Chapter Text
Yuri Plitsetsky loves his life. He’s engaged to be married to the goddamn love of his fucking life, he has an awesome job, and his annoying cousin has learned not to drop by unannounced. (Okay; his annoying cousin’s slightly-less-annoying husband has learned to warn him when they’re heading down for an impromptu visit, but he’ll take it). And even Pyotya’s still around and kicking, being as badass and adorable as ever.
Okay.
Well, if he’s honest, his life is kind of boring. Mundane. Not in a bad way! When he was fifteen, he’d thought that mundane domesticity would be the end of him, but it’s actually sort of really nice.
And okay, maybe he wears suits to work instead of leather jackets and distressed skinny jeans. And maybe his hair is cut short and not even dyed any strange colour; it’s its same natural blond.
And maybe he and Otabek spend way too many nights curled up with casework and a cheesy rom-com on Netflix, or whatever.
But it’s actually really deeply nice.
Yuri loves it.
He’s sure his fifteen-year-old self is cursing at him (in Russian and English), not in the least because he’s been with Otabek for a decade now, but listen.
Fifteen-year-old Yuri was an edgy asshole, and he doesn’t know now how he’d had so many friends. He’d been aggressive and hostile and just plain mean, and sure, okay, he had Mom Issues, capital M, capital I, but so did plenty of other people who weren’t terrible fucking bastards.
Though he has to admit, sometimes he wishes he could dress like he did back then again.
Otabek did buy him Doc 3989s for Chanukah last year, which makes him feel a little more grounded when he works. More like himself.
Whoever that’s supposed to be.
He’s pretty sure his fifteen-year-old self would be far from disappointed with how often he gets to suck dick, though. (Well, maybe if he knew it was Otabek’s. But again: he was an idiot at fifteen).