Work Text:
Yuri doesn't understand how people think so little of Otabek.
Why, every time a commentator says his name, they have to follow it up with some sort of disclaimer - "though not particularly memorable in years past" "despite not being a very notable face". He hates it. It makes his blood boil and his heart pound and his fingers itch to strangle someone.
Because they don't get it and they never will. They won't ever understand how hard he's worked just to be where he is, to be as good as he is - and he is good, amazing even. Most people will never have the determination or the will or the sheer bullheaded stubbornness to keep going when all the odds seem stacked against them. But more than any of that, they won't understand the blood sweat and tears that go into a three minute performance.
And therefore, in the not-so-humble opinion of Yuri Plisetsky, they have absolutely no right to do anything other than revere him.
His best friend, for the nth time this morning - Yuri has lost count - crashes to the ground and goes careening into the barrier with a heavy thunk and a disgruntled noise leaving his lips. And for the end time that morning, Yuri feels a shock of concern run through him - Otabek is going to send him to an early grave at the tender age of twenty.
"Hey," Yuri calls, unable to keep watching him. Out of what feels like a thousand tries, he's landed the quadruple axel dozen times, maybe. Impressive in its own right, but too many failed attempts to justify what would likely drag on to be another three hours of practice should he let Otabek decide.
His bullheadedness can sometimes be his downfall. He simply doesn't know when good enough is good enough.
Already back on his feet, Otabek skates over to him with the grace of a swan, leaning his body against the divide and setting their faces far too close to one another.
"Yes?" He asks, startlingly oblivious to the heat that flushes beneath the surface of Yuri's cheeks - or maybe he's just that good at hiding it.
"Let's call it a day," Yuri says as if he hadn't called it quits two hours ago when one a.m hit. "It's three in the morning. Lilia would have an aneurysm if she knew we were at the rink this late."
Otabek simply gives him a wry, playful smile. But Yuri knows he must be tired and aching. There's no way he isn't. He's just better at hiding it than most other people.
"It's a good thing she isn't here, then."
"Hey, fucker!" Yuri scrunches his nose as Otabek reaches over the barrier to spill a quick gulp of water into his mouth before pushing off the wall with ease. He yells after his best friend's figure, "I'm telling you we're done now!"
All at once, like a tidal wave crashing against the shoreline, Otabek is slamming into the wall once more, hands gabbing at Yuri's cheeks, eyes wide with manic determination - Yuri loves this look on him. Wild and utterly unhinged, the kind of excitement that's such a far cry from his usual, stoic resolve.
He's so beautiful. And they're so close. So close that he can feel Otabek's breath on his lips as he says, "I'm so close, Yura."
"I know."
"No one has ever completed a quad-axel in competition before."
"I know." And he does. He knows because, when Otabek had told him two months ago that he was going to put a quadruple axel in his program, Yuri had said those exact words in that exact succession. But Yuri knows Otabek Altin and Otabek Altin pushes too hard sometimes. He skates past the limits of what his body can take without a second thought, leaving restraint in the dust. "But you'll still be just as close tomorrow."
Otabek breaths out heavily, freckles contorting as he scrunches his nose.
Softer, Yuri whispers, "Your body needs a break, Beka."
A sigh raises his best friend's broad shoulders before his head falls limply to the side. He rolls his shoulders, "I suppose you might be right."
Yuri feels a smirk laden with victory tug at his lips, "I'm always right."
-
Yuri will be honest when he says he likes his bedroom at the Katsuki's inn more than he likes his bedroom in Lilia's manor.
It has no arching ceilings or gaudy embellishments. Instead, it boasts house plants that clutter the empty spaces of bookshelves and the small desk in the corner, well-loved books that seem haphazardly left about, and small, warm lights that remind him, acutely, in some strange way, of his small room back home in his grandpa's apartment.
It's a small space, but a kind one. Made even moreso by his best friend's presence. It's his first time practicing and training anywhere other than Kazakhstan, and, for Yuri, it's as wonderful as it is torturous.
Secret pining isn't exactly easy to keep secret when you're being forced to share a room with the object of your desires - but he makes it work, knowing that it would be so much worse to spend his last few weeks before the Olympics without Otabek there.
Drained beyond belief, Yuri tries his damndest to be quiet about setting his bag down (though his skates, traitorous things that they are) provide him with a loud thunk. So much for being quiet. He can only hope that Viktor and Yuuri are as out cold as they usual are, otherwise they're in for another earful about "how some practice is too much practice" and "how they need to be more careful with their bodies".
(If such a situation arises, he can and will gladly throw Otabek under the bus to save his own skin.)
"I'm going to take a quick shower," Otabek announces as if the mental image he places in Yuri's head with the simple statement doesn't have him choking on his own spit.
"Yeah, go for it." Why would you say that? He doesn't need your permission.
If he sounds more awkward than he usually does, Otabek does him the courtesy of not mentioning it. Instead, he simply gives Yuri a curt nod and steps into the attached bathroom, sliding the door shut - this all would have been a lot easier (for Yuri) if the big oaf had just showered at the rink like he'd told him to.
He flops face down on the bed with a sigh and allows his tired mind a rare moment of complacency in which to overthink the messy inner-workings of their relationship - of course he had to be yet another stupid cliché. This is why he hadn't wanted to make friends in the first place, even with his grandpa's nagging and Yakov's relentless snipes at the state of his social life (or rather lack thereof).
I mean, not because of this exact situation. Of course he didn't imagine himself falling head over heels for the first guy that actually gave him the time of day. He just got unlucky, seeing as the fates saw fit for him to choose the most gorgeous, intelligent, insanely intense man he could possibly pine after.
It was more of a...reasonable suspicion, really. Making friends takes up time and energy, a lot more thought than he has the bandwidth to give. Not to mention that any social outings would be taking away from potential practice time.
Plus, he'd never had a need for them before Otabek rode in on his motorcycle all mysterious and needlessly hot, and got Yuri's mind forever tangled in this stupid web-
The bathroom door slides open without warning, a plume of steam billowing into the room after it. Yuri tilts his head to regard it wearily.
"Yura, do you know if you have any clothes that would fit me? I forgot to do laundry." Otabek searches the room with tired eyes as if he'll randomly find a shirt lying around that fits over his broad shoulders and toned abs. Yuri's mouth is too dry to answer him properly - of course he's seen his best friend unclothed before, locker rooms being the main culprit.
But never like this.
"You look like shit," escapes his mouth, uncharacteristically shocked - because he does, and as much as Yuri's heart soars seeing his ridiculously attractive best friend standing mostly naked before him, it sinks equally as much with the explosion of bruises that fan out across tanned skin as if someone splashed him in purple watercolor.
They paint the left side of his body black and blue from the crest of his shoulder all the down the side of his thigh.
It's damn near impressive that he isn't on the floor, comatose.
"Oh," he says as if he hadn't noticed. "It's not that bad."
"Not that bad?" Yuri parrots with disbelief. "Dude, you look like a reanimated corpse. Fuck off with your 'not that bad' bullshit."
Otabek laughs his rolling laugh at that, and it slips off his tongue, golden, filling the air, buzzing electric under Yuri's skin.
"Honestly, Yura, not all of us are naturally talented. I've fallen more times than I've gotten up," he says as if it doesn't make Yuri's heart ache a little bit - he doesn't like it when Otabek says things like that about himself. He doesn't like the earnesty in his best friend's voice. He doesn't like most of the current situation, actually.
And then he has the audacity to sit next to Yuri on the bed, fingers combing through his still damp hair, giving the Russian skater an up close and personal views of the water drops still clinging to freckled skin - he can't believe he's envious of water now.
"It'll be an uncomfortable night," Otabek continues on, blissfully oblivious. "But it's nothing I haven't been through before."
Yuri feels his anger bubble at that. He knows how Otabek feels about himself. He knows how that his rock-solid rationality can often get lost beneath his drive to be better. He knows that 'take a break' are dirty words for him, because, for the longest time, no matter how hard he worked, there was no one there to tell him he was good enough.
Yuri will never claim to understand it - through his entire skating career, he's been one step ahead. Which is not to say that he doesn't work hard and do his best and push his limits blah blah blah. But no one has ever looked at him like the rest of the world looks at Otabek Altin.
"Why do you always do this?" His words snap harsher than he intends.
Otabek turns to him and raises an eyebrow, eyes soft and tired and weary, "Yura?"
"You always act like it's fine, and you just brush of serious things," Yuri tamps down his temper but it seems to flare back up at every turn, spilling into his voice which is far too close to a shout this late at night. He nods toward the litany of bruises blooming across his best friend's skin, "This is too much. It's not good for you. If I came back from practice bruised up like this, Lilia wouldn't even let me step foot on the ice, much less practice something as difficult as a quad-axel."
His chest feels heavy with labored breaths as Otabek looks at him with mild shock. Guilt flushes through him - he's never usually so curt with Otabek. He just doesn't have it in him. Otabek is different from everyone else in his life (not in a way Yuri has words for, but different nonetheless).
Otabek opens his mouth then closes it again. A moment of silence passes between them, soft around the edges but awkwardly stilted, a silence that occurs when you're both searching for words that elude you.
Yuri finds his first, "You're an amazing skater, okay?" His mouth feels dry, so dry he barely knows how he manages to speak with it. "It’s not make or break. No one is gonna think any less of you for being human and needing a break every so often."
Otabek's eyes are blown wide when Yuri finds them again, stunned yet somehow unreadable, thoughts hidden. The corner of his mouth twitches, the dimple on the left side of his face making an appearance as he chews on the inside of his cheek.
"Okay," is all he says.
Yuri finally feels a semblance of calm return to him, "So you're going to take the day off with me tomorrow."
Expression softening from the contemplative frown it was etched into before, Otabek nods, "Okay."
He feels his heart turn to mush in his chest before a thought suddenly occurs to him. Leaning over his side of the bed, he ruffles through his duffle bag in search of the familiar, smooth shape of his bruise cream. When he finds it, he springs back up, shaking his hair from his eyes despite the sudden head rush.
He holds the item in his hand aloft for his best friend to see and earns a skeptical look that is as endearing as it is suspicious, "And you're going to let me put this on you."
"Depends what it is," Otabek says slowly.
"You don't use bruise cream? Or gel?" Yuri watches with abject concern as the Kazakh skater shakes his head. "Wait so then what do you do?"
Otabek tips his head from side to side as if trying to recall, "Ice, sometimes, if it's really painful. But usually I just ignore it until it's gone."
Yuri feels his lips pull into a deep frown at that - Otabek Altin is certifiably out-of-his-mind crazy. If Yuri just ignored bruises every time he got them, Yakov would tear him limb from limb before he could have the audacity to say, 'it's not that bad'.
"And your coach has nothing to say about this?"
"I don't really mention it to her unless it's really serious," Otabek looks away from him sheepishly, likely (correctly) expecting another possible outburst or criticism.
"You're insane, you know that? But not good insane. Like, brain damage insane. Were you dropped on your head as a kid?"
Otabek cracks a laugh at that, and despite his best efforts to control himself, Yuri lets relief flood him as he feels the slight tension drain from the room.
"Well, then consider this a lesson in how to take care of yourself, since you obviously don't," Yuri dares to shuffle closer to his best friend on the bed, swallowing the pounding of his heart as their thighs brush against one another. He screws off the lid to the bruise cream and takes a bit onto his fingers. "This will help you heal faster."
Otabek eyes the foreign substance as if it's going to kill him, "What does it do?"
"It's anti-inflammatory, so it's supposed to help with pain and swelling," Yuri nods a question, a silent request for permission, and presses forward when he receives one back. "It might burn a little bit. But it's nothing bad. It's supposed to stimulate blood flow so if it burns it's doing what it's supposed to."
Breath shaking a bit in his lungs, Yuri presses his fingers to the soft skin of Otabek's shoulder, feeling the post-shower heat nearly scorching against his fingertips - he bites his tongue. It's oddly intimate, even for them. Which is strange to rationalize in his head considering they've been sharing beds, locker rooms, even clothes when necessary, since they were teenagers.
But this...feels different...somehow. He's so close now, physically. He's touching Otabek's skin, from his solid shoulder all the way down to his ribs as he rubs the cooling lotion into splotchy bruises. And it's foreign and amazing, and Yuri suddenly finds it exceedingly difficult to manage breathing simultaneously.
It catches in his throat as he reaches just under his best friend's ribs and realizes he's going to be touching Otabek's hip. With his hand. Like a weirdo.
"Do you...would you be more comfortable finishing up yourself?" Leaves his lips stunted, awkward. He curses his lack of composure.
Face out of sight, turned to stare at something on the bedside table, Otabek says calmly, "No. It's alright. You're very...gentle."
And if Yuri's face weren't threatening to burn to ash already, it sure is now. All he can manage is a wobbling, "Thanks." He's too gay for this.
"Maybe you should lay down on your side. Make it a little easier."
Otabek complies silently, pressing his frame into the mattress, and Yuri belatedly realizes his grave error in judgment as Otabek unhooks the towel between his legs to cover himself, sparing what little modesty he has left.
"Sorry," slips from his tongue - entirely unnecessary and only serving to increase the tension in the air. Otabek doesn't seem to mind though. He laughs jovially.
"It's not like you haven't seen it before."
Yuri's heart threatens to beat out of his chest.
"Yeah but..." but I've also never been essentially massaging your naked ass before so it feels a little different, he doesn't say. Instead, he sets to work, rubbing the lotion between his fingers to warm it up before pressing it into the sinewy muscle of Otabek's thigh.
Yuri bites his lip - he's so...hard. He shakes his head to rid himself of what was intended to be a completely innocent observation before it has the chance to grow out of control into something entirely less so. What he meant to say was that Otabek is solid, all muscle beneath soft golden skin. Nothing like Yuri.
Yuri is well aware of this idea of what a skater's body should be - graceful, elegant, lean. Lilia always tells him that the line of his body is what's most important, regardless of how much muscle definition he has. But Otabek is nothing like that. Not that he can't be elegant or poised in his own right but he's...different.
He's beautiful. He's solid. Yuri loves watching him skate because he doesn't skate on the basis of being decorous, he skates with power. Figure skaters are always so scared of power, but one look at Otabek Altin and Yuri can't understand why.
He thinks, as he presses his fingers against the dip of Otabek's hip, that maybe people ought to try and see what he sees. That there can be beauty in things that are forces of nature in the same way thunder above a thick sheet of clouds is beautiful. In the same way that tidal waves out at sea are beautiful. He thinks if they did, that maybe...
"Hey," caressed in the soft glow of warm lights, safe in this small room in this small Inn in this bubble of security and slowness, he doesn't feel as scared to let his thoughts pour off his lips unfiltered. "I'm proud of you, you know. Always."
Because he is. He's proud of Otabek Altin even if no one else has the balls to say it, even if the rest of the world is too cowardly to admit it. He's proud of the way Otabek falls and gets up, not with poise, but with sheer will alone. He's proud that nothing can change his best friend.
Otabek is silent. And for a moment that seems to last too long, Yuri thinks he might have said too much.
But then there's a trembling beneath his fingertips, and he dares to steal a look at his best friend's face, and finds it tucked into the crook of his arm, hidden away. And his shoulders shake and his bottom lip is pulled between his teeth, and it takes Yuri too long to realize, oh, he's crying.
"B- Beka," if there's panic in his voice, he doesn't have the will to suppress it. He's only seen Otabek cry a few times before - it's a stunted, awkward affair. He cries like he doesn't know how to, like he's never been given the opportunity to. And every time, it cracks Yuri's heart a little bit. "Did I hurt you?"
He knows it's a stupid question. He's never seen Otabek cry from pain before. It's almost as if he's immune to it.
"No," the Kazakh skater grits out, tense. "I'm okay. Just-...People don't usually say that."
Yuri's throat feels tight.
What a heartbreaking thing to learn. He almost wishes he hadn't asked. He knows Otabek's father isn't what you'd call a proud parent, and he knows his sisters are too young to understand where he is and why. And maybe he should've thought a little harder before he'd said it, but it doesn't change that it's true.
"What about your coach?" He gets out feebly. Otabek barks a wet laugh.
"Only when she's really drunk," he says, warming the air with the smile in his words. "She's not exactly affectionate."
And Yuri finds it in himself to let a small smile slip, "Yeah, I know what that's like."
He feels the slightest bit more comfortable when he repeats himself, "I am proud of you, though."
Otabek still doesn't show him his face, still hiding in his elbow, but this time he returns, "Even when I beat you in competition?"
"Especially when you beat me in competition," Yuri huffs. "It's fucking hot."
His body realizes his mistake before his brain does, hand flying to his mouth as if he can somehow unsay the words - or, more likely, to prevent himself from spewing more lunacy that could end their friendship right then and there on the spot.
Otabek is quiet again, dangerously, eerily so.
And suddenly, Yuri's mind is conjuring up millions of worst case scenarios, spilling them all over his otherwise clean conscience. He sees Otabek walking out of the room, sees them falling apart, sees the exact moment he'd fucked up in high definition.
But Otabek doesn't even move, save for the slight adjustment he makes so he can look Yuri in the eye his dangerously alluring gaze. His forehead is still crooked into his elbow, but now his gaze is focus softly, earnestly, on Yuri.
"You think I'm hot?" He smiles, cheeks red - Yuri tells himself it's because of his earlier crying session. He doesn't allow himself to think any differently.
Swallowing his nerves, he forces words off his tongue, "Maybe." Well...word, singular.
Another beat passes between them before Otabek is sitting up just enough for Yuri to watch his abs flex with the effort.
"Like...what kind of hot?" He asks, voice low in the way that makes Yuri's stomach do flips. He already knows what Otabek is asking, but he's good enough at faking confusion for him to go on. "The kind of hot where you'd want to kiss me? Or the kind of hot where...you don't...want to do that?"
Yuri's throat closes up.
Because he's so cute, and sweet and awkward and Otabek. And yes, Yuri really, really, insanely wants to kiss him. But the words are trapped in his chest along with the air in his lungs and all he can get out is,
"Th-the first one."
“Then would you…” Otabek clears his throat in that way - the way that tells Yuri all he needs to know, which is that he is flustered and stumbling for the right words just as much as Yuri is, that they’re in this awkward, trembling mess of a dance together. “Would you like to do that now?”
Yes, yes Yuri would love to do that right now.
He stands from the bed on trembling legs - a strange sensation in and of itself because Yuri Plisetsky never tremebles on his feet - and sits himself in the small alcove Otabek has carved out with the curve of his body. And suddenly he’s wiping his hand on his shirt because he’s somehow past the point of caring, and he’s looking down at his best friend of so many years, and for what feels like the first time in his life, he recognizes the racing of his heart as fear.
Fear that he’s going to mess up somehow, having never had a kiss that meant even half as much as this one. Fear that Otabek will realize he miscalculated, that Yuri isn’t actually who he wants and how, that this was all a mistake.
It’s not the stomach-pitting anxiety that occurs before he gets on the ice to perform - no, that would be too easy. This kind of fear writhes inside of him, an insidious beast he’s too scatter-brained to know how to dispatch.
He wants to lean down and kiss Otabek. He wants to do it but he’s frozen, his muscle paralyzed. Every worst case scenario plays in his mind, each with its own terrifying ending - one where Otabek walks out the door, one where he gets on a plane to Kazakhstan and never comes back.
“Yura,” Yuri blinks and Otabek is sitting before him, propped up on one hand, the other held aloft as if to reach out and touch Yuri, but falling just short of his cheek. “I-“
”Can you do it?” He inwardly cringes at the, frankly, juvenile question he barely squeaks out between lips that feel dry and useless. Otabek’s eyes widen for just a moment.
“What?”
“Can you kiss me…first,” he gives himself a bit of credit for sticking to his guns, even if he’s being cowardly, shifting the burden onto his best friend. “I haven’t kissed anyone in a while and, uh,” he clears his throat. “I don’t know how good I’ll be at it.”
Otabek only spares him a brief moment of courteous silence before he’s bursting into bright laughter that blisters on Yuri’s skin.
“Do you even know how cute you are sometimes?” Otabek grins - grins, Otabek Altin, the king of stoic decorum grins like an awestruck child, and all for him. For Yuri. His heart gives such a cliché little flutter that he only narrowly suppresses the urge to kick and scream like a love struck fool.
But he can’t allow himself to succumb to such corny platitudes just yet.
He puts on his best imitation of snark, “Cute enough for you to stop talking and kiss me?”
Otabek doesn’t wipe his stupid smile off his face before leaning in to kiss Yuri, and so Yuri can feel it against his lips, pressed to the curve of his mouth. It makes him stupidly joyful, as if all of Otabek’s dopey lunacy has somehow infected him. All he can do is lean into it, daring to place a hand over his best friend’s heart as he tries in vein to tame some of his giddiness into submission and actually focus on being a good kisser for Otabek.
But he can’t focus, not like this, and worse still, Otabek doesn’t seem to care. He fills in for whatever Yuri lacks as if they were made to fit together - his lips are soft unlike Yuri’s chapped own. His grip suddenly on Yuri’s waist feels like a brand in contrast to the tentative palm Yuri has on his chest.
He’s gentle and commanding all at once, taking the lead seamlessly from Yuri, who is doing the mental equivalent of tripping over his own feet as sparks ignite beneath his skin, fingers tingling, heart racing.
And then all at once, Otabek is pulling away, so woefully far from Yuri’s lips, leaving him cold and aching for more even as his lungs expand with a much needed breath.
He doesn’t think he’d mind kissing Otabek breathless.
In the aftershocks, he finds himself too brainless to stop his loose lips from murmuring a bewildered, “Does this mean you like me?”
Were he sitting before anyone else in the world, he’d instantaneously feel the crushing weight of his own vulnerability crash down upon his shoulders, but it’s Beka. So he can’t even manage to be embarrassed.
“Oh Yura,” there’s a hint of teasing in his voice as he reaches up to unclasp the braid curling around the right side of Yuri’s head. The hair falls down in a crinkled mess, but Otabek doesn’t seem to find it half as unattractive as Yuri always does. In fact, he runs his fingers through it with what can only be described as reverence.
Eyes soft and voice softer, he says, “I way more than like you.”
Yuri’s mouth feels dry again, only this time, he knows how to solve it.
Stunted and awkward - because it seems that even his best attempts at being smooth around Otabek Altin always end in disaster - he lurches forward to join their lips again. It’s a poor imitation of a kiss but Otabek seems to enjoy it nonetheless, if the way he scoops Yuri closer by the waist is any measure to go by.
When they pull away this time, Yuri feels less unsure, knowing the promise of another kiss is assured. He doesn’t hold back the adoration in his voice this time as he says, “I way more than like you too.”
After that, time moves too quickly for Yuri’s liking - he would’ve liked to bask in this newfound freedom, this ability to adore Otabek Altin out in the open, without fear binding him at the wrists. But at the beginning of the night, Yuri had made the grievous mistake of playing the role of the responsible one in their relationship, and now that he’s decidedly slipped out of it, the only one left to pick it up is Otabek.
And that he does. He forces them through their nighttime route, even though Yuri protests becasue the solid fifty minutes they spent making out simply wasn’t enough, and because he’s not tired anymore now that he knows he’s allowed to kiss and touch and adore the man he’s been pining after for a ridiculous amount of time. Otabek goes back in not that long. Yuri can’t stand the idea of wasting time on something as trivial as sleep.
(Yes yes, he knows, quite hypocritical considering he’s the one who dragged them off the ice in the first place, but cut him some slack.)
However, eventually, Otabek manages to con him into bed with the allure of being able to warm his freezing fingers on his best friend’s body - he’s allowed to do that now. And as he falls asleep, he thinks about how he’s going to leverage the title of boyfriend as much as he’s able come morning.
How he’s going to how his boyfriend’s hand while they explore Japan with Victor and Katsudon. How he’s going to get to kiss his boyfriend goodnight.
How he’s going to watch his boyfriend make history on ice. And if that’s not food for sweet dreams then he doesn’t know what is.