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His cheeks felt flustered and he couldn’t help but feel tired over these past minutes or was it hours? - from running away. Sure, he goes out for morning runs and he was used to the feeling of the wind hitting his face and his legs carrying him with it like they were wings. But this? He hadn’t expected this. He loved his fans a lot and he loved their support but sometimes, there were just certain fans that went overboard. Overboard meaning actually running as fast as he was just for a fan meeting too.
Not knowing Barcelona well enough which he thought it’d be easy was really proving hard for and he’s finally found- ah, there! He turns to hide himself behind a pillar wide enough to cover for him. He settles for moments there, voices loudly trailing nearby. He’s never run this much, well he has, but it was different when you were trying to be ambushed. Yuri’s panting and really he’s tired, more tired than he’s practiced with that old hag, Lilia, but that was an exaggeration, really.
Ah-fuck, his legs really hurt.
Yuri really has to get back to the hotel and he doesn’t want to deal with this any longer. At this point in time, he’ll never really get to the hotel back in time. He’s really tired at this point in time, as well. He turns his head to the right and almost wants to curse his annoyance out loud. Crap… How do I get myself out of this?
Just then, he hears the revving of a motorcycle bringing him to turn his head around and there sat someone. He was turning his way for some reason, as if he knew him. But he doubted that but this guy… he just came out of nowhere.
“Yuri, get on.”
It hits him when he starts removing his glasses off. It’s him. Then all of a sudden, a swirl of chocolate brown meet forest green and he feels an electric feeling run down his arms. It was clashing and there was suddenly a tingle on his wrist. His wrist? Wasn’t it scarred? It was probably an illusion.
“You coming or not?”
He hops on the seat willingly, putting the helmet that was thrown towards him. It fits in perfectly and he feels uneasy as they drive out the alleyway hearing the distant shutter sound effects from the cameras. He throws his head back to look at the sky, the blank sky with small floating fluffs of cotton leaving him to his own thoughts.
Otabek Altin… the Hero of Kazakhstan. He’s heard of him once, definitely. But why? Why was he here driving this motorcycle and hitching him a ride to rescue him? Why was bothered to do so? This guy was just like the others too; just another individual with a working timer on and probably took pride in it, but then he doesn’t seem to talk much.
Why would a timer privileged person want to help him? Surely, the Hero of Kazakhstan had better things to do other than help someone like him, an outcast.
“I’m stopping nearby, mind coming with me?”
Otabek turns around to look at him; it’s that electrifying feeling once again. Just where was this coming from? His words stop momentarily before escaping his lips and all he can look it is his brown eyes that shine in ways Yuri would find indescribable. He can feel his heart skip a beat resulting in biting his lip and turning his head the other way.
“Tch- doesn’t matter. I’ll come with.”
“Thanks, Yuri.”
Otabek has known ever since he was a child that he was unfortunate in every way. He didn’t know that the aspect of having a soulmate has come with his terrible luck as well. Well, he kind of did expect it, now that he thought about it. He was born into a family with one of his parents having a scar and they had hoped for the possibility of having a child with a timer.
They got a child with a scar crossing like the zeroes meant nothing.
It had resulted in a complicated childhood. He had family who said they accepted him but they were tense around him anyway. So were the times around the other children in school- they had called him a monster for such a thing just like normal kids would. It was the same thing over and over as he went through with life. He had gone and dealt with it, hiding it.
He skated for the sake of finding a different person within it. Maybe he could be appreciated in a way no one could understand. Maybe if he skated for his country, he’d be loved. Loved even though a few knew he was just an outcast in the largest way possible. A person who will never find love at all. It was the certainty, definitely.
Then he had seen through the eyes of a soldier that maybe he didn’t need to be an outcast. That he, of all people, could be something. That person could do ballet, had stern eyes that resembled the color of forests nearing the midnight light.
He had found out later his name was Yuri Plisetsky.
And Otabek was solely focused on him. Yuri Plisetsky, someone he had seen with such eyes and concentrated focus. Someone he had seen skate on the ice like it was the only thing that mattered to him. Like it was his stage and that he owned it. He wrote his stories there, with blunt vagueness within it.
But, his recent skate programs, they held something within them. Something profound and secretive. A properly written story with holes in it created by secrets of his life. Missing people. His heartfelt story within it. He was writing a story about love- and he laughed when he had seen him skate it. Otabek had laughed to himself; of course, he was one of those people, he had deduced out of it.
Yuri Plisetsky was one of them, part of society who willingly mocked those who didn’t have a scar. He was part of that society who had left him hiding in his room and putting up a stoic, emotionless face.
So, why was he here?
Why in the world had he chosen to go after this Yuri who was out of options when ambushed by fangirls? What kind of rationality process had his mind gone through when he made that very decision?
It wasn’t that he hated people; it was just- it, no… it was definitely that. The society who had scorned him for that scarred wrist had left a life-long scar over his beliefs and thoughts of other people. He had become wary of others.
And here he was, babbling about Yakov Feltsman’s summer camp where he had met him.
Just why had he even wanted to talk to Yuri?
Was it because he felt his scar tingle even that slight moment at the hotel? It was probably nothing; but that feeling when they met eyes just a few moments ago- it was the same feeling. That electrifying feeling.
“A soldier?”
Ah, shit! He didn’t mean to tell him that!
“Me?” The cold breeze blew a few strands in front of his face as they watched the sun shining quite brightly over buildings, “I had just moved my home rink from Moscow to St. Petersburg. I was desperate. I decided that I wouldn’t complain until I was good enough.”
He doesn’t know what to say when Yuri asks, “Otabek, why did you talk to me?”
Sure, he wasn’t sure about why he even talked to him but maybe it was because-
“I’ve always thought we were alike. That’s all,” he turns to meet his mesmerizing green eyes again. It comes again, that weird, shocking feeling again but he continues, “Are you going to be friends with me or not?”
He notices the slight hesitation when the Russian fifteen-year old held his left hand out- he had retracted it and replaced it with his right hand. Yuri smiles awkwardly after holding it out and when they finally touch, he feels the warmth and electricity running through it. Otabek gazes at his eyes before returning a small smile.
He doesn’t know if he can trust him.
He does anyway.
me, you, here at this place again; a year later | barcelona
Yuri doesn’t- no, he can’t handle this. He can’t- he doesn’t want to feel this way. He doesn’t want to be selfish when it comes to love. He doesn’t want him- but god in every way does his heart want him. He shouldn’t be feeling this way. It rips him apart, thinking he should love someone like Beka; he’s so different from him. Yuri knows he has a working timer. He just does.
He never speaks about it and he knows Beka is quiet about things like this. And he knows that even if he was his friend, he’d hate him like everyone else did. He trusts him with all his heart but his heart couldn’t be trusted in any way possible. This was stupid- what he was feeling. Beka… he was just a friend.
Back then he had thought at the naïve age of fifteen, he was alone and even more so now. He shouldn’t have trusted him or become his friend. He had one fickle heart and he knew so but he went and made friends with Otabek and now-
Now, he has completely fallen for him. And he’s even agreed to meet here in this godforsaken place where it had all started. They hadn’t talked this entire time, the silence was nice but as he gazed subconsciously at his scarred wrist, he felt that hopeless feeling wash over him just like when he had lost his mother.
“Hey, ever thought about those people with scars on their wrists?”
Yuri freezes still in this cold weather. No way- he couldn’t have known, right?
“Yeah,” ‘yes’ considering he was one of them and suddenly felt exposed. Secrets unfolded in that certain minute and he can’t help but add, “I think… that they suffer, you know in ways people with a timer can’t understand.”
“What about Victor and Yuuri then?”
“What about them?” Yuri scowls at the mention of their names.
“They’re legendary to the world. They’re soulmates with timers and- do you think people with scars hate them? I mean, if you put in it perspective. Can you imagine people hurting even more when they see Victor and Yuuri?” Otabek sighs after asking and Yuri follows suit.
“I think they would, but they can’t hate them for long. They’re really understanding after all and they kind of represent this beauty within their relationship or so I think,” Yuri hears Otabek chuckle warmheartedly and he quickly adds, “Don’t you ever tell them I said anything!”
“Okay, okay!” Otabek’s chuckle subsides into a wistful smile as Yuri observes him, “I’d agree with that, you know. They’re really nice and accepting of other people. But, what id certain people just feel jealous of not being able to love because of their scar? Wouldn’t that just hurt even more?”
“Otabek, why are you asking all these questions?”
Yuri feels like every nerve in his body has become numbed because of his poisonous words. Otabek was cruel- why would he make him feel this way? His heart was convulsing with spikes piercing through and tears on the brink of falling. He was used to people asking such questions or say horrible things to him when they knew of his scar but to ask this way? So indirectly and from him of all people?
It hurt like every limb of his was scorched by hellfire. He dug his nails into his palm and looked down at the dark abyss below the rooftop balcony. He shuts his eyes close and takes a deep breath and turns toward Beka.
He starts the question as he turns to look at him, “Beka, why are yo- “
Beka is smiling. He’s smiling and he’s smiling like everything hurts as he asked that question. He’s run through his hair and he can see the same question being asked through his beautiful and hurt brown eyes.
Why would you ask me that? You, of all people, why?
“Yura, do you hate me?”
“Beka, why would you ask that of all things?” he means to say, ‘No, I don’t. It’s the opposite,’ but it refuses to come out of his throat.
Otabek’s smile becomes a thin-lipped line and Yuri doesn’t want to hear but he repeats anyway, “Yura, do you hate me?”
Yuri breathes heavily.
Otabek is breaking into pieces like he was as fragile as an ancient Ming vase; as he dreads the answer out his lips. His beautiful and godforsaken lips known to spew out curses and profound words if possible. His lips parting slowly and his eyes low lustered and dulling slowly, there was something shimmering near his eyes, were those tears? No, they can’t be. God, he was such a complicated enigma that he didn’t mean to fall for.
“Beka, if I answer that question, you’ll be the one hating me,” Yuri’s voice seems to crack just a small bit, “Why can’t we just—I really… why can’t it be where we, no, no, of course that’s not how it works. I can’t hate you, you know this Beka. I just can’t, and I know it’s so fucking wrong! So, why—why can’t I just-” Otabek sees him clench the sides of the balcony and he walks towards him bringing him towards his chest.
“Forget I ever asked, Yura,” his warmth is graceful. It dances around his body gracefully and he squeezes him closer, Yuri’s body- it’s so close and fragile at this moment in history. He didn’t deserve this warmhearted, beautiful, gracious Russian skater as his friend at the least. He was scared of losing him or Yura hating his guts for being one of them. It would kill his heart, like another arrow splitting through the wooden wick of the first arrow sent. He bites his lip and rests his chin atop Yura’s hair.
The silence is beautiful with slight tension riding its wavelengths.
It’s a small whisper in the midst of all this heavy questions, “Beka, remember when we went to that café that night and then that stupid pig and Victor came with those ugly rings? There was always this one question on my mind that night,” he hears him sigh, “Why did you see in me for you to talk so freely about everything?”
“Yura, I told you, I always thought we had a lot in common.”
“Do we, really?” Yura suddenly squeezes him closer and the temperature is suddenly colder, “Don’t pull away, Beka. Please. I don’t want to see your face when you hear me say it. I really don’t,” Yuri’s hands grab his leather jacket helplessly and he can only give him the support he needs before his legs turn fully weak causing him to fall. Yura was scared and he needed his support, that’s all he needs to know, “I- uh, Beka… you’ll really hate me.”
“I won’t, I promise,” he wants to continue, ‘because I love you too much to hate you,’ but he doesn’t.
“Quit lying!”
He strokes his hair, something he’s noticed that’s always calmed Yura down, even for the littlest moments, “I told you, I can’t hate you. I won’t, I promise. I keep promises, remember? For you.”
“I- “
It feels perfectly warm and safe when he says those two words. Those two perfect words he’s wanted to always hear subconsciously. It felt like soft and heartfelt; something he wasn’t just so used to unless he was with his grandfather- this was new in many ways.
For you.
He’s frightened; the poorly stitched up heart throbbing nonstop, his legs feeling weak and his voice was barely working anymore. He can’t possibly say these words to him, but he’d take the risk. It was going to be worth it, it’ll prove the fact that everyone leaves him- everyone he’d ever love, they’ll all leave, if Beka left. It would hurt him ways that no one could understand if he left. For an entire year, he had spent time, a lot of time with Beka either through video calls, small late night talks, movies and videogames, spending time looking up new rock music or playing with Noushka, his cat. He, of all people treasured such memories that could cause endless pain, but he treasured Beka the most.
His source of genuine meek smiles and support.
Yuri fucking Plisetsky knows it’s over now. It’s over when he tries to regain his balance on the ground, the cold breeze numbing his fingers, now a beautiful tinged red on the tips. Beka looks stoic just like the first time he’s seen him. How was he supposed to know what he was feeling?
It ends there- the very moment a strained voice leaves his throat escaping his lips to create sad vibrations of sound to resemble words-
“I have a scarred wrist, Beka,” he rubs the existent scar over his left wrist and lets out a small huff that somehow sounded a pretty laugh. He looks expectantly at Beka with eyes conveying a daring command, ‘Do it, make fun of me. Call me an outcast.’
“I won’t. I’ll never call you that,” Beka squuezes him gently like he isn’t scared of him, saying words resembling waves of relief washing ashore Yuri’s ears, “I’d never. After all- “there’s a pause in Beka’s words as he pulls away and takes his time to roll up his sleeves, in this weather? It’s starting to snow pristine cold cotton balls too, what the hell was he doi-
“-is it wrong to still love someone else with the same mark?”
Yuri had once thought they had nothing in common.
“Y-you’re- you don’t have a timer? It’s broken?”
Everything feels like it’s dancing atop a nearly split wire; the temperature turning slightly warm from skin touching then bore to the cold breeze of reality. His feelings being played with and as he looks at the rolled-up wrist of Beka. It’s pale- a darker color of skin ripped carelessly over it, the numbers stagnant on the zeroes.
Zeroes with a scar- he was scarred… just like, no, he didn’t deserve this. Beka was the nicest, the sincerest, the warmest, the most beautiful- he had a soulmate, surely. He didn’t know what to feel- what was this? Why would he play with his feelings?
“I never had the chance to have one and-” their faces were a few inches close to ki-no! with Beka looking down at him, “-I think you know how that feels, right? It hurts, but you were right in front of me the entire time.”
“Beka?”
“Can I kiss you?”
“Beka! What?! Shu- ah! Why are you even asking?” Yuri turns to look the other way, shocked at the sudden question and mood of their conversation.
So, he does feel the same wa- ah! He’s-
“Be taking that as a yes,” he kisses him like he’s waited years for this and it like completion. Something satisfied and something perfectly falling in place, finally. He kisses his lips gently, slowly; his hands cupping his cheek. His hair tickled his face; Beka’s thumb sweeping it away. It’s breathtakingly warm on the final wavelength of the temperature he’s yearned for. He can hear the loud sounds clearer atop this balcony as he presses his lips closer, rising himself upwards.
Beka’s arm moves under his right arm supporting him and for a second he parts away, his eyelids fluttering open and he sees Beka flustered. His cheeks were dusted with pink stardust and his head tilted slightly to the left, he was smiling, the edges lifted even for a small bit.
“It’s fine having scars, Yura,” he presses his lips once more and their eyes close almost in sync. They’re falling down on the puzzle board of soulmates, somehow. It’s different, they’re on the border, on the edge of never happening, but it did. He parts open his mouth, and it’s a faster pace and they mimic each other’s actions, getting drunk on the thrill lacing around their minds.
It continues for a few more pecks, repressed smiles and tinged red fingertips clumsily intertwined with the sentences hanging beautifully in the starry cold night-
“Our scars, our marked timers are stopped, just for us, wandering mindlessly but made for each other; intertwined in the sweetest yet a tad bit bitter way possible. For us.”