Work Text:
Otabek stares at his phone like it’s going to eat him alive.
He knows how to do this, he’s done it before, they’ve done this for years. And yet, as the years wear on, it gets worse, worse, worse. When his phone lights up with a message, the dumb little personalized ring tone chiming through the room, his heart falls in dread, dread, dread, because it’s getting harder to deal with and harder to ignore.
And one just simply can’t ignore Yuri Plisetsky. Certainly not Otabek. Certainly not Otabek when Yuri is plastered across magazines and billboards and even morning shows with interviews, flashing a charming smile that Otabek knows is fake.
Otabek knows it’s fake because he’s the only one who gets the genuine one. And sometimes Yuuri. And rarely Victor. If Otabek ever mentioned the Victor part, Yuri would throw a cup at him.
Messages now, bring dread in the form of longing, because phone calls and shitposts just aren’t enough anymore. They should be because really it’s all they have. Otabek wonders if he’s overreacting because there isn’t anything between them.
Wrong, wrong, wrong. There’s everything between them. Otabek knows because every time his phone lights up, his heart pounds and he feels a little sick with want. Yuri knows because he’s got a special little smile that’s reserved for only Otabek, and who in their right mind would stay up on the other side of the world just for a five-minute phone call. Victor knows because contrary to popular belief, he isn’t dumb. Yuuri knows because Victor can’t keep his fucking mouth shut.
His phone lights up again and with it, his heart sets on fire.
Yuri’s sent him some dumb tweet of a cat meme, and already Otabek’s melting, not because of the context, but because it comes from Yuri. And Yuri wouldn’t be appalled by that, he’d smile that secret smile of his, hand spread across his mouth in amusement as he taps a ring-clad pointer finger against his lips.
It’s the Yuri is amused by Otabek’s inability to hide his feelings smirk. But, Yuri isn’t any better in the grand scheme of things. He uses that smirk to hide the same fucking thing, and that’s the rub. These feelings have hung between them well into their twenties, and they still refuse to talk about it, still refuse to do anything about it, still refuse to give in--
Otabek takes a deep breath, thumbs poised over the keyboard to reply.
And then he pauses.
He thinks.
He feels a little bit stupid.
Why , is the next word that floats across his mind. Why are they still dancing around something that they both clearly want? It’s not the first time that Otabek’s thought it and it won’t be the last, but it’s not usually a sober thought; it’s one usually penned down with his head in Maya’s lap as she runs her hands through his hair soothingly as he drunkenly rambles on about how Yuri’s hair sparkles in those dumb perfume ads.
Maya will listen without complaint until the end, where she smacks him across the shoulder and calls him dumb. It’s a miracle that she hasn’t called Yuri up himself.
So, Otabek stares at his phone.
He should reply to the text. But he doesn’t. He makes a split-second decision before he can change his mind, and he presses the call button instead.
It rings, rings, rings.
And then Yuri picks up, his voice deep and tired, but attentive. Pleased. Happy.
This is happiness, Otabek thinks. This is where his happiness lies, with this man right here even though he’s shooting a fashion ad halfway across the world. But, Otabek can be happier. They both can.
“Hey Yura,” Otabek says quietly. And then he takes the plunge. “I need to talk to you about something.”