Chapter Text
It’s four days until Christmas, and Otabek’s family is coming to stay.
Now, this may not sound too bad, and it really isn’t on paper, but a two bedroom apartment isn’t made to sleep six, and Yuri doesn’t know how to act normal around Otabek’s family, especially not since harbouring an ever-growing flame for their one and only son, the heir to the Altin legacy– cue intense eye rolling. Yuri doesn’t even know why Otabek had not only agreed to it, but suggested it; he spent his last trip to Almaty dodging questions about love, relationships and grown up things like having babies not covered in fur that only communicate in a variety of yowls.
And, considering that things have been hotting up between them ever since a particular dirty dance at the club on Otabek’s birthday, it’s going to be hard to hide their not-quite relationship.
“Who the fuck thought this was a good idea?” Yuri grumbles, shoving another handful of dirty laundry into the washing basket Otabek holds in the doorway. He’s hot, sweaty, tired from a day spent on the rink; the last thing he wants to be doing is spending his evening cleaning. Eugh. “Your family doesn’t even celebrate Christmas. I fucking hate Christmas.”
“You don’t hate Christmas, Yura,” Otabek says, smirking down at him with something akin to fondness. Yuri scowls, rising to his full height and balling a hoodie that’s been stagnating for months beneath his bed against his chest. It falls limp into the basket, and Otabek raises an eyebrow at him. “Very mature.”
He’s acting like a child. He knows he’s acting like a child, but he likes having his own space, likes being able to be disgusting in private, messy and unrestricted. He likes crawling over Otabek like he owns him, even if he doesn’t, wearing his clothes around the apartment with nothing underneath and going back to his room to jerk off to the heat of Otabek’s stare on his body. He can’t do any of these things, not with a clear conscience, when Otabek’s very conservative, very proper parents are in their general vicinity. He’d rather die than Otabek’s multimillionaire mother knew what a slut he is for her son. And, you know, his general untidiness as a whole.
His dirty mug collection, now soaking in the sink, is at seven.
“You’re worrying about nothing.” Otabek drops the basket on top of Yuri’s eternally unmade bed, reaching up to tuck a stray strand of hair behind his ear, fingers lingering. Yuri presses his face into Otabek’s palm like a cat, begging for more caresses. “It’s only the two of us in here anyway.”
Ah, yes, the singular selfish reason that had Yuri finally agreeing to host Otabek’s family– sharing a bed with him. Not that they don’t already but at least there won’t be any thinly veiled excuses, e.g. ‘accidentally’ falling asleep watching a movie, being too cold on his own, nightmares. Six nights of falling asleep together and waking up to the heavenly sight of Otabek’s behead and sleep-softened smile. Yuri’s knees weaken thinking about it.
Right, yeah, maybe it will be worth the stress.
“Come on, Yura,” Otabek says gently, pressing a kiss to Yuri’s forehead he’d swear was a figment of his imagination if not for the lingering afterburn, “The quicker you do this, the quicker it will be over.”
Yuri huffs but doesn’t argue with Otabek’s logic. He is, after all, the organised one. Across the hall, Otabek’s room is already prepared for his parents, not that it needed much amending. Fresh sheets and a vacuum and it’s good to go, whilst Yuri is almost past praying for. It’s not his fault that he likes chaos, tattered posters and purple pain, trinkets from every stage of life erupting from the seams of his drawers and shelves. He finds a calmness within it all; clutter means he’s not expecting to go anywhere. Clutter means home.
Otabek is home, too. If having his family here makes him happy then, well. Yuri’s just gotta suck it up. And Otabek’s right– he doesn’t hate Christmas, especially a Viktor Nikiforov Christmas Extravaganza with shiny new baby in tow.
It can’t be that bad, surely. Even now, seeing Otabek in all his domestic, dirty laundry glory, it’s kind of worth it.
Three loads of washing, two sets of clean sheets and one near mental breakdown over pumping up an air mattress with a broken handpump later, Yuri stares up at the ceiling, starfished on the sofa. Otabek, despite listening to Yuri swear incessantly for the last few hours, smiles to himself as he drapes tinsel across his bookshelves, teasing Potya with the glittering ends. A narrow, snow-dusted tree has been sitting in the corner of the room for a few days, decorated in a couple of cheap boxes of gaudy gold baubles from the supermarket down the block, and the fairy lights they have strung up all year long cast a soft glow throughout the room.
It’s… nice. Warm and welcoming. It’s not the first Christmas they’ve spent together but it’s the first of them living together, celebrating it properly. Yuri watches Otabek now, the flex of his bicep as he stretches to the tallest shelf, the strip of stomach exposed by his ridden up shirt, and swallows. Yuri’s always found Otabek attractive– he’s got eyes– but it’s starting to piss him off, the catch and fall of his pulse in his chest whenever Otabek does something particularly appealing, like smiling, stretching, breathing.
Otabek glances over his shoulder, grinning when he sees Yuri looking at him, and God, Yuri’s stomach clenches painfully.
“What?” Otabek says, rubbing his nose against his shoulder, and even that small motion tugs at his chest. Yuri chews his lip, lolls his head to the side, and raises his arms up. Otabek rolls his eyes and pins the last bit of tinsel in place before kneeling at Yuri’s side and wrapping his arms around him. He smells good, like warmth and spice and home, and Yuri sighs as Otabek’s touch trails from his shoulders into his hair, nails scratching at his scalp. “Is something wrong?”
Yuri shakes his head, pressing his nose into Otabek’s neck. He knows he’s walking a delicate line, but Otabek seems more than happy to let him, and sometimes Yuri wonders whether it’s a line at all or simply the path that they’re on together. It’s an everyday occurrence, wondering whether he should take Otabek by the hand and lead him more firmly into the direction he sees for them in his fantasies.
He expresses all of those treacherous thoughts in a deep, heaving sigh, fingers curling deeper into Otabek’s shirt.
He wants, so desperately it aches.
Otabek humours him for longer than he deserves, stroking his hair until he complains about the pain in his knees, and even then all he does is manoeuvre them until Yuri’s head is in his lap, cheek smushes against his thigh, face pressed into his stomach. It’s not unnoticed how close he is to his crotch, the heat he can feel radiating from the seam of Otabek’s sweats. If Yuri were dreaming, he’d push down Otabek’s waistband– he’s commando, of course– and take him into his mouth right then and there.
But this isn’t a dream. Otabek’s stomach grumbles, and Yuri laughs, dragging himself upright, faces so close Otabek’s breath stirs the loose hairs around his face. Yuri’s eyes drop to his mouth, the gentle slope of a smile only reserved for him. Not for the first time, not for the thousandth, Yuri wishes he would kiss him.
Of course, he could lean in too. In fact, his mind is yelling at him. Do it. Do it you coward, and his heart joins in too, pumping desire through his veins. Yuri leans in closer, an unintentional consequence of his gravitational pull towards Otabek.
And Otabek does kiss him, but it’s another peck to the forehead before he’s untangling them so he can go play master chef in the kitchen and cook them something that’s miraculously healthy, doesn’t taste of cardboard and is vegan simultaneously. Absolute witchcraft. Definitely husband material.
One day, he thinks, watching Otabek poke around the cupboards with his head on his folded arms, listening to Otabek hum disney tunes beneath his breath.
Maybe.
*
They spend their first night together that evening under the pretense of keeping the bedding as fresh as possible for Otabek’s parents. Yuri, of course, has absolutely no qualms, going through his usual night time routine with an air of excitement. This is his equivalent Christmas Eve, and his gift is the hottest man on the planet in his bed for a week. He makes a little more of an effort, meticulously moisturising and conditioning his hair, lips balmed and palms creamed. No one wants dry, crusty skin, that’s for sure.
And so what if he wants to be soft and supple purely for Otabek’s benefit? Who could blame him?
Showered and dressed in skimpy shorts and a shirt that slips off his shoulders, Yuri sits on the edge of his bed as Otabek clicks about on his Macbook, headphones over his ears, no doubt perfecting one of his mixes. Yuri likes him like this, quiet and concentrating, foot tapping to an unheard beat, hair curling wildly around the frame of his headphones. He thinks, perhaps, he likes it so much because he’s the only one who gets to witness it, a private privilege for him only.
Sensing Yuri's presence, Otabek shuts everything down and grabs a brush from the dresser, settling at the head of the bed. If Yuri could purr, he’d be trilling now, especially when Otabek pats the space between his thighs for him to settle between.
It’s no secret between them that Otabek loves Yuri’s hair. Touching it, brushing it, styling it. He’d probably love washing it if the opportunity ever arose. Yuri can’t lie, he finds it a little arousing how much Otabek adores it. He spends money getting it highlighted purely to see Otabek’s reaction when he’s fresh from the salon, and it’s worth it every single time. Otabek runs his fingers through the lengths, skimming barely above Yuri’s shoulder blades, and he can’t help but shiver, hunching over and hugging his knees to his chest to contain the moan that threatens to escape from his throat.
“Braid?” Otabek says, and Yuri hums, letting his eyes fall shut as Otabek smooths the brush over and over through his hair, fingers pressing into the tight muscles of his neck before starting to weave a french braid from the crown of his head. He’s a practised professional, learning from his sisters during childhood but really developing his skills since moving in together.
Yuri wants every night to be like this, the two of them close and touching.
“All done.” Yuri rolls his shoulders, head lolling to look at Otabek beneath lowered lashes. Otabek’s eyes are dark and heavy-lidded, lips slightly parted. There’s something there. Yuri knows it, can feel it in the heat seeping through his veins, a low simmering warmth he wants to sink into forever.
But it’s late, and they’re tired. They’ve got a big day ahead of them tomorrow and the last thing Otabek needs is for Yuri to throw them over the edge whilst his family’s in town.
“Thanks,” he murmurs, slipping out from within the comfort of Otabek’s limbs and to his side of the bed, sinking beneath the covers that smell like Otabek’s washing detergent. Otabek looks as if he wants to say more but presses his lips together, shuffling to turn off the lights and joining Yuri beneath the duvet.
For a while, they lie in silence, untouching. Yuri’s resolve lasts longer than it has any right before he’s rolling over, burying his face against Otabek’s neck. Beneath him, Otabek huffs, fingers slipping beneath Yuri’s shirt and brushing down the knolls of his spine. It’s when they’re like this, nestled within the nooks of each other, breathing in their intermingling scent, that Yuri knows for certain that this is where they belong.
He falls asleep to the rush of Otabek’s pulse beneath his ear, thinking maybe it’s not too far out of his reach.
*
Otabek leaves practice early to pick up his family from the airport, and Yuri can’t concentrate for the rest of the day. He flubs his jumps, his step sequences are sloppy and his spins are about as precise as the location of Atlantis.
Every time he looks up, Viktor is unimpressed from the sidelines, finger pressed to his mouth, brow furrowing. God, since when did Yuri Plisetsky get nervous? This is his territory, his kingdom– he’s not going to let a little bit of very reasonable anxiety put him in his place.
Lips curling, Yuri picks up speed with aggression, launching himself into the air for a quad toe loop that he over-rotates and goes toppling down over. “Ow.”
“Enough!”
Viktor, channeling his inner Yakov, is so loud that the entire rink stops skating.
Yuri lies on the chilly clutches of the ice and wills his body to calm down and cooperate but he knows as soon as he stands up that his time is over. He’s shaking, winded, fucking embarrassed with himself. Oh, how the mighty have fallen. He slashes snow at the gates with a growling, stamping off the ice and shrugging Viktor off when he tries to grab his elbow.
“What on earth is going on, Yurochka?”
“Nothing,” Yuri hisses, tugging out his hair and letting it fall over the red humiliation on his face. He gulps down his water in greedy mouthfuls, trying to ignore the ache of the bruises that are blossoming across his body. That last fall had been slightly worse than the others, and his hip stings like a bitch.
Viktor stands in front of him, arms crossed, impervious. “Sit.”
He does, grabbing his hoodie– Otabek’s hoodie– from his bag and shoving it over his head. Viktor watches him wallow, kicking off his skates and staring out across the ice with his toes curling into the bleacher. He hasn’t had a day this bad in months, years maybe.
Finally taking pity on him, Viktor takes a seat beside him, wrapping an arm around his shoulder. This time, Yuri doesn’t shake him off, sinking beneath the warmth of Viktor’s unusual tenderness. “You’ve got nothing to worry about.”
Yuri doesn’t need to ask what he’s talking about. He sucks his teeth. “Sure.”
“You’ve met them before. Stayed with them.” Viktor’s thumb presses into the tight bunch of muscle of his neck, tense from the moment Otabek left the rink a few hours ago.
“It’s different.” Because it is. Staying in a mansion with fifty billion bedrooms with ensuites decorated like hotels is a far cry from the two bed apartment covered in them – and that’s not even considering the complexity of their relationship, “They’re in our space.”
From the edge of his vision, Yuri can see Viktor studying him, eyes shining with amusement. “Is there something you’re trying to hide?”
“N-no,” Yuri says, but it’s too quick and bears a guilt that he’s not even at fault for. Oh, who is he kidding, he’s completely at fault for it, but he’s not going to admit it to Viktor Nikiforov of all people. “There’s nothing to hide.”
Viktor leans in closer, breath hot against his ear. “Nothing but your feelings, hmm?”
“Shut the fuck up.” Yuri wants to hit him. If he were five years younger and hours of therapy poorer he probably would have, or exploded, or stomped his foot like a child. He manages to reign it all in; he’s only angry because it’s true.
And Viktor knows that it’s true, if the small little smile teasing at the corner of his mouth is anything to go by. Yuri hates how well Viktor knows him, and how easy he is to read with the right pair of eyes.
He also hates himself for getting spectacularly drunk a few months after Otabek had moved in, flopped over the edge of Viktor and Yuuri’s sofa whilst Otabek had gone home for his mother’s birthday, declaring how he doesn’t know how to live without him by his side.
It wasn’t his finest moment, and he regrets it every day if only because he has to live with the consequence of Viktor knowing the depths of his romantic feelings.
In his training bag, Yuri’s phone chooses the perfect moment to light up.
Beside him, the screen of his phone lights up on top of his bag. Yuri shrugs Viktor off and reaches for it with a speed that is frankly embarrassing, anticipation hot in his gut.
Beka: We’re home.
“Oh shit,” Yuri says beneath his breath, pulse kicking up a fuss in his chest.
“You’ll be fine,” Viktor says, clapping his hands and standing. “There’s no point in delaying the inevitable. Off you go.”
Yuri doesn’t have to be told twice. He packs and changes with lightning speed, hightailing it out of the rink with barely a goodbye over his shoulder. Nerves swell within him like ocean waves before a storm. It’ll be fine. It’ll be fine. He breathes it like a mantra as he makes a twenty minute walk in half the time, jogging down the slushy streets until he reaches their apartment building.
In the foyer, he takes a moment to catch his breath, preparing himself. The doorman pretends to ignore him but Yuri catches his strange looks as he primps himself in the mirror between the elevators. Well, whatever. Screw him for wanting– no, needing– to look appropriate, he supposes. He smooths down his hair, blots his lip with balm. Nothing will take away the flush from his skin, but it’s a healthy glow, okay, not a nervous sweat.
When he deems himself acceptable, Yuri takes the stairs up two at a time, letting the stretch in his thighs distract him from what lies ahead.
Otabek is there as soon as he opens the door, anticipating his arrival. He looks as frazzled as Yuri feels, hair ruffled from his fingers, face ruddied. His family is none the wiser of his presence as Otabek scoops Yuri into his arms, a quick peck pressed to his temple.
“Are you okay?” Otabek murmurs as Yuri drinks in his scent. Unsurprisingly, it does a lot to calm his nerves, but it also interferes with the whole don’t let them know I’m in love with their son thing he’s got going on.
Yuri nods. He doesn’t want to let go but he forces himself to, stepping back and peeping around the breadth of Otabek’s shoulder to see the Altins gathered on their sofa, shoes and luggage strewn down the hallway. Yuri adds his own chaos, dropping his bag and kicking off his sneakers against the skirting board.
The thuds are ultimately what alert everyone of his presence.
“Yuri!” is the only warning he gets before he’s swarmed, Otabek pushed to the sidelines as the Altin women get their claws on him and spend the next few minutes squeezing and preening him within an inch of his life. Adelina compliments his hair and nails, and asks him about his skincare routine whilst Irina comments on his physique and makes him promise to talk workout regimes with him.
Roza hugs him the longest, stroking his cheek as she thanks Yuri for looking after her son. She looks fond, motherly; Yuri is struck with the intrusive thought that maybe, one day, she could be. He also doesn’t think she’d be all too impressed with just how well he’d like to look after Otabek, but that’s neither here nor there.
“It’s a lovely little place you have here,” Berik announces, the only one not to coo at Yuri in the doorway he still hasn’t vacated. Now that the fuss is over, Potya sneaks in from whichever bedroom she’s been hiding in and wraps herself around Yuri’s ankle. When he scoops her up, Otabek leans in to press a kiss to her tiny forehead and Yuri withers a little inside. “Very… quaint.”
Right. Another point of contention. Otabek’s parents hadn’t made it a secret that they had a little bit of a major issue with Otabek moving to St Petersburg. Rejecting their offer of buying him a penthouse in the Golden District certainly hadn’t helped either. Whilst Yuri had been expecting the lingering bitterness, he hadn’t expected it to arrive so soon.
This week, if anything, may be a good lesson in restraint.
“It’s convenient, close to the rink and our friends,” Yuri supplies when Otabek keeps quiet, fingers tugging at the hems of his sleeves. “It’s perfect for the two of us, right Beka?”
“If you say so.” Yuri swallows down the instinct to bare his teeth; nothing ever seems to be good enough for Otabek’s father. Not his career, his successes, or his personal life. “It won’t be forever, regardless.”
“Yes, one day you’ll need somewhere nice and big to raise my grandchildren,” Roza says, wrapping her arm around Otabek and squeezing his middle. A dark look flashes in Otabek’s eyes. It’s gone in an instant but Yuri catches it, and it makes him want to scream.
“If that’s what he even wants,” Irina says from the sofa, giving Yuri a look over her parents’ shoulders that can only be described as knowing. . “It’s always about marriage and grandkids with you. Give it a rest.”
At least one Altin appears to be in their corner, whether she knows it or not. It’s better off from an Altin offspring rather than him, regardless; if he told Roza Altin to shut it he has a feeling he’d be kicked out of his own apartment, and wouldn’t Viktor laugh at him then, when he ultimately arrived with his tail between his legs scrounging for somewhere to stay.
Thankfully, the conversation turns back to their journey over to St Petersburg, and Yuri lets out a breath he hadn’t known he’d been holding.
If all of Christmas is going to spent walking on eggshells, he doesn’t know how he’s going to survive.
*
Otabek is quiet when they go to bed that night. Not that he isn’t usually quiet, but it’s a different kind, one that bleeds from the inside, that speaks of too much thinking and too many thoughts. The evening had been fine; they’d helped settle Otabek’s parents into his room, ordered pizza for dinner and watched a movie with his sisters when Roza and Belik headed for an early night.
It was fine. No more comments.
But Yuri knows. He can tell they’re still playing on Otabek’s mind by the furrow between his eyebrows, the tight pinch of his lips as he looks everywhere but at Yuri as the film plays on. It’s the distance between them that aches the most, not even their thighs touching when usually Yuri would be curled up on his lap like a pampered cat with Otabek’s fingers in his hair. Yuri knows Irina and Adelina wouldn’t have batted an eye, but the silent presence of his parents down the hall acts as a physical wedge between them, as if being close is something to be ashamed of.
Yuri isn’t ashamed; his relationship with Otabek is one of the only things he’s never felt guilty about. It’s different for him, though; he thinks Viktor and Yuuri might be a little bit gay for each other, what with their fairytale sakura wedding in Hatsetsu and their first child crying in their arms. He doesn’t have parents to disappoint, only a grandfather who’s known he wasn’t straight ever since Yuri got into a fight for kissing a boy on the playground aged seven.
Otabek’s family is traditional, verging on archaic. Good job, good wife, good children. And, well, if Yuri gets to have a say in it, the wife would be out of the picture and the only children would be an army of cats, maybe a dog or two if they’re feeling very adventurous. The rest they’d have to have a very serious, very adult conversation about– both of which Yuri is neither.
So yeah, he can see why Otabek might be conflicted. God, he knew Christmas was a bad idea. If he didn’t love Otabek as much as he did he’d be singing I told you so in his ear like a serenade, but that isn’t going to get them anywhere.
When the credits roll, they help set up the air mattress and bedding for Otabek’s sisters. Potya, the traitor, wants to check out the new sleeping arrangement rather than coming to settle as she usually would at the foot of Yuri’s bed. Yuri really could have used the extra moral support tonight; he has a feeling a difficult conversation is brewing, and if that isn’t emotional development he doesn’t know what is.
They say goodnight, and Yuri heads down the hallway first, Otabek trailing behind him. He can feel his hesitation as the door clicks shut behind him, and he forces a deep breath into his lungs.
“Beka,” he says softly, turning to face him. “Are you okay?”
Otabek doesn’t say anything, but he steps into Yuri’s space and wraps his arms around his waist. God, Yuri loves being in Otabek’s arms, even when his breathing is sad and shuddering, and the air against his neck is hot and heavy with unshed emotion. Yuri scratches his nails against Otabek’s undercut, listens to his chest rumbling, and lets Otabek collect himself.
Otabek sniffs before pulling back. His eyes are glassy but his face is dry. He stares up into Yuri’s face, studying him, and Yuri lets him, willing him to find whatever answer he’s searching for in the plains of his face. He brings a hand up to touch Otabek’s cheek, thumb rubbing over the crest of his cheekbone.
“I’m happy they’re here,” Otabek says, and the but is crystal clear even if he doesn’t vocalise it. Yuri guides them to the bed until they’re sitting, then sloping against each other. “I love my sisters, my parents. They only want what’s best for me.”
“And what do you want?” Yuri asks, fingers running down Otabek’s forearm to wrap around his wrist. Me. Please want me as much as I want you , he pleads. He yearns for it so much he fears it’s going to explode from him.
“I want–” Otabek cuts himself off, licking his lips. Please . He stares down at their hands, readjusting so their fingers are threaded together. “I don’t want what they want.”
Which is a confirmation, right? Because Yuri is everything that the Altins don’t see for Otabek. He’s not a woman, not Kazakh, not able to give them copious amounts of biological grandchildren. But Yuri doesn’t care what they want, only what Otabek desires.
“Tell me,” Yuri says, squeezing Otabek’s hand. “Please.”
Otabek looks at him, really looks at him. Yuri feels bare, naked under the intensity of his gaze. They should have done this weeks, months ago, should have done it when their feelings were sprouting between the cracks and started planting themselves into the gaps in their life. After what feels like an eternity, Otabek leans down to press a kiss to his knuckles, saying everything and nothing all at once.
“I’m going to have a shower.” Yuri blinks, and they’re untangled, Otabek’s already halfway across the room, tugging his shirt off over his head. It should be a glorious sight, the shift of the muscles in his back, but all Yuri can feel is the cold absence of Otabek beside him.
“Shit,” he breathes, once the door is pulled close; not completely shut, never completely, because there’s been plenty of times Yuri’s simply sat with his own thoughts with Otabek showering beside him, but it feels more like an aftermath than an invitation tonight.
The water splutters on. Yuri snarls, kicks off his socks and leggings and throws them into the corner before remembering himself and stuffing them in the washing basket like the good boy that he is. Now is not the night for seduction– not that he’s desperate enough to whilst sharing the walls with Otabek’s parents, anyway– and he pulls on his ugliest, rattiest sweats with holes at the knees and fishes out Otabek’s shirt from the hamper as disgusting as that may be, luxuriating in his scent from the day.
He’s not going to give up on this for anything.
He’s half asleep by the time Otabek comes back, scrolling aimlessly through Instagram and trying not to sound desperate in his pleas for help to Mila. She hadn’t replied but it had felt good to vent it out regardless, like scratching an itch his nails can’t reach. There’s only a towel around Otabek’s waist, collecting water that drips down the divots of his muscles. Usually, Yuri would reign politeness and look away, but he thinks, maybe, Otabek could use the hint of his interest.
They’ve seen each other naked plenty of times; there’s no room for embarrassment in a locker room of bare bodies, and there isn’t any here either. With Yuri’s eyes on his body, Otabek runs the towel up and over his chest, drags it through his hair, allowing Yuri to admire the contrast of his physicality, the softness between the hardness, the patterns created with muscle and hair and the flush of being watched.
He’s beautiful. Yuri would vocalise it if he wasn't so sure it’s the wrong time, if there’s even going to be a right time. It’s over too soon, the shift of a shirt over his head, the tug of briefs up over his hips. Yuri rolls onto his back, arms spread, the brand of Otabek’s body in the backs of his eyes.
“Yura,” Otabek says softly, pushing at one of Yuri’s arms to make room which is a bad sign in itself.
“What if,” Yuri says slowly, once Otabek’s settled beside him, a cavern of space between them where normally not even a breath separates them, “I told you that I know what I want.”
There’s nothing but the sound of their breathing, the rise of their chests, the gentle rustle of the covers being disturbed by their minute movements. Yuri rolls his head to look at Otabek, who stares up at the ceiling with a steely kind of determination usually reserved for the ice. He wants to say it anyway. He’s going to, licking his lips and sucking in a breath, but Otabek shifts, reaching over to flick off the only remaining light in the room.
Oh.
Yuri withers, sags, curls his body in on itself away from the heat of Otabek beside him. Something cold and sharp lodges in his throat, and no matter how many times he swallows, it stays there, embedded like King Arthur’s sword in the stone. He doesn’t sleep for a long time. He doesn’t move, and neither does Otabek, even though Yuri knows he’s awake.
I want you. He mouths the words. I love you.
He flips back onto his other side, unable to resist, reaching out across the mattress. Otabek meets him halfway, fingertips kissing before twining together. It’s a spark within the embers, enough to keep Yuri’s hope alive.
It’ll all work out in the end, he’s sure of it, even if Yuri desperately wants the end to be now.