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It's a chill winter morning. Ice lines the streets and snow blankets the windshields of parked cars. Otabek is wearing more layers than he thought he'd ever own, wrapped in his boa-constrictor of a scarf as he trudges along the sidewalk, crunching footprints into place.
He pushes his way through the door, and just like every day before, the transition from street to coffee shop is overwhelmingly perfect. The smell hits him at the same time as the heat, and for a moment his cheeks and nose burn. He takes a deep breath. Even now, at 5AM, there's a line. He taps his boots on the welcome mat, shedding snow crystals, and goes to stand in it.
Then he spaces out. The coffee machine whirs, and customers' hushed voices tickle at his ears. He has a class in two hours and needs to study. He'll tuck himself into the corner seat if he can have it; it's his favorite, because he can see the sky waking up, all golds and roses that eventually soften into pearly, innocent blue.
And then he'll get up and go to his Introduction to Philosophy class, which, well, Otabek's philosophy is that 7AM is too early for a course where you have to think about things, even if he is a morning person.
He's in the middle of gazing at the menu—does he want anything more than a drip coffee?—when the door jingles open behind him. Two seconds later, someone bumps bodily into his back.
Otabek turns to make sure the person is okay, and finds himself face to face with that moment that changes your life forever.
It's the eyes, Otabek thinks dazedly. Shimmering, solid jade, pummeling into him like lasers, carving hello right into his soul. There's a severe wrinkle between his brows, and Otabek catches up to the realization that this guy is scowling at him, shapely lips tripping into a frown that is nowhere near as ugly as it should be. He, too, is dressed for the snow, with his blond hair pulled tightly away from his face, hidden under the furry hood of his down coat. "What?" the guy says, raspy voice traveling right down Otabek's spine.
"Are you okay?" Otabek asks, when he really wants to say What's your name? But he doesn't do that. He doesn't hit on people the second he meets them. He knows nothing about this guy. "You bumped into me."
A flicker of confusion goes across the guy's face, and he rubs at the corner of his eye with a knuckle, scowl deepening like he's not sure whether to be mad at Otabek or himself. "Yeah, fine. S'fucking early. Just haven't had my coffee yet." After a moment, he grudgingly adds, "Sorry," looking up at Otabek from beneath sulky, morning-soft lashes.
Otabek nods, mouth dry. "It's fine."
The barista at the counter interrupts before he has time to think of something else to say. "I can help the next person! Oh, hello, Yurio."
Otabek's name isn't Yurio, but when he turns around, he's the one that's next. The barista, with his flushed cheeks and messy dark hair, is smiling in a way both pleasant and sincere, looking over Otabek's shoulder at the blond.
Yurio, Otabek thinks. A strange name.
Yurio grunts tonelessly behind him as Otabek steps up to the counter. "Hi. Drip coffee, please."
"Sure!" says the barista. His name tag reads Yuuri. "The usual, then."
It's true. It is his usual, his automatic order. It's nice to think he's been noticed, that Otabek is now regular enough to have a 'usual', even though he's only been coming for the last week, since school started. Even though he'd been intending to order something different before he got wildly sidetracked by the intensity of Yurio's green green eyes. "Yes."
Yuuri hums as he flips the valve on the coffee urn, and steam pours upward while coffee pours down. Within moments, Otabek has a hot, ceramic mug of coffee in front of him. Yuuri even knows he's going to sit at a table. "Thank you," Otabek says, tipping a little extra as he turns away.
Yurio's voice growls behind him as Otabek goes to get a table. The one in the corner by the window is open. He doesn't take it. Instead, he sits down at the one closest to the register, a two-seater with a table sized for one, and pulls out his laptop. It barely fits alongside his coffee mug, but Otabek has a perfect view of Yurio. He tries to pretend he's not watching as he opens it and boots it up.
Yurio takes down his hood as he steps up to the counter. There's a single braid at his temple, but it's all pulled up into a bun. If Otabek hadn't helped his younger sister do her hair, going through can after can of hairspray to get it sleek and perfect, all through her elementary and secondary school, he wouldn't recognize it for what it is: a perfectly done ballet bun. Yurio's profile is severe, sharp, his nose a delicate upward point, his cheekbones catching the light. "Hurry up," he says, leaning on the counter intimidatingly, palms flat, weight forward. "Why aren't you making mine yet?"
"You're up early," says the barista with an entirely undaunted smile that creases the corners of his eyes. "You usually don't come in until eight." He moves to the shot machine, posture loose and casual. Apparently this Yurio has a usual, too, because neither of them specifies what Yuuri is going to make.
"Lilia changed up the routine," says Yurio with slightly less growl and slightly more sulk. "We have six weeks until curtain. I think she's gonna break somebody before we get there."
The machine clangs. Otabek tries to remember what file he'd intended to open. Notes?
"You can do it. You've done it before, after all. And it'll be good to see you onstage again," says Yuuri, just as someone barrels out of the back room, flinging apart the swinging doors.
Otabek's seen him a few times before. He has silver hair, like silk, and he's exhaustively expressive. Otabek has to remember to smile; this man smiles like it will win him gold medals.
"Yuuuurio!" he crows, arms wide and gallant, as if welcoming Yurio home from a long trip overseas. "I thought I heard your charming, suave self! Are you getting angry at my dear Yuuri again?" He throws Yurio the most outrageous wink. "You know that's not allowed."
"Geh," Yurio says, his chin dipping, lashes lowering in clear annoyance. "I'm not mad. And that's not my name!"
"Here you are, Yurio," Yuuri says calmly, interposing himself and sliding a to-go cup towards—well, not Yurio, apparently. "Do your best today!"
Otabek blinks at them over the top of his laptop screen, then drops his eyes as not-Yurio huffs, taking his cup and pivoting for the door. "Like I need you to tell me that!" he says as he effectively stomps away.
When he's gone, Yuuri sighs, turning to his companion behind the counter. "You don't have to rile him up like that."
The other one shrugs. A lock of shining hair falls into his eyes, and he smiles benignly. "Who, me?"
"Viktor," Yuuri says warningly.
"Now now, Yuuri, wasn't he already riled when he came in? Our little Yurio is not a morning person. I'm surprised he managed to drag himself out of bed. It would be impossible for him to put on a sunny disposition on top of that. I'm very proud of him for his accomplishments." Viktor waves his hand loosely to shoo away Yuuri's concern, disarming smile on his face.
That's not my name, Yurio had said. Otabek turns his attention back to his computer as best he can, the words still running through his head.
~
It's not his name, Otabek reminds himself over the next few days. He sees not-Yurio on almost all of them, though they don't bump into each other again. At least, not bodily. Otabek wishes they would; he wishes not-Yurio were as sleep drunk as he was on that first day, wishes not-Yurio would look up at him again from under feathery, drowsy lashes. There's something about his eyes, something Otabek can't name but would chase straight into hell.
Once, Otabek shows up at the café a little later than usual and finds himself three people behind not-Yurio in line, listening from afar to the gravelly morning voice that he's learning to tune his ear to. Not-Yurio doesn't notice him as he leaves, even though he passes close enough to touch.
Another time, he opens the door just in time for not-Yurio to be on his way out, both hands occupied with a tray full of to-go cups, and as their gazes meet a flash of recognition lights in not-Yurio's sharp, curious green eyes. "Thanks," he says with what Otabek thinks is surprise.
"Anytime," Otabek says, wishing there were a chance to say more. But the words lock in his throat, and not-Yurio is past him, walking away.
But most mornings he finds himself already in his seat when not-Yurio shows up, because apparently, like Viktor said, not-Yurio is not a morning person and 5AM is hard for anybody. Otabek has ditched the corner table entirely just for the chance to catch sight of him, long and lean and angled, and he can't even make up excuses for himself.
Today not-Yurio is late again, and his hair isn't even up when he storms into the café, mood fouler than Otabek has seen before. He's a crackle of energy, ready to flip a table. Otabek is half listening, pretending he's not paying attention, when all of a sudden not-Yurio barks, "Why are you so shit at this, Pig?" His voice is loud, invasive, clapping against Otabek's ears.
Otabek jerks his head up, pulse racing. The cup on the counter is disturbed, coffee dripping off the edge. Otabek isn't sure whether that's because Yuuri actually made a mistake or not-Yurio overturned it in the midst of his lightning-strike temper.
Yuuri's normally placid smile evaporates from his face, and a stone settles in Otabek's gut.
Then Viktor appears, as if from nowhere. For someone so frivolous and loud, his silence is somehow deafening. Or maybe it has something to do with how the scattered patrons sitting behind Otabek—many of them quietly studious, like him—have all gone still with surprise. Viktor sets one hand on his hip and looks down his nose at not-Yurio, but when he speaks, it's to Yuuri: "Yuuri, is everything okay?"
"It's fine," Yuuri says, but the words are quiet, uncertain. He scratches nervously at his cheek. "Sorry, Yurio."
Not-Yurio is still scowling. He drops his eyes to his feet, then mutters, "That's not my name." He hesitates, expression wobbling, just for a second. Then he draws in a deep breath, glares, and storms out of the café.
A breath of air seems to leave the room. Behind him, Otabek hears the rustle of people shifting in their seats.
Viktor tilts his head in towards Yuuri, and whatever they say to each other, it's too quiet for Otabek to hear.
Otabek looks down at his textbook, not seeing it. Instead, he sees a split-second memory of not-Yurio's face as he hesitated.
Then, without really understanding why, he stands up. He pauses at the counter and Yuuri looks over at him with startled, doe-like eyes. Viktor's hand is at the small of Yuuri's back. "Would you watch my stuff?" Otabek says to Yuuri. It's probably weird. They don't even know each other, not really, but Otabek feels like Yuuri is the right person to ask, even so. And then he's out the door.
The cold slaps him hard in the face. He's left his scarf back in the café, but he doesn't bother to turn around. The sky is still dark but edged with dawn. Not-Yurio is easy to spot halfway up the street, under one of the glowing lamps. He's come to a standstill, shoulders hitched up around his ears.
Otabek's mind catches up with what he's doing. This isn't his business. His quiet infatuation doesn't give him the right to step into the middle of these people's problems. Not-Yurio could easily yell at him just the same way he yelled at Yuuri.
But Otabek thinks he understood that look on not-Yurio's face.
"Augh!" Not-Yurio half turns and kicks his boot into a pile of day-old snow, pushed up to the edge of the sidewalk. It crunches and bursts in a flurry of dirty white.
"Are you okay?" Otabek says.
It isn't like he walked up quietly, given the crisp iciness of the sidewalk, but not-Yurio spins around anyway, eyes wide and green. He stares at Otabek for a forever-long heartbeat, and then lets out a breath that fogs the air between them.
"No," he says, voice gritty. His shock slowly transforms into an irritable, confused little frown. "Why did you follow me?"
That's the question, isn't it? "I wanted to check on you," Otabek says carefully. "I overheard what happened."
"You and the whole store." Not-Yurio lifts his chin with the same imperial slant that Viktor did on him not five minutes ago. It's a very intimidating look. Otabek briefly wonders if they're related. It would make sense. "So what?" He's still tense through the shoulders, guarded.
"It just sounded like you had a bad morning," Otabek says, stating it like it is. There's no need to dress it up. "That's all."
Not-Yurio blinks slowly, then takes a longer moment to eye Otabek up and down, like Otabek is some sort of strange math problem. A crinkle forms between his brows. He shoves his gloved hands into his jacket pockets, but the tension slowly bleeds off him. "Yeah." He bites his lower lip, still thinking. "You're always there in the morning, huh? At the café? I've seen you a few times."
A flicker of a smile crosses Otabek's face. His chest warms. "Most days," he says. "Studying."
"A morning person, huh?" not-Yurio says, wrinkling his nose.
Otabek shrugs one shoulder. "I guess. I like to keep my evenings for my hobbies, and my friends."
Not-Yurio nods, then, after a pause, tilts his head up the street. "Well I gotta go, or I'll be late, and then my day's gonna get even shittier." He half turns, chin angled over his shoulder to watch Otabek a little longer as steps away. "But I'll see you tomorrow, yeah?"
"Sure," Otabek says, the warmth in him bursting into heat that tempers his frozen cheeks.
Back in the coffee shop, Yuuri is hovering awkwardly around Otabek's newly-usual spot, wiping down a table that's already clean. When Otabek walks up he breathes an obvious sigh of relief. "You came back!"
"Sorry about that," Otabek says.
Yuuri smiles and flaps his hands. "No no, it's fine. Your things are all here. I'm going to get back to the register."
Otabek glances over. There's no one in line, and Viktor is studiously polishing a mug, not paying attention. "Hey," he starts.
Yuuri pauses, halfway through a step, and cocks his head.
"The guy who comes in here—Yurio?" That's not my name. "You're close to him?"
If Yuuri is surprised by the question, he doesn't show it. His smile shifts into something both rueful and fond. "Yeah. He's kind of like a kid brother, I guess? Sorry about what happened earlier, he can be a little... passionate." He scratches lightly at his cheek with a finger, gaze tilting down. "But he's a good guy, under all the attitude."
Otabek nods. "I heard him say his name's not Yurio."
"Oh," Yuuri says, his brows raising now. "That's true, technically. That's just a nickname. He does complain about it a lot. But it gets a little confusing having two Yuris around."
A nickname. Two Yuris. Yuri.
"Well well well," comes a smooth voice from over Otabek's shoulder. He nearly jumps out of his skin. When he whips his head around, Viktor is standing very, very close, enough so that Otabek can see the shine of the fluorescent lights in his hair, can smell the coffee on him, and he's wearing a cat-that-got-the-cream sort of smirk. "Someone is interested in our little Yurio, hmm?"
"I, uh." Otabek reels in his surprise as best he can. He aims for stoic. He can do stoic.
Viktor's expression suggests he may not be successful, though.
"Viktor." Yuuri sounds amused, and a little exasperated. "He was just asking a question."
"A question that will lead to more questions," Viktor says, gesturing expansively. Behind him, a few customers come through the door and move toward the register. He's either oblivious or doesn't care, because he goes on, "He must be noticing very hard, if he's changed his seating habits, hmm?"
Otabek shifts uncomfortably. His face suddenly feels very hot. He didn't think they'd noticed.
Viktor narrows a shrewd look at him, one that's at odds with his normal exuberance. Otabek gets the feeling, all at once, that Viktor is a many-layered man that likes to pretend otherwise.
"It's okay," Yuuri says, tilting his head with that sincere, comforting expression that must earn him most of his tips. "If you're interested in Yurio, that is."
Otabek is terrible at social situations and this one is awkward enough that he wants to put on his headphones and drown it all out. He looks between the two of them, and then points out, "You have customers."
"I'll go take care of them," Yuuri says. "Viktor! Don't harass him too much."
"Me?!" Viktor says, touching his breastbone with a put-upon expression.
Yuuri rolls his eyes as he walks away.
Otabek had really hoped Viktor would be the one to go, but here they are. He decides he had better sit down for this, so he does. "Yes?"
That might have been a mistake, because it's not like Viktor standing over him is intimidating, exactly, but he has a particular way of looking smugly down at you that Otabek probably would have avoided by remaining on his feet.
"I'll tell you what," Viktor says. "I'll stand in your corner. I'll be your champion." He tosses back his hair like a Greek god. Otabek is very confused. "Our little Yurio could use a good romance."
Viktor bends forward and steals Otabek's pen, then writes right on the pages of his textbook. Over the actual text. Big, swooping numbers, as if it's the back of an envelope instead of something Otabek actually needs to read for class. He'll have to tear out this page when he sells it back to his school. Then Viktor drops the pen with a flourish and winks, touching his finger to his lips. "Don't tell him I shared this with you, eh?"
He walks away, leaving Otabek dumbfounded, Yuri's phone number glaring up at him.
~
Otabek doesn't do anything with the phone number. What would he say, anyway? Hi, your weird uncle told me to call you wouldn't fly, for obvious reasons. Not to mention Yuri doesn't even know his name, and Otabek can't imagine he'd welcome the idea that some stranger at a coffee shop suddenly knows his personal phone number.
So Otabek doesn't call. But he does program it into his phone, because it's better than having it in his textbook. That's the only reason.
The next morning, Otabek is firmly in place at his island table when Yuri walks in, shaking snow off his fuzzy hood. He stomps in place on the damp welcome mat and then shuffles forward to wait in line. Then he looks up, and over, and Otabek can't pretend he wasn't looking, because their eyes lock. A small frisson of heat goes through Otabek. Yuri gives him a chin-jerk of greeting. His hair is up again, like normal, pulled severely away from his high cheekbones.
Otabek nods.
Yuri's holding a bag. A minute later, after Yuuri handles the intervening customers with pleasant efficiency, Yuri presents Yuuri with the bag and a scowl.
"This is for being a jerk," he says. When Yuuri takes them, he stuffs his hands in his jacket pockets and looks away. "I made them last night." And then, after a pause, "They're not hot but you have an oven thing so use it."
Otabek watches Yuuri's face go from friendly to fond, like a little tiny wall of nervousness just crumbled down. He grasps the bag and peers inside, smiling sweetly. "You didn't have to do this, Yurio."
Yuri sighs, his whole chest heaving with the action, but this time it seems less grouchy and more resigned. "I told you, that's not my name."
Over the next several days, it goes similarly, just without Yuri's apology. He comes in after Otabek starts his studying, and unfailingly looks for Otabek. Their eyes catch, and Otabek finds it harder and harder to tear his gaze away, especially when Yuri grins at him.
But they don't talk. Otabek stays in his seat, and Yuri gets his coffee. Then he's gone, with a swirl of cold air before the door snaps shut again.
Otabek's fine with it. Admiring Yuri from afar makes sense. In a few weeks, Yuri will be performing; he won't have his morning practices anymore, won't be coming to the coffee shop early to get his coffee. Otabek will have to get used to the idea of not being able to see him.
Until Yuri marches up to his table one day, pulls out the chair across from Otabek, and sits himself down. He crosses his arms, crosses his legs, and glares across at Otabek.
"Hello," Otabek says, fingers frozen on his keyboard. He's pretty sure he's not hallucinating, but he doesn't know what he's done to warrant being glared at.
"Yeah," Yuri says, "so, Viktor told me—" And here, Otabek glances over Yuri's shoulder to see both Viktor and Yuuri peering intently around the coffee machine at the two of them like they have nothing better to do, "—he gave you my phone number." He tilts his head, eyes sharp. Otabek can't tell if he's displeased or annoyed or what, until Yuri says, "Why haven't you used it?"
Oh.
Oh.
Otabek's heart has jumped into his fucking throat. He can feel it, beating recklessly.
Yuri waits impatiently for an answer. For several, stretching seconds, Otabek feels like they're the only two people there at all. Him and Yuri, who's both bold and fragile, who doesn't know how to say he's sorry but gets angry at himself that he can't. He's beautiful. Otabek can't look away.
Without saying anything, he slides his hand into his pocket and pulls out his phone. Yuri watches him. Otabek feels like he's not breathing as he dials Yuri's number.
For a few moments, Yuri's phone rings, and he doesn't move. Then he fishes his own phone from his jacket, and without breaking eye contact, presses accept and brings it to his ear. "Hello."
Otabek can hear him twice. The Yuri that's across from him and the Yuri that's in his ear, both of them rich and deep, rough with the touch of morning.
"Hello," Otabek says again, this time with purpose. This time, for real. "My name is Otabek Altin."