Chapter Text
I want him.
When the full realisation hit him, Yuri felt as though he couldn’t breathe. Detached and fleeting thoughts that had passed through his mind finally took shape in these three words at that exact moment. The I being himself, Yuri Plisetsky, age 17, a Russian figure skater with a list of impressive accomplishments to his name that seemed pretty pointless right now given the context. The want being desire, the need to bury himself, the thought to consume, but never actually act out except behind locked doors in empty beds or shower stalls. The him being the person standing across from Yuri sipping coffee from a take-away cup with creased brows, the low sunlight hitting his face just so to light up his otherwise dark eyes. Someone he considered to be his best friend, who came all the way from Almaty just to spend a week with him and who was blissfully unaware of the fucking turmoil Yuri was feeling in the pit of his stomach.
Or at least, Yuri hoped he was unaware.
Otabek chucked the drained coffee cup into the nearest bin. “So where are we heading now?”
Yuri felt the blood rushing to his face, heard it drumming in his ears. He took a sharp breath, air that he felt as though he had lacked in ages and he heard himself answer.
“Back to my place, I guess. We can drop off your stuff and decide where we want to eat.”
“Cool. You lead the way.”
Otabek heaved his backpack up to his shoulders and reached for his small carry-on. This brought Yuri somewhat back to his senses. He tugged the handle away from Otabek’s grip and hurriedly dragged the carry-on to the sidewalk.
“It’ll be less hassle to get a taxi,” Yuri said, “Unless you want to take the scenic route and spend the next hour on a fucking bus.”
“No,” Otabek said trudging behind Yuri.
“Thanks,” he added.
Yuri hailed a taxi and stuffed Otabek’s carry-on into the trunk. They spent the way to Lilia’s apartment in relative silence, with Yuri occasionally remarking something about their surroundings as they drove into Saint Petersburg. Yuri was still living with Lilia in her spacious, three bedroom flat in the heart of the city. By that point Yakov had already moved out, back to his own place. Yuri had stayed on, since he had grown accustomed to living with his choreographer. It had turned out that living with Lilia hadn’t been so bad after all. She still gave him hell for stuff, like when she would find out he had been eating junk food or staying up late and scolded him like a mother whenever he swore. She had thrown a fit shortly after his seventeenth birthday when he had come home with his lip pierced. Yuri hadn’t had the heart to tell her he was planning on getting his nipples done as well. The whole thing had blown over as she found that Yuri’s Angels had collectively decided that the latest addition to his bad boy persona suited him and his popularity had grown even more. Overall, she was pretty relaxed about things like curfews on his days off and rescheduling appointments with his tutor. It also helped that his cat loved her. Still, Yuri was planning to get a place of his own next year, as soon as he would turn 18.
Lilia herself, however, would not be found at her apartment at the moment. She had taken up an offer from an old friend from the Bolshoi ballet to spend a week at her summer home on Tenerife. Yuri had very much encouraged her to go, being dazzled at the prospect of having the whole place to himself for one glorious week. He had been telling Otabek about it on Skype when a plan had formed in his mind.
“Why don’t you come over?” Yuri asked.
Otabek took a moment to think “I thought you said you were happy to have the house to yourself.”
“Well, yeah,” Yuri slumped against his pillow.
“But it could be fun, you know. It’s quiet and we’re just preparing for next season. We could train and hang. But if you’re not up for it, forget it.” Yuri said as casually as possible.
Otabek chuckled softly “No, it sounds good. I have to talk it over with my coach, but if it’s just for one week it should be fine. I have some money saved up. It would be like a vacation.”
Yuri straightened himself against his headboard again. “I could pay for part of your ticket if you like. I could show you around Saint Petersburg. You could train at my rink too! Then you’ll experience for yourself what shit I have to put up with there.”
“You don’t have to pay for my ticket, Yura. I would like to come.”
Yuri grinned. “Great! Cool.”
He had then spent the rest of their Skype session brainstorming on things to do together like renting a motorbike and touring the city. Otabek had just listened and smiled.
A week later, the whole thing had been arranged. Otabek’s coach had agreed to let him off for a week and even contacted Yakov to keep an eye on him while training. Lilia initially hadn’t been thrilled at Yuri’s request to let some other teenager stay in her house while unsupervised. Yuri had assured her that despite the whole brooding biker-type exterior Otabek was actually the most boring, anti-social person in the world and that she shouldn’t fear them throwing parties and trashing the place, but rather be appalled at finding that Otabek would have read one of her boring Russian classics and put it back on her bookshelf in the wrong order. Lilia had decided to take Yuri’s word for it, though she still recalled the Barcelona headline from a year and half ago and the shenanigans he had pulled at other times when meeting up with Otabek. To be fair, the shenanigans were mostly vanishing acts where Yuri would just disappear for hours and nobody could reach him on his cell phone. He would eventually turn back up, often in some blissed-out state, actually smiling for a change. Lilia had to conclude that the serious Kazakh skater was a positive influence and apparently had a calming effect on her otherwise temperamental student. Besides, Yuri had never invited a friend over before. So she pointed out to Yuri that her bookshelf was alphabetized and jetted off to the Atlantic.
Yuri was so stoked for the arrival of his friend he tidied his bedroom for the occasion. Otabek wouldn’t be sleeping there, though. The second guestroom had been empty since Yakov’s departure, so he would have that room to himself. Nevertheless Yuri put all the cat plushies back in their designated corner, did extra loads of laundry so his hamper wasn’t overflowing and thoroughly vacuumed the carpet. He thought of all the recipes he knew to prepare for the coming week and also picked out spots they could eat at if he didn’t feel like cooking. He even looked up where they could rent a motorcycle.
He felt pretty good the day after Lilia had left when he went to pick up Otabek from the airport. But then he saw him. He sauntered over to Yuri from the terminal looking tired but pleased. He was wearing that leather jacket of his, with well-worn jeans, a black V-neck T-shirt and combat boots. He still had the undercut, but his hair on top had grown out and he had secured it into a small bun. When Otabek got closer, Yuri noticed a slight stubble on his face.
He looks hot, Yuri caught himself thinking.
This sent him into his first private panic attack of the day. He barely had time to recover because suddenly Otabek was right in front of him. He reached over and fondly patted his head, a smirk on his usually stoic face.
“You’ve grown, Yura. In a couple of years I’ll have to crane my neck to see you properly.”
Yuri swatted his hand away. “It’s not my fault you remain so short, asshole.”
On an impulse Yuri then pulled him in for a quick hug. “Hey Beka.”
“Hey,” Yuri heard him say, his low voice inches away from his ear.
Yuri promptly let him go as he felt the panic flare up again. He straightened himself hoping to regain some of his composure, but Otabek didn’t seem to notice Yuri was internally freaking out.
“How was your flight?” Yuri tried.
“It was okay. But it was quite tiring. I tried to take a nap, but I couldn’t fall asleep. So I just read for a bit.” Otabek flexed his shoulders. “I could really go for some coffee.”
---
Yuri took him to one of the kiosks just outside of the airport. He ordered a latte, Otabek had a plain black coffee. They drank most of it on a bench next to the kiosk, then started walking towards the parking lot of the airport. It was there that Yuri felt panicked again.
He looks hot. I want him.
These weren’t thoughts he was supposed to be having. But this was Otabek Altin for crying out loud, 19 years old, the fucking ‘Hero of Kazakhstan’, who skated with an intensity that made Yuri’s skin tingle. Yuri wasn’t an idiot. He had noticed before. He had eyes. Otabek was handsome. He remembered Mila gushing, pulling on the sleeve of his suit-jacket, pleading him to introduce her. He had thought it before, seeing him on his bike for the first time in Barcelona, later at the banquet, in Helsinki and in Moscow, Pyeongchang, Milan. But it had always just been an observation. Now it was different. Yuri could have smacked himself. How come he hadn’t anticipated this? Had he not been paying attention? How come he had disregarded his friend’s hotness when they met at competitions earlier this year? But during competitions he had to focus on actual figure skating, which by the way, he was trained and paid to do. Now that hotness he had somehow taken for granted in person before was sitting next to him in a taxi staring silently out of the window.
Okay, so maybe he hadn’t been honest with himself lately. Maybe the perception of his friend had kind of changed since that one time. That time when Yuri had messaged Otabek one evening, asking him what he was doing. He had received a photo, something that was exceptionally rare. Otabek had sent him a selfie, which was even more rare. He was standing in front of a mirror in a grey tank, with loose-fitting, low-slung track pants. His hair was loose and hanging off to the side, damp by the looks of it. Otabek had cocked an eyebrow at the display of his cell phone, his mouth set in a straight line, all serious.
I just took a shower. And you?
Yuri had stared at him, mainly at his broad shoulders, defined muscles of his arms, one hand shoved into the pocket of his pants, revealing a lean hipbone. And next to the hand in his pocket Yuri could swear he could see the outline of… something. The picture wasn’t indecent, really. But still. Five minutes passed. Then ten minutes. Yuri realized he had to send something back, anything, lest his silence would be interpreted as suspicious. Which it totally wasn’t. With shaking hands he snapped a picture of his cat that currently lay curled up on top of his Maths homework.
Cute. Study hard, Yura. Goodnight.
“Study hard, my ass,” Yuri mumbled to himself.
Cute.
Yuri took another look at Otabek’s picture. Then he unceremoniously shooed his cat from his room, locked the door and shoved his Maths homework off his bed. He didn’t mean to do it, he really didn’t. Except he was actually lying down on his bed now, still clutching his cell phone with that goddamned picture.
Afterwards he felt pathetic and disgusted. He angrily grabbed a box of tissues from under his bed and wiped his hands and stomach clean. How could he have just done that? What kind of loser masturbates over a picture of his best friend?
His hot best friend.
Yuri decided to push the incident from his mind, write it off as a one-time thing. But he found himself thinking back to it, late at night alone in his bed or in the shower when he felt tense after practice. Images of the fantasy he had concocted around the picture always seemed to flood back to him. Otabek lifting that grey tank over his head. The sight of Otabek’s chest and abs. Otabek running a hand through his damp hair. Otabek biting his lower lip as he would slide his track pants over his hips. Yuri imagined Otabek would already be hard and would wrap one of his broad hands around his cock, languidly stroking himself while he hovered over Yuri.
“Do you want me to touch you like this, Yura?” he would breathe into the crook of his neck.
Yuri would whisper “Yes,” and then he would be all over him, mouths crashing onto each other, his entire body pressing him into the mattress. His fingers raking Otabek’s shoulders, his back, his ass. The thought of Otabek pumping his cock, watching him with his dark eyes, lips slightly parted, sent him over the edge every time.
Yuri convinced himself it was just a crazy fantasy that had no place in reality. In reality he was his friend, he cheered him on during competitions, they would talk about their life, share their thoughts. That particular fantasy was detached from all that, something that had nothing to do with his actual life, like other people liked getting off to the thought of threesomes or fucking in a park or some shit. Stuff you got turned on by, but not acted out.
He had been having these thoughts ever since Otabek had sent that picture in April. But he had always been able to push them from his mind whenever they would talk. Yuri had expected this time to be no different, but that felt stupid now. It turned out that wanting your best friend to touch you and kiss you and grind against you until you were a whimpering mess, wasn’t something you could easily ignore.
So here he was, shooting Otabek looks from the corner of his eye, thinking he looked particularly beautiful taking in the scenery from the moving car and he wondered how Otabek’s hands that were resting in his lap would feel sliding over his body. All of a sudden, inviting him over seemed like the worst possible idea Yuri has ever had. When he had issued the invitation, he had been lying about it to himself, but it was so clear now. Yuri finally acknowledged something. The car pulled up to Lilia’s apartment and Yuri said a silent prayer.
Please, he thought. Please let me get through this fucking week without embarrassing myself by making clear I have a gigantic crush on my best friend.