Chapter Text
The idea comes to him later in the week, a quiet epiphany in the lazy moments before sleep. Yuri, for once, is curled up against Otabek ’ s chest, breath slow and steady as it fans across his skin. In his barely coherent musings before sleep, he ’ d muttered something about poker and piroshki. To anyone else, the words would be incongruous, but Otabek knows exactly what ’ s on Yuri' s mind.
There ’ s only one thing, as far as Otabek ’ s aware, that Yuri can ’ t ever refuse. Not sex, as some would predict. Yuri isn ’ t swayed by promiscuous favours as Otabek ’ s come to find out. Most of the time he ’ s not even persuaded by Otabek himself, gently pleading him to take a break. Heaven knows how many times he ’ s tried to bargain with him only to be left with an empty bed and an ache in his chest.
No, there ’ s only one person in his life he will always listen to.
“I think you need to talk to Yuri,” Otabek admits the next evening, peering into the living room from his hiding spot in the kitchen. Yuri sits crossed legged in front of the sofa, a pair of Otabek’s noise-canceling headphones nestled amongst his hair. He’s been at it since dinner, which was nothing more than a packet of instant noodles slurped straight from the bowl, tapping angrily at his laptop and emitting the occasional drawn out sigh.
“What’s that boy got himself into now?” Nikolai huffs, so heavily Otabek swears he can hear the bristling of his beard through his phone speaker.
It ’ s not often Otabek speaks to him without Yuri ’ s knowledge. By principal, he tries to keep their relationship as open and free from secrets as possible. Being in cohorts with his grandfather about him is not something Yuri would take too kindly to. Sometimes, though, they hit little bumps in the road that only the wisdom of an omniscient grandfather can help overcome.
Nikolai treats Otabek in equal parts as his own grandchild and as if he' s the biggest threat known to mankind, fiercely protective of Yuri but always with his best interests at heart. It works in Otabek ’ s favour more often than not because Nikolai believes Otabek is Yuri ’ s best interest. It ’ s also how Otabek knows he ’ ll do anything to help, how Nikolai already knew that something wasn ’ t quite right with Yuri to begin with.
“Bring him round for dinner and I’ll set things straight,” Nikolai grumbles, gruff, straight to the point.
Even with Nikolai on his side, even though it is done out of care and concern, Otabek can ’ t help but feel guilty for plotting behind Yuri ’ s back. Otabek watches him drag a hand through his hair, falling in messy tangled loops around his face. He mourns for the brief moment of intimacy they ’ d shared between dinner and the dishes, the way Yuri had leaned into him as he ’ d braided his hair away from his face.
When had those moments become so few and far between?
“Saturday night?” Otabek asks, dragging his eyes away from the tense line of Yuri’s shoulder to the cats in hats calendar tacked to the fridge with all their important engagements scrawled across it.
“And don’t be late, ” Nikolai says in lieu of agreement. Otabek nods, back ramrod straight, even when Nikolai can’t see him, and scratches dinner at deda’s in bright red ink across the entire block of Saturday.
After Otabek hangs up, his blood simmers with a need to do something more, now rather than waiting for the endless later. Yuri- he ’ s biting his nails again, picking at the spots on his chin until they bleed. Otabek knows he ’ ll protest but he doesn ’ t find himself caring as he settles behind Yuri, brush in hand, even when he squirms in protest between his legs. Yuri might not have enough time to take care of himself but Otabek has all the time in the world. There ’ s nothing he wants more than Yuri to be happy, healthy and here with him.
Otabek waits for the eventual moan of you ’ re distracting me as he unties Yuri ’ s hair, but it never comes. Even as he runs the brush through Yuri’ s the waves of his hair, over and over like the tide meeting the sand, Yuri doesn ’ t complain. Even when Otabek presses lingering kisses to the nape of his neck, Yuri never loses concentration, purring as he plucks at the keyboard with nimble fingers. The quiet repetitiveness of it seems to loosen a knot within him, his shoulders sinking, slowly melting against Otabek’s chest until Otabek can’ t quite tell where Yuri’ s body ends and his own begins.
Maybe this is all Yuri needs, quiet companionship, understand, patience.
Ignorance is bliss, a voice that sounds startling like his mother’s murmurs from the depths of his mind. The phrase echoes through his thoughts, even when they thicken like honey as Yuri heaves a final sigh and folds himself in Otabek ’ s arms, nuzzling at his jaw. The attention is nice, the hand slipping beneath his sweats even nicer, nice enough to forget, for a moment, why Otabek ’ s worried at all.
*
“And what are we doing later?” Otabek asks Yuri, dropping him off at his office door with a kiss pressed to his cheek.
Yuri doesn’t say anything but his eye roll speaks volumes. Otabek doesn’t let go of his waist until he huffs, a delicious pout curling at his lips. “Going to Deda’s.”
“Which means no working late.” And then, observing the angry scrunch between Yuri’s eyebrow, he adds, “Please.”
Yuri glares at him but eventually nods. Otabek deflates, unaware of the tension he’ d been holding in his shoulders. He tucks an errant wave behind Yuri’ s ear, smoothing a thumb over Yuri’ s cheek. His skin’ s broken out a little, blemished around his nose and chin, but it makes him feel real, human.
“We leave at six,” Otabek emphasises, waiting for Yuri to nod again before he draws away.
Leaving is always the hardest thing, even when they’re in the same building, floors away, sometimes simply walls. Today, Yuri doesn’t make it easy, wrapping his fingers in Otabek’s s tie and dragging him in for a proper kiss, the kind reserved only for the eyes of their bedroom. It never fails to make the breath catch in Otabek’s lungs, the gentle pressure of Yuri’s mouth against his, the fingers that pull and pull and pull, pressing them closer until he can feel the throb of Yuri’s heart behind his ribs, the current of his chest rising and falling as he breathes.
“What was that for?” Otabek asks when they part, eyes falling to the curve of Yuri’s cupid’s bow. He’s blushing, a petal peach blossoming across his cheeks.
Yuri shrugs, licking his lips. Otabek can’ t resist, leaning in for a final farewell peck to the corner of his smile, then to the smooth skin of his forehead because he can’ t resist the small scoff that always catches in the back of Yuri’ s throat when he’ s tender with him.
It makes the pitfalls worth it, loving Yuri like this.
Well, it sure makes the monotony of the working day go faster at least.
Despite the fair warnings, the not-so-subtle hinting at lunch, the reminder he’d scheduled in Yuri’s calendar the night before to ping an hour before close, Yuri’s not in his office at the end of the day. Which is- … fine. Maybe a miracle has happened and Yuri’s meeting him in the foyer, packed up and ready for an evening to leave this place behind.
He would be so lucky.
He tries Lilia ’ s office, Georgi’ s, Viktor’ s. The printing room, the photography studio, the supply closet Yuri sneaks off to when he needs some time alone in the dark. Maybe he’ s sneaking a cigarette, a bad habit from university. Sometimes when he crawls into bed, the lingering curls of smoke cling to the tip of Yuri’ s tongue as it slips between his lips.
As the clock creeps closer to seven, Otabek falls into Yuri’ s desk chair, checking his unanswered messages. As if sensing his presence, Yuri’ s name flashes up on his screen, a picture of the two of them with Potya sandwiched between them the first night after Yuri’ d moved in. Everything had felt simple, then, an answer to a question Otabek hadn’ t known he’ d been asking. He wish he could find an answer right now that could make things as easy as those first nights, their first months together.
When he picks up, Yuri doesn’ t speak. Otabek would have thought the connection was faulty if he couldn’ t hear the drag of Yuri’ s breath crackling in his ear.
Otabek ’ s stomach drops. He sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose as Yuri’ s silence washes over him. He can hear cars, and people, the click of Yuri’ s boots on uneven pavement. Otabek tries. He tries not to let frustration seep into his voice, but it’s hard when it’ s there, sinking into his bones, a weariness that drags against his skin like crushed velvet.
Finally, he speaks. “Where are you?”
“Stratford,” Yuri murmurs. That’s east, east to where Otabek is, gazing stonily out of the twelfth story window, extremely east to where Nikolai's house is on the western edge of the city. “Before you say anything-”
“Why?” Otabek interrupts, letting his head fall back. The lights embedded in the ceiling burn his eyes; it’s a welcome distraction to the crawling of his skin. “Why are you in Stratford, Yuri?”
“I had to clear up some last-minute things in the warehouse,” he says, so quiet Otabek can barely hear him over the roar of the traffic. “It was important.”
Otabek’s fingers curl into a fist against his thigh until he forces himself to smooth them out. His jaw aches with how hard his teeth are clenching, he can feel the muscle flickering in his cheek. Yuri always runs the backs of his knuckles over it when they make love- but he doesn’t want to think about that right now, not when the frustration threatens to blossom into something more sinister. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Because I knew you’d get like this!” Yuri exclaims. Otabek can picture his face, eyes wide and shining, hands held up defensively in front of his body. “Just say you're angry and be done with it, Beka!”
“I’m not- I’m not angry, Yura,” he says, shoulders sagging. He rubs the back of his neck, pressing into the knots that have wound up beneath his skin. "I’m just …”
He hates that he’s getting used to this.
“Disappointed,” Yuri supplies, spitting the word. It’s not what Otabek’s thinking, but it fits- and he hates himself for it, for even entertaining the thought.
“No.” It’s too late, though. Otabek should have rejected it as soon as Yuri spoke, but the seconds of silence is enough to settle the idea into the soil of their thoughts. “Don’t put words in my mouth, Yuri.”
Yuri snorts, an ugly noise caught in the back of his throat that hitches like a sob. Otabek knows he needs to say something else- but what else can he do, when Yuri’ s not there before him, when he can’ t reinforce his words with his touch, when there’ s the cold emptiness of a phone line between them.
“Go on without me,” Yuri says in the end. Otabek wants to argue but he knows it’ll only twist things into something uglier, something unrecoverable. “Don’t let Deda wait any longer.”
Before Otabek can poke at the bruise with any more questions, Yuri hangs up. Not for the first time, Otabek feels as if the slither of space between them has widened, large enough to let the biting cold of the night in between the cracks.
He drives in silence through the city to reach Nikolai’ s house. He can’ t even bring himself to appreciate the lights strung up now that he’ s reached a more residential part of the city, grinning Father Christmases, twinkling stars, a full set of reindeer complete with present stuffed sleigh precariously perched on top of someone’ s roof. Nikolai’ s place is one of the only buildings without any hint of festivity, but Otabek can see the branches of a bare tree poking out through the gap in the curtains. They twitch as Otabek swings the car up into the driveway, the front door open before can even put the handbrake on.
“There you are, boy, I was getting worried!” Nikolai greets him when Otabek meets him in the doorway, a heavy hand squeezing his shoulder. The air is thick with the scent of cooking, garlic and cloves, the sweet smoke from an open fire. Despite his Kazakh upbringing, the warmth of Nikolai’s house feels very much like home. Bushy brows furrowed, Nikolai peers over Otabek’s shoulder. “Where’s Yurochka? Still in the car?”
Otabek’s eyes fall shut. He hadn’t had the guts to phone Yuri’s grandfather and tell him that his favourite- only- grandson wouldn’t be in attendance. “No.”
“Getting something from the boot then?” Nikolai continues, unaware of Otabek’s internal pain. He gestures for Otabek to come inside, which he does so, but hesitantly, even more hesitant than the night Yuri had first brought him here. “Is he finally bringing back that angle saw for that widow dress?”
“Window dressing,” Otabek mutters, but Nikolai waves him off, still peering out across the dark drive.
Acknowledgment takes longer than Otabek had anticipated; Nikolai always has had the utmost faith in his grandson.
“He’s not here, is he,” he says finally, the warm gravel dropping to a gruff grunt. All Otabek can do is shake his head, the click of the door closing catching in his heart.
“I’m sorry,” he says after too long has passed. He seems to be doing that more often, nowadays, waiting too long to say the right things- or the wrong things, as it always feels like.
Nikolai places his hand on Otabek ’ s shoulder again. A part deep within him wants to reach out, to wrap his arms around the man who’ s become more like family than his own, and let the age of his gnarled fingers fix the wounds of his relationship.
“It’s not your apology to make, son,” Nikolai says, and his eyes, the same determined, narrowed eyes, are filled with an understanding that Otabek sees so often within himself, staring in the mirror when he’s about to go to bed alone. Something tightens in his throat, and Otabek coughs to hide the choke of the air getting trapped in his lungs. “Well don’t just stand there. I’m only getting older, and this stroganoff is only growing colder.”
They eat together in companionable silence with the radio playing in the background, a fancy digital thing Yuri had picked out for Nikolai to listen to his favourite old-timey stations on for his birthday last year. Otabek finds the crooning of the old jazz comforting, almost as comforting as the heartiness of the meal on his plate and the fond looks he catches Nikolai sending his way when he thinks Otabek ’ s absorbed in one of the crosswords Nikolai keeps saved up for him from the daily papers.
“I suppose we can pack some away for the boy,” Nikolai says as they’re cleaning up, Otabek on dish duty whilst Nikolai watches on with a towel slung over his shoulder to implicate he’ll be drying them at some point, just not now.
“If you think he deserves it,” Otabek comments, rerolling his damp sleeves up to his elbow- Yuri always knows the perfect way to keep them up where they belong. He wishes he were here to do it for him
He wishes he were here.
“I worry he doesn’t eat enough,” Nikolai says, scraping the bottom of the cooking pot; there are enough leftovers to fill three Tupperware dishes. Otabek’s relieved that he doesn’t have to cook dinner at least one additional night this week. “Do you think he’s lost weight?”
Otabek frowns. Seeing someone every day, being with them- sometimes it’s hard to notice the obvious differences. “I don’t think so?”
Nikolai harrumphs and dumps the heavy pan next to Otabek’s elbow, his next objective. “Is he sleeping well?”
“I’m not sure,” Otabek says, telling the truth. He knows Yuri sleeps- eventually- but that doesn’t mean the quality is any good. If he were having issues, though, Yuri would tell him, he’s sure of it. “He goes to bed after me, and wakes up before.”
“So the sex life isn’t good either,” Nikolai comments, slapping Otabek over the shoulder.
Otabek can’ t help but sputter, heat creeping up the back of his neck as his fingers cease to work and drop the heavy casserole dish into the dirty water. Waves of suds spray up at him as Nikolai guffaws beside him; whilst he’ s glad to hear his amusement, Otabek wishes it wasn’ t at his expense.
“Did you really think I thought you two were being all sweet and innocent in that apartment of yours?” Nikolai exclaims, offering Otabek the dishcloth to wipe at his dripping shirt. “My body might be old, but my brain is not. I remember the things I got up to when I was your age.”
On the list of things Otabek is willing to discuss with Yuri’ s grandfather, he has to say that their sex life ranks absolute rock bottom. Nikolai appears oblivious to his embarrassment, or perhaps he’ s relishing in the chance to make him squirm without any interference. Ears burning, Otabek rings out the front of his shirt and dabs at it with the tea towel.
“That’s not why I think you should speak to him,” he mumbles, and Nikolai only laughs louder, slapping Otabek’s shoulder so hard he almost drops the pot again.
“Of course it’s not, son,” Nikolai says, shuffling to the fridge to store the leftovers away and wiping his hands down the front of his brown slacks. “Leave that now, there are other matters at hand.”
A single nod and Otabek is draining the sink, watching the murky water swirl around the drain for far too long as he hears the groan of old floorboards as Nikolai wanders through the house. He wishes Yuri were here to see this, the terrifying yet somehow easy way he’ s traipsing himself through his relationship with his grandfather. Now that he thinks about it, Otabek can’ t recollect a moment where he’ s been anything other than welcome into the Plisetsky family.
It’s … encouraging.
“I said leave the dishes, Otabek,” Nikolai shouts, a growl in its gravelly nature. Otabek huffs but winds himself through the narrow hallway, catching the end of Nikolai’s personal mutterings. “… like my Milena.”
He nearly trips as he enters the living room. Although he ’ d caught a glimpse of the tree in the window, Otabek hadn’ t paid much attention as he’ d come in. Half a dozen dusty boxes clutter the floorboards, spilling fraying ends of tinsel and ornaments. Otabek ’ s heart squeezes, for himself and for Nikolai. He glances at his phone before he makes his presence known; radio silence from Yuri, not that he’ s surprised.
“It’s better this way,” Nikolai says with a shrug, stoking the fire with logs from the wicker basket and prodding at the flames with a poker. When he straightens, it’s with a series of creaks and crackles mirroring the spitting of the fire, and he rubs at his lower back with a wince. “If Yurochka asks, it was you who went into the attic.”
“Yes sir,” Otabek says with a little salute, although deep down he is concerned about the amount of heavy lifting he does for someone who’s had open-heart surgery.
Together, they string up decorations, starting with the walls of the living room before making their way to the tree. Otabek remembers this time last year, where Yuri didn’ t do much but tell the two of them just how wrong their way of hanging fairy lights was, and how the lack of a colour scene was tacky. Which, coming from Yuri in his animal print, clashing patterns glory, was very rich.
It doesn’ t make Otabek want him here any less; sure, Nikolai’ s quiet companionship is nice. Otabek likes the simplicity of his instructions, the laidback swing of the jazz record that crackles from the record player in the corner, but he misses the quick commentary, the mugs of hot cider brewed with too many cinnamon sticks and a healthy dosage of rum. He misses kissing Yuri beneath the same discoloured plastic of the fake mistletoe that Otabek pins up above the doorframe, misses holding him up as he wraps tinsel around the family portraits high on the wall.
Nikolai doesn’ t say it, but Otabek knows he wishes Yuri were here too.
“Just the tree to go now, son,” Nikolai says, taking his cap off and wiping at his forehead with a handkerchief. Otabek gets a rare view of the full head of hair he still sports, salt and peppered, thick like Yuri’s. “Come help me with this box.”
Otabek thinks that most of the tree ornaments have seen more Christmases than he has, old wooden carvings and fabric baubles, a set of candlelights so old Otabek knows they don’ t sell the bulbs anymore; he’ d found out the hard way when he’ d had to scour eBay for replacements last year and didn’ t have the heart to tell neither Nikolai nor Yuri just how expensive they had been. Amongst them all, though, there are some sparkling gems, tokens that can’ t be bought anywhere in the world, not even a sketchy store on eBay.
“Yurochka’s always been good with his hands,” Nikolai says as Otabek holds up a tiny matchstick manger, yellow wool hay woven between the wood, and a little felt baby Jesus nestled inside. Beneath it, YP is written in loud, red ink.
“I know,” Otabek murmurs, running his thumb over the initials. Next to him, Nikolai coughs. Otabek’s jaw twitches. “Not- like that.”
“I’m just teasing,” Nikolai says. Otabek’s aware; the whole evening has been an opportunity to tease him. Otabek won’t admit it, but he kind of likes it, likes that Nikolai is comfortable enough with him, with his relationship with Yuri, that he’s willing to joke with him.
The next handmade ornament Otabek pulls out is a fragile, hand stitched star. Otabek can spot a few of them in the box at his feet, their tiny iridescent sequins winking up at him. A more recent creation, Otabek guesses, judging by the neatness of the handiwork and the little embroidered initials on the cloth label attached to the ribbon they hang by. Otabek wonders why Yuri hasn’ t made any for their tree at home- although it’ s not up yet, it’ s only ever decorated with cheap stuff they’ d bought together in the Christmas sales after they’ d moved in together. The stars- they’ re nice, personal. Otabek can feel Yuri’ s love and appreciation in every stitch, carefully preserved year after year in cold cardboard boxes only to be revived once upon a December.
“Ah, this one,” Nikolai says, coloured with the warmth of his chuckle. Between his thick fingers is a delicate painted angel, acrylic on glass, long blonde hair and bright green eyes. Familiar, Otabek thinks. “I remember this one.”
When Nikolai holds it up to the tree, the twinkling of the lights shine through the multicoloured panes of glass. It’ s a beautiful piece, striking in its elegance. Otabek can tell by studying that it wasn’ t made from Yuri’ s hand alone.
“His mother helped with this one,” Nikolai comments, hanging the angel up at the top of the tree, closest to the sky. Nikolai’s face softens, the wrinkles at the corners of his eye creasing. The way he still holds the figure, carefully, tenderly, is endearing. “Does he talk much about her?”
“No,” Otabek says after a long while, wondering whether he should spare Nikolai’s feelings. Otabek knows that Yuri’s mother is dead and that he has her eyes. Besides that, Yuri’s never felt the need to elaborate, and Otabek’s never wanted to dredge up a painful past for them to linger over. “He’s, uh. It’s always seemed like a sore spot.”
Nikolai steps back from the tree, glancing at him from the corner of his eye. “It is, son.”
There doesn’ t seem to be much to say after that. Together, they hang up the last of the decorations, angels at the top, snow at the bottom just as Yuri would like. It’s late when they finally sit in the aftermath, creeping close to ten. Although Otabek isn’ t working tomorrow- thank the heavens for that- he has the niggling feeling that he should make his way back, make sure his neighbour next doors has fed Potya and kept her entertained, maybe try and track down Yuri.
It’s just … he needs this, too. A reprieve, a small homey bubble away from the bustling city life.
He sends a text to Yuri to let him know he’ s still here and pads into the kitchen to prepare the tea.
When he returns, two steaming mugs in hand, there’ s a book open on the coffee table in front of Nikolai’ s armchair. Not a book- a photo album. Otabek tries not to look as he settles Nikolai’ s mug beside it but he’ s captivated by a pale, slender figure with hair woven from starlight.
“He's so like his mother,” Nikolai muses, and Otabek takes it as an invitation to openly look. They have the same high cheekbones and pointed features, although Yuri’s hair is more golden in tone compared to his mother’s platinum sheen. “He’d deny it if you told him, but he is.”
Otabek hums in agreement, kneeling at Nikolai’ s side. The writing beneath the portrait reads Natalya, twenty two, 21/10/1995. The same age Otabek had met Yuri. After his mind finishes processing the date, Otabek realises that Natalya must have been pregnant in the photo, a little unborn Yuri cut off just below the border.
“He certainly looks like her,” Otabek murmurs, watching Nikolai flip to the next page where the swell of Natalya’s pregnant belly is easily visible at a Christmas celebration, Nikolai to her left and a round-faced woman with the same platinum hair clasps her shoulder. Yuri’s babushka. Otabek recognises her from pictures of her in her later years, kind-faced and bright-eyed. The kind of grandma to spoil you rotten, Yuri had told him once, which kind of explains a lot when Otabek thinks about her.
“He doesn’t just look like her,” Nikolai huffs, kicking his feet up onto his stool and bracing his tea against his chest. “She had an awful stubborn streak. A terrible perfectionist. A quick temper. Incredibly ambitious.” Nikolai sips from his mug, raising an eyebrow. “Does that sound familiar to you, son?”
Otabek swallows, nodding. Yes, it did.
“Talya worked herself to the bone,” Nikolai continues, scratching at his beard. “Worked herself to death.”
A chill runs down Otabek’s s spine, a visit from the ghost of Christmas yet to come. It’s everything Otabek fears, Yuri slipping away from him, slipping away from himself. Otabek flicks forwards through the album. With every passing year, Natalya appears thinner, frailer, until she doesn’t appear at all.
“She ran her car off the road, headfirst into a tree,” Nikolai murmurs, closing the album with a snap. The sound startles Otabek, knocking the breath back into his lungs. “The coroners said it was an instant death. Exhaustion. She’d fallen asleep, just for a second. Yuri was in the back seat.”
Nausea swirls in the pit of Otabek ’ s stomach, threatening to crawl up his throat. His fingers tighten around his mug, knuckles white. The weight of Nikolai’ s palm on his shoulder is a warm, welcome distraction. Otabek sinks into it, sapping up the strength of a love mourned of many years, helping it to support his own.
“I don’t want that to happen to him,” Otabek confesses, staring into the depths of his mug.
“It won’t,” Nikolai says with more conviction than Otabek could ever convey. “Natalya- Yurochka’s father wasn’t around. As long as you’re with him, he’ll be fine.”
Otabek clears his throat, tight and hot with emotion. “That’s an awful amount of faith you have in me.”
“There’s a reason that you're the one Yuri let into his life, Otabek,” Nikolai says, squeezing Otabek’s shoulder. When Otabek looks up at him, there’s a weathered smile hidden in the depths of Nikolai’s beard, eyes shining. “And it’s not only because you’re a strapping young lad.”
Otabek chuckles, a nervous sound that he knows is accompanied by his heat rising to the tips of his ears. They drink the rest of their tea in the company of the record player and the gentle spitting of the fire. It’s … nice. They should do this more often, Otabek muses, mentally adding a note to call his grandmother in the morning on his to do list.
“I’ll set him on the straight and narrow, though, don’t you worry about that,” Nikolai insists as Otabek heads to take their mugs out to the kitchen. "That is, if he ever shows his sorry behind here again.”
From somewhere in the distance, Otabek hears the slow trudge of footsteps- heels clicking against the uneven tile of the pathway. A metallic jingle blends into the wind whistling through the window panes, the screech of metal scratching against each other.
Summoned by his grandfather’s threats, Yuri pushes in through the door with a hesitance Otabek rarely sees him possess. He’ s quiet; over the domestic hummings coming from the living room, Nikolai probably hasn’ t realised that he’ s come in. By the looks of it, it’ s what Yuri’ s intended. He pushes the door closed with a quiet, practiced click, holding the lock down to stop it from catching. His fingers linger for a moment, smoothing against the wood, before curling into fists.
This moment is private. Otabek ’ s acutely aware of it as he lingers in the shadows of the unlit kitchen, should allow Yuri this sacred moment of reprieve as he collects himself. He’ s never quite been able to keep his eyes off of Yuri, though, especially in moments where he shouldn’ t be looking. Otabek steps back, further into the dark; Yuri jumps at the creak of his footsteps, head swinging over his shoulder.
He looks towards the living room where his Grandfather still sits, unaware.
Yuri bites his lip, shoulders sagging against the door. His face tilts towards the mistletoe hung in the doorway, a sigh escaping from his chest, a soft thing that curls towards the ceiling and stirs the loose hair around his face. The intensity of it deflates him, and Yuri slides down against the wood, fists pressed against the dark circles beneath his eyes.
Oh Yura.
His shoulders shudder. Even from a distance, Otabek can see his arms shaking. Beneath it all, the responsibility and ambition, Otabek ’ s painfully reminded of just how young Yuri is. Guilt begins to seep through Otabek ’ s veins, cold and cruel. Yuri- he works hard, he makes mistakes, he’ s still stumbling through the trials of adulthood and being punished by all three. The last thing he needs is anyone making his life any more difficult, especially the person he should be able to rely on most.
Otabek wishes he’ d fought more. To make him stay, to make him understand, to make sure he’ s okay- because looking at him now, hunched over and trembling, Otabek knows he isn’ t, doesn’ t know how long it’ s been since he was. He hates himself for his ignorance, for casting away abnormality as normality, for letting the wool to be pulled over his eyes- or the leopard printed bedsheets.
After a few more shaky exhales, Yuri pulls himself taut, neck straight and chin held high. He swipes at his eyes once with a hasty jerk of his wrist before he steps out into the doorway. Otabek can’ t see him, but his shadow is a fine figure against the floorboards, perfectly still as he waits for his grandfather’s acknowledgment.
It takes all but a few seconds.
“Yurochka?” Nikolai says, a breath of disbelief woven within Yuri’s name. "What time do you call this?”
“Deda, don’t get up.” Yuri’s shadow slides away as he fusses, slipping seamlessly into mother hen mode as if he hadn’t just held himself together on the hallway floor. “You better not have moved these boxes.”
“You are in no position to lecture me, young man,” Nikolai grumbles. Otabek can almost hear the hairs of his mustache bristling as he huffs. “You have some explaining to do.”
He may have intruded on one moment of privacy tonight but Otabek lets Yuri keep this one, pressing the kitchen door closed with a soft thud. The minutes blur into one another as he waits, stooped over the crossword abandoned on the dining table, half the questions still unanswered. There’ s a clue that Otabek keeps coming back to: a time long past. The two letters filled in are a Y and an R, his mind unable to settle on anything but the softness of the vowels that roll between the consonants of Yuri’s name.
“Yore,” Yuri breathes over his shoulder, and Otabek almost swears, heart jumping to his throat as the warmth of Yuri’s breath grazes the back of his neck. Yuri’s oblivious to his torment, reaching over to scratch the word to completion with the pen that’s fallen from Otabek’s fingers. His hand no longer shakes, but it does linger besides Otabek’s with the same unfamiliar uncertainty he’d witnessed earlier.
“Yura.” The syllables are slow, soft in the quiet of the darkness. Otabek can hear every hitch in Yuri’s breathing now that he’s tuned in to him, can feel the balm of his presence in his soul. His proximity doesn’t fix everything- Otabek’s sure that they’ve got uncomfortable conversations in their future- but it sure helps knowing that he’s here, with him, together. Otabek’s fingers twitch, his pinky extending just far enough to brush against the sharp bones of Yuri’s wrist. “I’m-”
“Don’t,” Yuri says quickly, a flay of his tongue. Otabek feels him draw away, an absence of heat at his back, a shift in tension. “Don’t say you’re sorry.”
Otabek blinks down at his bare, empty hand. “How did you-”
“You always say you’re sorry.” It’s half an accusation, half an acknowledgment. And it’s true; between them, Otabek is always the one to apologise, always the one to release the pressure that bubbles up between. “Even when it’s not your fault, you're always sorry.”
Yuri’ s voice cracks around the word like a split lip, tender and bleeding. When Otabek finally looks up at him, Yuri’ s arms are wrapped around his chest, staunching the wound. In his childhood kitchen, he looks foreign; a tailored, clean cut suit and designer labels that stick out against the shabby, worn down furniture like the tips of Yuri’ s pinpricked fingers. It’ s a far cry from the carefree way in which Yuri holds himself in the home that’ s filled with so many memories, built with walls that still hold the imprints of his grandmother’s love, the ghost of his mother ’ s ambition.
It’ s not just in this kitchen, in this house, though. Otabek doesn’ t know how he hasn’ t realised it before, but Yuri’ s been holding himself with an unfamiliarity for heaven knows how long. The confidence that would ooze from him, even in moments of stress, has been replaced with uncertainty. Even now, when it’ s just the two of them, Yuri looks like he doesn’ t know if he should even be here.
Otabek ’ s been so blind.
He stands.
Yuri startles at the scraping of his chair and watches with wary eyes as Otabek stands before him. There’ s a moment where they look at each other and Otabek would have been able to convince himself that they’ re strangers. Trapped behind his lashes, there’ s a hollowness in Yuri’ s eyes that’ s as cold as the distance that’ s come between them.
Yuri chokes, lips parting around silent sounds that never quite fall from his throat. Something hot and bright sparks across his face, an ignition, before simmering in to the creases formed by his frown. Otabek understands, pressing a slow, lingering kiss to the furrow in Yuri’ s brow. Even now, in the aftermath of arguments and disagreements, he can still read the unspoken words in the lines of Yuri’ s face.
“Beka,” he murmurs, a soft prayer breathed into the crook of his neck. Yuri’s mouth lingers; it’s not a kiss more than sapping the strength he finds within Otabek to aid him with his confession. And it is a confession, not one Otabek ever thought Yuri would admit to. Not even to Otabek, who lies in the confessional of their bed every night, hidden beneath soft sheets and sleepiness, who lives to worship Yuri’s body and mind. “I’m so tired.”
The words deflate him. Yuri shudders against Otabek ’ s chest, the open wound that is Otabek ’ s heart throbbing at the pain in Yuri ’ s voice. Yuri’ s fingers crawl into the back of his shirt, clinging. The press of his lips are a plea. Otabek holds him, shields him with his body, cradles his head so gently as if it were one of those precious ornaments from Yuri’ s childhood. It is the most precious thing to come out of his upbringing, an intelligent mind, a quick tongue, the voice that whispers I love you when it thinks no one is listening.
“Yura,” Otabek breathes, nestling a hand within the hair at the nape of his neck. His fingers catch on the snarls hidden beneath the faux smoothness of its exterior but Otabek doesn’t care, doesn’t care that he can smell cigarette smoke in his clothes, doesn’t care that it’s nearing midnight and they’re still not home. He cares that Yuri’s here, the first vines of honesty crawling out beneath the cracks of his facade. “ I know you are. ”
"I …” Yuri begins, rubbing his face against Otabek’s collarbone. Otabek’s hold tightens; beneath its strength, they sway against the kitchen tile. “I don’t know what to do.”
Otabek hums, a contemplative rumble deep in his chest. Yuri squirms against him, breath hot as it bleeds through his shirt. “I think we should take you home.”
“But Deda-” Yuri hiccups. “The decorations.”
“Yura.” Otabek draws away, brushes his thumbs against Yuri’s cheeks. Yuri leans into the touch, tilts his chin up just enough for Otabek to lean in to slot their lips together, a gentle brush that’s over as quick as it begun. “It’s late. Nikolai’s probably asleep in his chair. There’s always another day.”
Yuri’ s face darkens, a flicker of a shadow that Otabek doesn’ t see often. Regret. Otabek kisses him again, longer this time but still chaste in the grand scheme of things. Yuri sinks into it, sighing against Otabek ’ s mouth. His fingers are cold where he touches the bare skin of his wrist but Otabek likes it, likes the stark reminder that he’ s here.
Yuri draws away, lacing their fingers together and squeezing once. “Okay, let’s go home.”