Chapter Text
“Beka!” Yuri’s face beamed with satisfaction as he stood up from the bench after securing his guards onto the blades of his skates and lunged to Otabek, having little to no concern on the peering eyes surrounding the two. “That felt amazing!”
Otabek froze at the unexpected embrace and his heart pounded at the tickling breath the younger male was letting out as he panted into his neck. He was unsure how to react to this, hands hovering over the back of Yuri’s small waist, far too conscious of the exposed pale skin peeping through the boy’s top and the more than obvious up and down movement of Yuri’s chest against his.
It was the evening of the Gala exhibition in Barcelona to signify the end of the Grand Prix season. The gala was never meant for any serious play, but merely a show of entertainment by the GPF finalists, a performance of relaxation and enjoyment. Of course, that would have been the case if a certain Japanese silver medalist had not decided to perform a surprise ice dance with a certain Russian traitor with a growing balding crisis. The Russian Ice Tiger did not take kindly to that challenge and pulled Otabek into his steaming Madness Returns routine which may or may not have started a wave of shrieking fans bursting into a fit, furiously updating their social media networks with the hashtag “#otayuri” on every close-up shot of the duo.
“Ahem,” a deep voice cleared his voice from the side and almost immediately, Otabek pulled away from the young Russian’s hold to see Viktor and Yuri standing beside them with a mixture of un-amusement and concern plastered on their faces, Yuri’s pink jacket hung tightly in Yuuri’s crossed arms.
Yuri’s eyebrow arched at the strength of Otabek’s push for a split second but brushed it off to face the two older skaters before them with a scowl. “What do you want, show-offs?”
Viktor’s mouth thinned into an amused grin as he looked back and forth between the Kazakh boy and the sour-faced blonde. “I suppose that would be our line.” Almost in response, Otabek averted his eyes in attempt to avoid Viktor’s piercing blue eyes.
“You were fantastic but Yurio!” Yuuri’s concerned frown grew as we continued, “you’re 16! Those pants are far too tight and low for you, not to mention that top of yours-“
Otabek watched Yuri’s emerald eyes roll dramatically as pale arms crossed the front of his chest. “You are not my mother, Katsudon. And look who’s talking-”
“YURATCHKA!” a harsh angered voice of an elderly man echoed from afar. “DO NOT MOVE!”
Plisetsky’s scowl sank into a whined tire as he watched a familiar tall figure in a worn-out black mackintosh coat storming his way towards them, hair whitened probably from all the stress he built up watching the boy’s show. Sensing the impending hours of lecture, Viktor took the pink jacket from Yuuri’s hold and slipped it in Otabek’s arm with a firm pat on the back of his shoulder blade, proceeding to find their way out from the vicinity of Yakov’s approaching wrath. Before Otabek could muster up something to say, Yakov yelled out with as much fire, “ALTIN. YOU INCLUDED. YOU’RE AS GUILTY AS HE.”
The Kazakh froze in place and turned to Yuri who faced him with round pleading bright green-sea eyes begging for him to stay. Otabek had two clear options at that point; tap out and retreat but bear the consequence of Yuri’s sour brooding for the next month, or face the Russian coach’s scolding and deafen his ears but be rewarded with Yuri’s warm smile and home-made piroshky. Leaving sounds good, Otabek thought to himself but by the time the thought processed through, he found his feet grounded firmly to the floor and ears subconsciously bracing for the lecture.
~*~
“To us!”
Cheers of every language followed by the clinking of champagne glasses resonated the room in delight as skaters and their coaches drank in commemoration of the end of the Grand Prix season. The afterparty was as lively as the year before, excluding the sudden burst of dance battles lead by Katsuki Yuri of course. The ceiling was decorated with extravagant chandeliers, illuminating the room with a bright yellow shimmer. Cocktail tables scattered across the room with groups of people huddling into each, chatting up a storm.
Here again, I suppose, Otabek thought to himself, pulling at his tie to ease the tightness of his collar. He was incredibly uncomfortable that evening; the unfamiliar feeling of the smooth Italian fabric of his Giorgio Armani dress suit that hugged his figure, representatives of empire brands nudging him for a conversation every so often, and the thick air of formality that was suffocating his well hidden social anxiety.
He had thought that until he saw a blonde petite figure, hair pulled back as a French braid into a ponytail, shuffling through the crowd that surrounded him while aggressively pulling his bowtie loose. Otabek felt the sides of his lips tug at the sight of Yuri Plisetsky cursing in silent, trying to avoid every possible conversation as he made his way towards himself. The boy looked as distressed as he was, suffocating in a well fitted dark grey Gucci suit, far too distracted to notice how well it hung on his figure.
“For fucks sake, can’t a man breathe?” Yuri snapped as he let himself fall into the chair beside Otabek. “I can’t even take a piss in peace without some old fart trying to catch me for a drink and I’m not even allowed to!”
Otabek laughed silently. “A Russian who can’t drink?”
“It’s that Viktor’s doing. Yakov doesn’t want me developing his horrid habit. Says I might be even more destructible, drunk,” Yuri snarked. “I for one, hold my liquor well. At least, for the most of when my grandpa lets me.”
“I urge you to listen to your coach,” Otabek says in agreement to the coaches’ concern. His grandfather had probably mixed his drink with the lowest alcohol percentage just to silence the persistent child.
Yuri cocked an eyebrow and crossed his legs. “What about you? A religious thing?” he eyed the Kazakh’s mango juice in hand, clearly a non-alcoholic drink.
Otabek shrugged at this. “No. Family’s not that religious, except for my mother. I’m just not that good with that stuff.”
“Seriously?” the blonde lightened up to a laugh, pale cheeks flushed from laughter. “I’d pay good money to see you tipsy.”
“It really isn’t as amusing as you think it is,” he said bashfully, averting his eyes as Yuri leaned onto his arm rest closer to himself.
“You? Stoic-bear Altin? I’ve never seen you let loose!” sharp green eyes squinted to the boy’s warm smile.
Otabek’s heart leaped, feeling a familiar lump in his throat rise, and suddenly, he was far too conscious of his young friend’s delicate features; his long luscious blonde eyelashes, small plumped and soft pink lips wet from his drink, his delicate neck-
“Yuuuuurrrriiiiiiiiii, my brethren!” a heavy accented-voice called from afar, stunning both Otabek and Yuri. The young male’s expression dropped into an irritated scowl as he realised who was calling out for him. Viktor, with a glass of champagne in hand was practically “You did so well! Even though my Yuuri here stole the people’s hearts-“
A familiar Japanese breathless male ran up to catch the tipsy grey-haired Russian from behind and managed to cover the man’s mouth before Plisetsky could react to this. “Viktor! Please get a grip, it’s only been your second glass,” the man pleaded and turned to Yuri, apologising tirelessly. “I’m so sorry Yurio, he’s a bit of an effort to control when he’s like this.”
“An ass you mean? He’s not that much different with or without the champagne,” Yuri snapped, leaning back into his seat. “Hey, shit-face! Better be careful before the alcohol catches up with your body, not that age hasn’t already,” clearly pressing onto Nikiforov’s thinning hairline concern.
The boy earned an unsuspecting slap by the shoulder from a certain red-head who crept beside him, possibly scaring the living shit out of him, or that would be what Yuri would say. “Don’t be mean to the man, Yura. He’s in the middle of a midlife crisis, have some empathy.”
Viktor, being the dramatic hopeless Russian that he is, pulled the distressed man beside him and whined a cry into his shoulder. “Yuuuuurrrriiiiiii, I’m not old am I? How could I be”
A deep husky old voice yelled from the crowd, “Suck it up Vitya.”
And the whole hall roared in laughter whilst Katsuki was tasked to comfort the drunken Viktor. Babicheva and Chulanont were clutching their stomachs in ache from their laughing, shakily snapping photos of the scene, clearly struggling to compose themselves. It was a mess of a scene, Otabek would have been distracted by it if he was not grounded by the sight of Yuri’s flushed face and glassy eyes trying to hold back his laughter. At this moment, he was truly grateful that he took his bike for an afternoon drive across the Barcelona streets and stumbled across a distraught Plisetsky hiding from his Angels. Thankful that the stroke of luck led him to this boy.
~*~
For the rest of their stay in Barcelona, the group of skaters and occasionally along with their coaches (mainly to ensure no scandals break through to the media because of their reckless behaviour) spent their time sight-seeing along the local streets together. This year’s Grand Prix was a refreshing change of pace between tension, excitement, rush, disappointment, and achievements. Each agreed that it felt different, a good feel in every sense. They may not have drank through the nights in celebration for Yuuri and Viktor’s supposed “engagement”, but they did in welcome to their feisty Russian kitten’s successful senior year debut. As much as Yuri hissed, fought, and thrown shade on them, he felt a new kind of warm welcoming sensation that made him unsure whether he was fine with it or not. Laughter echoed through the nights of their stay, sly remarks thrown left and right about who would next steal the young boy’s gold throne at the upcoming World Championships.
Otabek Altin was rarely ever present during those outings, finding them far too much for his socializing capacity. Even when he was, it was out of Yuri’s persistent persuasion, threatening him to not leave him alone with “those weirdos” as he calls them. He was never fond of group outings, not to this extent of closeness. People regarded him as lone wolf, he laughed at that thought but perhaps they were right. The boy had friends, yes however, not of the kind to share thoughts, experiences, let alone feelings with. Leroy of all people would know how hopeless he is in regards to his relationship with any living creature at that.
But there he was at the dining table, in Yuri Plisetsky’s hotel suite no less, sitting between two of the most prominent figures in the figure skating and ballet scene, each as unsure as the other for a conversation starter. Otabek looked back and forth between Lilia and Yakov wondering if this was an appropriate time for him to even be present. A hinted scent of burnt batter escaped into the dining area, followed by a whispered Russian curse. Otabek took this opportunity to excuse himself, pulling back his chair and headed down to the hazy kitchen.
“Fuck-“
A slender figure in a long-sleeved black sweater cursed over the stove at his dirtied sleeve, blonde locks tied to a messy bun, his cheeks flushed from the heat. Otabek was taken aback by Yuri’s tacky Christmas sweater, adorned with Christmas trees, stockings and reindeers, your classic holiday design. He barely noticed it before, distracted by the overwhelming air the Russian coaches were emitting. It did not match the boy’s image, Altin thought but something of this sight made it that much endearing.
“Beka-“ green eyes finally meeting his, shortly before Otabek walked up behind the boy, carefully pulling the sleeves up his unblemished pale slim arms. “Thanks. Could you uh help me with these? I need to clean up a little.”
Otabek’s eyes met the burnt rocks of Pirozhki (or at least, that was what it was supposed to be) floating in the pot of oil. He chuckled and earned a firm slap by his arm from Yuri who handed him the strainer to scoop up the rest of the disasters. “That sweater looks good on you.”
Tissues in hand, Yuri paused at the remark and laughed before wiping away the oil residue from his sleeve. “Don’t be an asshole. It looks tacky, I know. Grandpa bought it for me this year.”
“Well, it looks adorable on you.”
“Watch it Altin, I’ll hit you again,” Yuri warned faking a kick by the back of Otabek’s shin. “So, how’s Mr and Mrs Sunshine over there?”
Otabek watched as the blonde pull himself up the wooden kitchen counter to sit beside him. He passed an empty plate to Yuri for him to hold the fresh batch that Otabek was about to fry. “Are they always like this? Even I can’t stand that amount of silence and that’s coming from me.”
“Tell me about it,” Yuri groaned. “They’re horrid at anything that remotely relates to conversation outside of skating…and really, their marriage. But well, I suppose you can’t win them all.”
“They’re great coaches, Yuri,” he uttered, carefully placing the last piece of raw Pirozhki into the oil, making sure it doesn’t hit Yuri. “You’re quite lucky. Having two power houses at your side.”
“Yeah, I know…” That silenced the young boy. Yuri looked down at his feet, fiddling at the sides of the plate where he was holding onto. The older boy did not mean for it to sound reprimanding but before he could muster up an apology, Yuri’s head shot up. “Shit- hold on, I should be the one frying those,” placing the plate aside and scrambling onto his feet, trying to snatch the sifter from Otabek’s hand.
Yuri ushered the boy out of the kitchen and finished frying up the remaining batch before plating the steaming Pirozhkis by the dining table, eventually breaking the silence.
“What took you so long?” the elder man whined, filling his glass with the can of Shandy he brought over for the chilly evening.
“I do not condone drinking in the presence of a child,” Lilia spoke unapprovingly as she sipped on her glass of water.
“I am not a child-“ Yuri strongly objected.
“We’re Russian, that’s what we do-“
Before either of them could snap at each other, Otabek intervened, clearing his throat. “Perhaps we should start digging in? The wait is over and I’m sure the cook is eager for us to eat.”
Yuri’s eyes beamed at this, the realising thought sinking in, of how many people were at his table sharing his favourite childhood dish. Otabek knew that his grandfather meant the world to the young boy, but this was the first time he’d seen his face lit up that much over a meal. “It’s my grandpa’s recipe. I’m not that good at it but I’ve helped him loads of times before, so it shouldn’t be too bad.”
“Well I’m sure it will be delightful,” Lilia said before Yuri plated the Pirozhki on each of their plates.
As an elated Yuri reached over to place one on Otabek’s plate, he mouthed a silent “thank you” with Otabek replying him with a hinted smile. The rest of the evening went by surprisingly well, with the gold medallist chatting away, poking fun at Viktor and his new-found interest in showing Katsuki off with their rings swearing the next championship would seal it all. As each hour passed, one by one left to catch up on adequate sleep before the Russians’ flight, scheduled for the following day.
“Good night, sir,” Otabek followed Yakov to the door, a little uncertain if it is appropriate for him to leave after Yuri’s own coach. “Have a safe flight tomorrow.”
Yakov nodded and looked back into the hotel and tapped the back of his hand by the centre of Otabek’s chest, “Don’t let the boy stay up too late, he’s a Grinch in the mornings and I’ll have to sit beside him the whole flight listening to him bitch about the children on board.”
Sounds like something he’d do. Otabek chuckled and nodded in understanding, “Yes, sir.”
The elder man shifted his eyes, hesitant but stepped closer to the young man. “Yuri is a stubborn dumb boy, maybe as dumb as Vitya. He repels at least 80% of the people who approach him. So, consider yourself lucky, son,” he gripped Otabek’s arm firmly. “You’re a decent young man. Be patient with him. He doesn’t have that many friends…..Well, I’ll take my leave now, I’ll be seeing you at Worlds.”