m serious, don’t follow me.”

He turns and goes to the car, climbs in and motions for Jean-Jacques to drive. He’s glad when, for once in his life, he doesn’t ask questions. The questions in those green eyes are enough to haunt him for the rest of his life, anyway.

It’s dark and seedy in the club, he hates being brought to these places when he’s working. In his off-time, it would be right up his alley, take a little molly then find his way to the floor and lose himself in the night. But he’s working. The Pakhan needs this deal, the Bratva needs this club and its contacts, so he’s watching the crowds from the door marked PRIVATE - PERSONNEL ONLY, hands clasped at his groin, guns digging into his armpits, eyes scanning everywhere. In his ear, the feed is constant as eyes outside and just inside the door keep watch, spilling news in a mix of English and Russian over a secured channel.

He’s not expecting it when a hand brushes his arm, and when he tenses and looks, he’s met with a face he thought he’d never see again. Their eyes are wide, smile loose, wearing an even looser neon-pink tank-top that hangs dangerously off one shoulder and the shortest white shorts he’s pretty sure he’s ever seen. The blonde hair is in a million braids and ponytailed at the top of his head, leaving the sharp angles of his face and those piercing green eyes exposed. He’d expect anger, but he’s surprised when a soft hand touches his cheek, follows his jawline to his chin, then sweeps away.

“You’re still alive.” The voice is like a fresh drink of water, and he kind of hates that he can hear it so crystal clearly, despite the beat of the overly-loud music. He tries to drag his eyes away and sweep the floor again, but the hand is on his arm again and he’s forced to look at the blonde again, like being drawn to a flame, “I’m glad.” There’s the press of a slim body against him, “Take me home with you tonight.”

“No.” There’s a buzzing in his ear, and he’s not sure if it’s from the feed or his brain reacting to the heat pressed against him.

“Please? I’m not some innocent little thing like you seem to make me out to be.” He turns and pushes his ass into Otabek’s hip, “And I’m definitely different from the last time we saw each other. I can hold my own.”

There’s words in his ear and he sets a hand on the other’s hip and pushes him aside, he hears the protest, but ignores it as he moves to let the door behind him open. Pakhan Yakov gives a once-over to the blonde, then huffs and looks at Otabek, “Entertaining the locals?” he asks in Russian.

“Nyet.” Otabek cringes inwardly as the smaller man leans around him, hangs on his shoulder and speaks in just as rapid, fluid Russian, “I’m trying to entertain him, but he won’t let me. Do you need some entertainment, Papa?”

That actually draws a surprised laugh from the old man, who waves a vague hand at them both, “I’m too old for your kind of entertainment. Otabek, I don’t need you anymore tonight, show him a few hours of a good time.” He switched easily to Quebecois, “Jean-Jacques told me about a pretty little blonde thing, I’m assuming this is them. Don’t get attached.”

It chills his blood, but he nods and watches as the Pakhan gathers his men from the room and they leave like a wave, the club suddenly much emptier. The blonde hangs onto his arm until the last seems to go, then grabs at the lapel of his jacket and pulls, “You heard him, entertain me.”

The dance floor is much more crowded than it seemed from the wall, and he watches the blonde slip bills to a girl with dreadlocks, who moves to kiss him. He watches her push her tongue into his mouth, watches the trade go down, then another, short thank you kiss, before the blonde slinks forward to press against his chest, fingers into the short part of his hair and drags his head down. He tastes like whiskey and cola when he pushes his tongue into his mouth, and Otabek feels the pill transfer to his tongue where he swallows out of instinct. When the kiss breaks, the other is smiling at him.

They dance slowly until the drug kicks in and he barely remembers his own name.

He locks the door as curtains in the living room are yanked open, the highrise view of the city casts a strange twilight-like glow into the room as he enters. It silhouettes the figure at the balcony door, who marvels at the view and doesn’t move as he sheds his jacket and holster. Fingers trace building outlines on the glass as he puts hands on the curve of hips then push them forward over the bare stomach. The other pushes back, into him, and lets out a heavenly moan.

He can feel the drug in his system still, it makes the head hitting his shoulder feel heavier and warmer and sends electric currents straight to his groin. He mouths over a bare shoulder, then turns the other and pushes them against the glass. There’s fingers in his hair, pulling at the longer parts, dragging him up to kiss soft lips that give way to a hot cavern and a wet tongue. Sinful sounds escape only to be captured by his own mouth and swallowed, and then he’s pushing his hands down over the curve of the other’s ass, pulling those hips into his, grinding, then lifting until legs are wrapped around him.

He could drown like this. This angel in devil’s clothes could kill him like this and he’d be okay with that. He’s sinned enough he doesn’t deserve this mercy. Doesn’t deserve the pale hands that are pushing his shoulders back and trying to work apart the buttons on his shirt. Reluctantly, he lets the legs drop back to the floor, helps to remove his own shirts. He all but tears off the neon atrocity the other is wearing before attacking a perfect pink nub, eliciting a beautiful gasp from the other’s lips.

He’s buzzing as he’s undoing the button and pushing down the zipper on those tiny little shorts. The kitten is murmuring in his ear, but he’s not really paying attention to what’s being said. Skin springs free as he pushes the shorts down and the blonde kicks them away. He touches, drags his fingers, enjoys the noises, then rises and lifts the small figure back up again. Fingers in his hair and he has to pause to re-center himself. The other shakes with a giggle, arms draped over his shoulders, followed by a mouth on his neck, on his jaw, biting his lower lip. He grinds into the body, presses into the glass, rolls his hips up towards the heat, but he’s still wearing his own pants and is doing nothing for himself but teasing.

He moves, pulls away from the window and heads to the bedroom. Inside, he drops his hold, lets the other body bounce on the mattress, then straightens. He moves to remove his own pants, but hands beat him to it, a mouth bites at his navel and goes straight to his cock. He sharply inhales and pushes fingers roughly into blonde hair. That giggle happens again and his pants are undone, his last pieces of clothing being pushed down.

And then there is wet heat surrounding him. He forces his eyes open to see emeralds staring up at his face as the head of his cock vanishes completely into pale lips. They continue to watch him as more of his member disappears, then close when it becomes too much. He tugs the hair in his hand but pushes his hips forward, closes his eyes and tilts his head back, lets the kitten do his own thing. He goes deep, feels himself hit the back of his throat and feels it constrict around him. He can feel the other fight to keep from gagging, feels a hand go around the base of his cock, then the warmth slowly withdraws. He has to open his eyes and look again, if only to make sure they aren’t going anywhere.

The fear is unfounded, because the lips return and the other begins to bob his head, fighting his gag reflex to push more and more of the member into his throat. Otabek is pretty sure he’s whispering compliments, but he’s so far gone, he’s not really sure. Green eyes look up at him again, watery on the edges, and swallows him deep, then holds there. He hums and it goes straight to Otabek’s balls and he swears out an, “Oh, fuck.” before yanking the blonde hair and pulling the other off of himself roughly.

The kitten wipes his lower lip with a finger, it’s swollen and much redder than before, then leans back on the bed and sucks the lip into his mouth. Otabek can’t stop himself from leaning down to kiss, hands on the mattress on either side of the lithe figure. He can feel the purr hum straight into him, fingers pet his hair again before he breaks away and gestures for the other to move up the bed. The kitten rolls, climbs on all fours and begins to climb.

The twin orbs moving back and forth are too much to resist, so Otabek follows, hooks an arm around the small waist when the other goes to lay down and pulls back, drawing out a surprised sound. The noise changes to a low moan as he doesn’t hesitate to push his face between the cheeks and press his tongue into the warm skin hiding between them. Everything seems devine, like the kitten may actually be an angel, and he spends a few moments working him open with his tongue, his arm holding him firmly around his hips to keep him from falling. The pale thighs are shaking and the noises escaping him are absolutely sinful.

The drugs are definitely still in their system and there’s a hazy period he recalls a flurry of fabrics and the taste of strawberry lube and then the kitten is pushing him into the mattress with manicured nails in his chest and rolling the condom over him. And then there’s heat and the nails are digging into his skin and yanking him back into reality as the blonde is sinking onto him. His hands fly to the other’s hips and he marvels at the contrast of his tan skin on the pale above him. But then the other starts to move.

It’s fast, desperate, the kitten keens and cries, reaching at him like this is all something he’s never had and always wanted. It makes Otabek want to fix things, to protect the little blonde ghost hovering over him. But he isn’t a guardian, he isn’t a bodyguard, so all he can do is roll them over, pushing those pale legs towards the headboard. He’s amazed how flexible the nymph is, and he must say something outloud, because the kitten actually laughs. But Otabek rolls his hips and puts a stop to that, leaning forward and pushing hard into the heat.

There’s nails digging into his shoulders and the other’s back is arching, moving to meet his thrusts. Heat builds and pools, uncurls in his stomach like a lotus blossom as he moves his hand between them and wraps his hand around the other’s member. The smaller man is lost, then, and Otabek is sure it’s the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen. He wants to see it again, suddenly wants to witness every other face the kitten can make. He likes how he goes boneless as he comes down, his hips still moving to Otabek’s hard thrusts. He releases the softening cock to take hold of the pale hips and focus on his own ecstasy.

There’s fingers in his hair and a soft voice that calls, “Please, please...give me…” and he is lost.

He knows he is lost.

The bed beside him is empty, and when he rolls onto his side and props himself on his elbow, only his pants are on the floor. He frowns, and tries to recall everything, but it only pulls a headache and the memory of pale skin and blonde hair. He’s debating his next move when he hears noise in the other room, and his hand instinctively goes under the pillow, but his gun isn’t there. He recalls leaving his holster on a chair in the other room and swears under his breath.

He drags himself out of the bed, looks for anything he can use as a weapon, but there’s really nothing useful unless he feels like making as much noise as whoever is in the other room to get the lamp unplugged. He can kill them with his bare hands if he has to, anyway. He pauses at the door, listening to the sound of footsteps as they cross the room towards the windows, listens as they stop, then swings the door open slowly and swings himself out to confront whoever is there.

He’s not expecting the blonde to still be there. Not expecting the brilliant green eyes to turn to look at him, or the plump lips to curve into a smile when their eyes meet. The kitten is drowning in his button down shirt, it hangs almost to his knees and the sleeves are rolled up to his elbows. The sunlight streaming in makes him look ethereal, as he opens his mouth and says, “Good morning.”

He realizes his holster is on the table and his blood runs cold. One of his guns is missing. His eyes sweep the room, but he doesn’t see it anywhere, so they go back to the blonde. Instead of returning the greeting he steps away from the door carefully and towards his remaining gun, eyeing the blonde, “I thought you would be gone.”

A thin eyebrow lifts and the other turns, Otabek finding his missing gun grasped in a delicate hand, that lifts it up and twists it in the light, “You’re an interesting man.” He moves across the room, closing the space between them, stopping just out of his reach, “Take me with you.”

“What?” Life gets confusing when the kitten is around, he regrets ever acknowledging the piano, he should have moved after a year as was the usual custom.

The gun hits the coffee table and then is blocked from his view as the other steps in front of it, “Take me with you. I can take care of myself, but...don’t leave me behind again.”

“We don’t even know each other.” He wants to put space between them again, wants his clothes back and regrets bringing the blonde to the room, “You should leave.”

There’s a warm hand on his bicep, his eyes move to it because they don’t want to look at those emerald eyes anymore, don’t want to see them fill with sadness or stubbornness or whatever else the kitten may be feeling. The hand squeezes, “I won’t. Please don’t make me. I’m good, right? You had fun last night? Keep me, please.”

He frowns, “I don’t need a kept whore and you know you’re better than that.”

“I have nothing left. It...it isn’t much, but you’re all I have. I promise I won’t get in your way. I won’t offend your Pakhan, I’ll stay out of your business. I’ll get work, I’ll make money for you. Just let me stay with you.”

“Why?” The hand leaves his arm and he follows it as it curls into a fist and tucks into the kitten’s side. The kitten prowls away, paces across the floor, bites his lip, and doesn’t answer. Questions and more questions. He leaves the room, going back to the bedroom to tug his pants back on, returning as he’s fastening the button. The kitten’s eyes are wide as he watches from across the room, scared. He’s terrified, Otabek realizes. Otabek waits, but the other doesn’t move, so he asks, “Your name?”

It’s like a dam breaking, the blonde’s shoulders relax and the smile returns as he purrs, “Yuri. Yuri Plisetsky.”

There’s lights still on in the diner, but it isn’t open anymore. Mama Lilia’s got the shades down and the OPEN sign turned off. There’s a fresh pot of coffee on the counter and the air smells like stale cigarettes, but the bodies in the corner booth don’t care. They talk in hushed voices while Mama Lilia finishes filling the sugar shakers on the other side of the room.

The kitchen door swings open and a blonde hurricane sweeps out, drawing the attention of the three figures in the room. The blonde pauses only briefly, then glides gracefully across the diner floor and drops two plates of food on the table in front of the men in the corner. Both of them look up at him, the older one with a raised eyebrow and a frown, the younger with an amused smirk.

“Съешь свой ужин.” He scolds them both in Russian, a hand on his hip, then spins and heads back to the kitchen. Both turn to watch him go.

“What did you get yourself into?” The Pahkan asked, picking up a fork and poking at the main dish, “I’m pretty sure I told you not to get attached. It seems you’ve picked up a wife.”

Otabek shrugs, “You told me to show him a good time. Apparently it’s going to take a while.”

The Pakhan laughs, a low hacking sound, and eats, “At least he can cook.”

All Otabek can do is nod.