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Yuri’s not even naked yet, and he knows he’s getting screwed.
He’s shivering in the satin robe they’ve given him, half listening as the wrinkled old hag before him rasps out that he is to fucking dance for the class of perverted twenty-somethings who signed up to spend two hours a week drooling over naked bodies. Put a pencil in their hands, and bam, they’ve got a pass for the voyeurism.
It had made decent sense when Yuri first ripped the flyer from the activities board on campus and impulsively agreed to model for the art class. He’d make a buck or two and sit around while people captured his otherworldly essence on their canvases – easy enough. He’d get to eat out for once, get some modeling experience to slap onto his resume, and walk a little bit lighter knowing he was a literal muse.
The thing is, he’d sort of skipped over the naked part.
So, he’s kind of freaking out, but he’s not a pussy, though the winter coats on the students blinking up at him are kind of making him wish he had one. Also, he can’t just sit around like he’d hoped since the class is studying movement today, and they’ve hired a dancer, wow, how exciting, so Yuri will dance like a little muppet with his turtlenecked dick on display, and oh, fuck, is $40 really worth his dignity?
Then the teacher’s leading him to the middle of the room, between the circle of canvases, and holding out a hand to take his robe. Yuri bites down on the inside of his cheek to keep from giving away how uncomfortable he is looking anything less than the chill, body-confident dude that he totally is. And he’s definitely not pondering the last time he’d waxed, or how bloated his oatmeal breakfast might be making him look, and shit, are they gunna draw the scar from his Achilles surgery? He’s just taking deep, soothing breaths because that’s what cool, calm models do, and the silk falls from his shoulders and leaves his quaking fingers (it’s energy, he’s buzzing with energy) as he hands it over to the teacher. He feels like that one Greek mythology monster, with twenty pairs of eyes pasted all over his skin.
“Whenever you’re ready, Yuri,” the teacher rumbles at him, gesturing that he ought to move. “Of course, ask for breaks whenever you need.”
“I don’t need breaks,” Yuri snaps, which is like, what the hell? (And also embarrassing, in his Russian accent, at this American college. Way to be a stereotype, Yuri.) Because he’d really like to take a break from the entire gig right now, but Yuri is not a quitter. He is a dancer, a model, and a badass.
His eyes sweep over the class. Most of the students are readying their canvas, deciding what pencils will best emulate Yuri’s energy. He catches a pair of brown eyes staring back, and somehow, the room doesn’t feel so cold anymore. He can only see half of the student’s face, but there’s something incredibly gentle and reassuring in the gaze, and he’s looking at Yuri like he’s art, not a piece of meat to perv over, and okay, Yuri can do this. He’s an artist, too, you know. The human body is art. Dance is art. Yuri is art. The guy slips a thumbs-up into the gaps between the canvases, and Yuri’s lips quirk up in the slightest flash before he escapes deep into his mind, into dance, into art, and he moves.
It's actually fun, once Yuri’s turned off his inner monologue. He likes the way his feet feel against the cool ceramic floor, likes hearing the rush of his arms and his hair as he leaps and spins, likes hearing the quiet whisper of the students debating the best way to showcase movement. The scrape of pencils and charcoal against the canvases gives him a euphoric tingly feeling from his scalp to his toes, as if someone were playing with his hair. As if he’s being delicately studied, appreciated.
It's over before he’s even aware of time passing, and the teacher is handing him his robe and a glass of water.
“Excellent work, Yuri,” she lauds him, and asks the class to clap for him. Yuri absolutely does not blush.
The class is released after a few closing instructions from the teacher, and Yuri steps into the restroom to change into his street clothes. When he emerges, the teacher is scowling over the canvas of the nice brown-eyed dude, who is accepting some pretty harsh critique with a lot of nods, wasting his gentle gaze on the floor beneath his feet. It can’t be that bad, Yuri thinks as he wanders over, studying the other canvases on the way.
He’s pleasantly surprised. Some of the proportions are a bit off, but he likes the way that each piece seems to capture a different facet of him. Some portraits use harsh lines, vaulting cheekbones, defined lean muscle. Others are more fluid, lengthening him into a graceful swan, smoothing away the harshness into beauty. He waits for the teacher to leave the room before he peeks over at the brown-eyed guy’s canvas, and his mouth drops open. What the fuck?
“God, sorry,” the guy mutters, slapping a charcoal-covered hand over his eyes, and it’s only then that Yuri realizes he’d said that out loud.
There is no art in what he’s looking at. Yuri, through this guy’s eyes, looks like a demented worm, wriggly and undefined. The page is full of random stray marks and smudges where he’d tried to erase. There’s a thick line on Yuri’s left ankle, the leg by itself, not attached to him, just screaming SCAR, SCAR, UGLY. Ouch. His hair looks like brittle spaghetti, his eyes like demon black holes, and the guy’s left him skinny and dickless, the kind of Ken doll factory malfunction that ought to get thrown out and burned.
Yuri’s trying to think of something to say, but he kind of just chokes on his own spit.
“Obviously, you don’t look like that,” the guy cringes. His fingers are shaking as he packs up his kit. “Please don’t take it personally.”
“Aren’t you supposed to be a grad student?” Yuri whispers.
“Unfortunately, I am,” he sighs. “Not for long, if I keep this shit up, though, or so I’ve been informed.” He mimics the teacher’s gravelly voice.
“Parents pay your way in or something?” Yuri asks and regrets it the second it’s out of his mouth.
The guy freezes, and then slowly continues packing up. Yuri moves to leave, realizing he shouldn’t have even engaged with this talentless hack, but when his hand is on the door, the dude responds.
“Actually, the university asked me to apply,” he says quietly. “I’m here on a full scholarship.”
Yuri scowls, whips around to glare at him.
“Well, fuck, I’m just that ugly, then? My disgusting ass took all the talent out of the wonderkid?”
“God, no. It’s just… complicated,” is what he’s told, and if anybody ever embodied “tortured artist” before, it was this guy, right here and right now, broody and dark and handsome, regretting something, hiding something. (Wait, handsome? Damn it, Yuri. He makes a mental note that it’s time to get back on Tinder or some shit, because he cannot be thirsting over a guy that thinks he looks like a worm).
Yuri bangs the door open, eyes burning against the bright afternoon sun, stomach growling. Whatever, fuck that guy.
“You’re beautiful, I meant,” the guy calls after him, just before the door slams behind him. Yuri definitely does not feel flustered enough to trip into a freshman, who squeaks, looks up at him, gasps “Yuri Plisetsky!” and then runs away, apologizing profusely with a series of bows.
Sometimes Yuri hates art school.
~🎨~
The good thing about art school, though, is that these kids know how to throw a party. All he had to do was stomp into his apartment that evening and let his roommate get one good look at his bitter scowl before Mila was texting all her friends to see who was throwing what ragers that night, and which ones might have hot guys interested in a bratty, twinky ballerina boy.
“Don’t call me that!” Yuri had snarled as he tenderly released one of her curls from his flat iron into the palm of his hand that boasted a fresh coat of black nail polish. “Never insult your hair stylist, baba.”
“You got any better descriptors?” Mila challenged him, raising her pierced eyebrow and taking a sip of soju.
“Badass danseur extraordinaire,” Yuri told her.
Mila had snorted, soaking Yuri’s mirror with soju. Only the promise of hot guys had kept him from burning her hair off.
~🎨~
At the party, Yuri wishes he would’ve done it. Mila’s off flirting with the photography boys, and Yuri’s just made eye contact with Oleg, the one other Russian guy in his conservatory, who sits in the number-one spot on Yuri’s “wish I never hooked up with” list. Yuri’s whole first month of his MFA had consisted of wild and regrettable hookups, suddenly surrounded by a shitton of out gay dudes and freed from the shackles of a culture that wished people like him didn’t exist. Oleg was one of those toxic flames that Yuri couldn’t quite extinguish. He wasn’t a good guy, but God, his body was.
If Mila was here, she’d slap Yuri for even thinking it, but after the day he’s had, Yuri kind of just wants to get railed and showered in compliments in his native tongue. Oleg winks, and Yuri grimaces, backpedaling towards the kitchen to pig out on some tortilla chips.
“Damn, Yuri, be careful. If you bulk too much, you’ll snap your ankles again,” Clarissa, the prima ballerina, sneers at him from across the table, where her long acrylics grip a red Solo cup.
“You watch it,” he growls, prowling over to her, “or I’ll snap yours for you, bitch.”
A meaty hand launches from over her shoulder and shoves Yuri in the chest. Shit, the boyfriend. He stumbles back, colliding with the food table, and he scrambles to maintain his footing, but somebody’s spilled a drink under the table, and he grasps for something in his panic, going down… and manages to take half the table with him, chips and dips pouring down on top of him. The whole room turns to stare at the cause of the noise. It’s the second time today that Yuri’s been an embarrassing center of the attention that he usually loves.
“Isn’t he a dancer?” someone whispers.
“I thought dancers were supposed to be graceful,” another snickers.
Yuri picks himself up and lunges towards the 193 centimeter boyfriend, seeing only fury, not reason, not considering the massive fist prepared to collide with his face, but something yanks him backwards from his shirt, and something else comes between them, pushing the boyfriend out of the way, breaking up the fight. Yuri’s writhing and seething in the grip of the person who’d pulled him away. He doesn’t even want to fight anymore. He just wants to get the hell out. Go the hell home.
“Yuri, this way,” the person says, and Yuri’s frantic mind recognizes the voice, but can’t place it. He’s dragged away from the party, deeper into the apartment, and as the people begin to thin out, Yuri rips his wrist free from the other man’s hold. He turns to Yuri, and Yuri gapes.
“Worm guy,” he breathes. Oh great.
The terrible artist cocks his head, like a dog trying to comprehend human language. A lock of his dark hair flops across his forehead with the movement, and Yuri finds it unfortunately and unbearably sexy.
“What?”
“Since you made me look like a worm,” Yuri explains. It sounded reasonable in his head, but stupid to his ears. He’s drunk, but wishes he was drunker.
The guy snickers.
“I guess that’s fair,” he cedes. “If we’re naming each other based off of our most embarrassing moments, should I call you Dip Bowl?”
Yuri’s tentative smile morphs into a glower.
“Fuck you,” he growls, and turns on his heel to stomp away.
Worm guy grabs his arm again, pulling him back.
“Wait, Yuri, I’m sorry, I was… it was a joke. I’m trying to help. If you wanted a shower, or a change of clothes or anything.”
“Trying to get me naked again?” Yuri grumbles.
The guy flushes, but shakes his head.
“No. Sorry. I didn’t mean…”
“I want to go home,” Yuri says, and he’d meant it to sound kind of badass, like a demand, but this awful day and the vodka is seriously getting to him, and somehow it comes out sounding kind of… wobbly. Oh, no.
“Shit, Yuri, I’m really sorry,” Worm Guy murmurs. His eyes dart across Yuri’s frame, and his arms kind of glitch at his sides, like he wants to pull Yuri in for a hug, but he really doesn’t want three flavors of dip across his chest. “Why don’t you… You want to shower off?” he guides Yuri towards a bedroom in the back of the apartment, and then to the bathroom, through it. “Here. This is my room.”
Yuri knows he’s getting talked down to by a guy that doesn’t find him anywhere near attractive, but the tone of his voice is really soothing, and its much nicer to listen to than the annoying, sniveling tears coming from… oh God, is that him? Is Yuri really sobbing in front of Worm Guy? This day literally couldn’t get worse.
“There’s ranch in my hair,” Yuri tells him like it means something, as Worm Guy helps him into the shower with one hand over his eyes, as if he hadn’t already seen Yuri naked.
“You can use my shampoo,” Worm Guy offers. “Let me know if you need anything, okay? I’ll be in my room right outside. You can use the clothes on the counter.”
Yuri narrows his eyes to read the label on the shampoo.
“Oh my God, it’s two-in-one!” he wails, sinking to his knees in the shower.
Worm Guy is lucky that Yuri doesn’t hear him snort with laughter when he leaves the room.
~🎨~
Yuri’s feeling a lot better when he emerges pink-tinged from the shower. Well, better as in more comfortable and slightly more sober. Not better as in any less mortified. Worm Guy’s clothes awkwardly hang off of his lanky body, but they’re soft and have a nice, comfortable scent, like a warm blanket.
The guy is sitting on his bed with over-ear headphones on, playing around with something on his laptop. There’s a slight hitch in one of his dark eyebrows, a serious sort of focus, and his eyes dart intently between his laptop monitor and keyboard. The blue light illuminates his cheekbones and the soft smile on his thin lips. This, Yuri thinks, is art.
“Oh, hey,” Worm Guy says, pulling the headphones down around his neck. “You survive that shampoo?”
“If my hair breaks off, I’m suing,” Yuri tells him.
“The company? Or me?”
“Both,” Yuri decides. “You couldn’t tell that I’m a whore for money by the way I flaunted my bare ass for a bunch of pervs today?”
Worm Guy laughs, surprised.
“You didn’t want to be there? You looked really confident.”
It’s Yuri’s turn to blush.
“Ah. Thanks.” He shrugs. It’s quiet for a moment. Worm Guy clears his throat. Yuri scratches at his elbow. And then Yuri looks up, at the rest of the room. And his eyes go wide.
Nearly every inch of the room is covered in art. Beautiful, unbelievable art. Pastels in vivid swatches of abstracts, nature. Charcoal crafted into darkened skulls, edgy portraits, spirals of smoke, dim alleyways. Acrylic paint, splashed gleefully in golds and rainbows. Oil paints in thick globs, combining to make expressive figure studies. Yes, figure studies. There are a few portraits of women, some clothed, some nude, and they are breathtaking. Yuri’s not even attracted to women, and he is in awe. They aren’t sexualized, but seen, their eyes and their bodies and the colors and brushstrokes a representation of their bared souls upon the page.
“Are these… yours?” Yuri is unbelieving. He steps closer, investigating. The signature is a scrawled Cyrillic. Otabek Altin. “Otabek?”
Worm Guy squirms on his bed, placing the laptop down, swiveling so that his feet are on the floor.
“Yeah,” he says softly. “I… they’re mine. That’s me. Otabek.”
“I don’t get it,” Yuri whispers. “In class…”
Otabek winces.
“I panicked,” he admits. He looks down at his feet. “My art teachers have told me I have a way of putting my soul into my art.” He stands, lays a hand on Yuri’s shoulder, directs him to look at a portrait of a woman, painted in a way that appears very tender.
“You were in love with her,” Yuri says, seeing it immediately. He wishes it didn’t hurt to see this gorgeous, caring man’s feelings splashed eternally onto paper, a declaration of his sexuality; into women.
Otabek nods, lets out a weak chuckle.
“So, it’s obvious to you, too, then,” he smiles, and sighs. “It’s just… I wasn’t expecting… you… to walk into the room.”
Yuri blinks at him, trying to piece together what he’s trying to communicate.
“It’s been a long time since I’ve sketched a male model,” Otabek explains. “And a whopping never since I’ve sketched one as beautiful as you.” He clears his throat again. Yuri blushes. “What hasn’t been long, though, is leaving a homophobic country. So, I kind of forgot that if I would’ve sketched you as I saw you – beautiful, sexual, powerful, attractive – I might not have gotten arrested.”
“Oh,” Yuri squeaks.
They stare at each other, a tentative sort of question in Otabek’s eyes, is this okay? and a tentative acceptance in Yuri’s, yes.
“You keep any drawing stuff in your room?” Yuri asks.
Otabek nods, then smirks and pulls a tiny drawing pad out of his back pocket, shaking it so that the pages ruffle.
“You won’t ever find me without drawing stuff, in fact.”
“I’ll give you another chance,” Yuri says, and pulls his borrowed shirt over his head.
Otabek startles, anxious to wrestle the shirt back onto Yuri’s body.
“Hey, hey, what? No,” he gasps.
Yuri fights him.
“I’m not coming onto you, asshole, I’m trying to help you from flunking out because of Worm Yuri,” he growls. He pushes Otabek away. “If it makes you uncomfortable, we’ll forget it, but I’m down to help if you want to try again.”
“You’re down to model, naked, for me, in my bedroom?” Otabek gulps.
Yuri shrugs.
“It’s just art. You seem like a good guy.”
Otabek relaxes, fractionally, and Yuri slips the shirt off again.
“What country are you from?” he asks.
Otabek blinks at him, and then ducks under his bed to grab a canvas and an easel.
“Kazakhstan,” he tells Yuri and the dust bunnies. “Some of my art went viral online a few years ago, and a couple schools reached out to me. My family wanted me to go to the Russian Academy of Arts, but I wanted to come to the US. Did you know they have parades here, for gay people?”
He’s rambling, and Yuri finds himself giggling.
“Yeah, I did know,” he says. “It’s not all perfect here, but at least we aren’t going to jail for this. Pants are coming off, by the way.”
Otabek hits his head on the base of his bed and curses.
“You speak Russian?” Otabek asks him, in Russian.
“Da,” Yuri nods.
Something kindles between them, gentle and soft. Yuri doesn’t feel quite so naked in the warmth of Otabek’s room, surrounded by the art the man is capable of, evidence of the tender, respectful way he honors bodies when he watches them. They speak to each other in Russian, mostly about their lives and interests, but every so often, Otabek will ask Yuri to move differently, to hold one pose or another. He’s not sure how long they go on like that, him posing, Otabek sketching, but by the time Otabek announces he’s done, they realize the pounding music of the party in the rest of the apartment has gone silent.
“Shit, it’s almost four,” Otabek winces, finally glancing at his phone. “Sorry, I shouldn’t have – ”
“I offered,” Yuri cuts him off, waving a dismissive hand through the air between them. Then he startles. “Fuck. Mila.” He scrambles back into Otabek’s clothes and fumbles for his phone, which smells distinctly of ranch dip, but thankfully wasn’t ruined. He’s got 41 missed calls from his roommate, a smattering of texts from friends in his conservatory, and a final message from Mila that says I hope the dick is good. Call me if you need anything <3.
Fuck, he kind of loves her. He sends her a text that he’s sorry, thankful, and all right, and then looks up to find Otabek watching him fondly.
“It’s really nice, how much you and your friends care for each other,” he observes.
“Yeah, I suppose it is,” Yuri smiles. “Your friends are like that, too, though, right?”
He hates the way that Otabek’s face shutters, eyes flickering to the floor, a mottled flush marbling his cheeks.
“Do not say you don’t have any friends,” Yuri gasps.
Otabek shrugs.
“I… don’t really have any friends,” he mumbles.
Yuri stomps over to him and flicks him on the forehead.
“What did I just say?” he demands. “Dumbass, you and me are friends now, at least.”
Otabek stares up at him, hopeful, his dark eyes dancing with light.
“Really?”
Yuri smiles.
“Hell yeah. Really.”
He plops on the bed beside his new friend, and that’s when he sees the canvas. Holy fuck.
In the class that morning, bits and pieces of Yuri’s outward persona had flashed back at him from the students’ work. Here, in Otabek’s room, he’s confronted by shards of his very soul. He can pinpoint the conversations. The wistful pinch in his eyebrows, there, when he spoke of his grandfather, back in Moscow. The cat-like mischievous glee when he’d told a story about pranking his roommate. The pride in his posture as he’d explained being invited to apply to the school for full scholarship, his ballet talent finally appreciated. There are wisps of marks that hint at movement, but even they hint at Yuri’s essence – some bold, some soft, some spiraled. As Yuri’s movements go on across the page, the markings change shape. He can see that Otabek had been nervous, at first, but by the last figure he’d drawn, there’s a warm confidence, an eagerness, and Yuri can see what he’s talking about. He’s attracted to Yuri, there’s no denying it, but it goes deeper than the skin, than the hair he draws like silk he wants to run his fingers through, the face he draws like a canvas to cover with kisses, the chest he draws like he wants to burrow against. It goes deeper than all of that, evident in the warmth around Yuri’s face, the personality he captures like a firefly in a jar, a wild thing radiant and contained, but cherished. Even Yuri’s scar is drawn like a story, something to unravel, instead of a gash through his life.
“Oh, no,” Otabek whispers. “I thought… I… you don’t look like a worm here, do you?”
Yuri laughs, surprised when he blinks to find that there had been tears in his eyes. He wipes them, quickly, and shakes his head.
“No,” he breathes. “Definitely not. I… it’s just… I’ve never seen myself like this.”
“In a… good way?” Otabek clarifies, tentative. He brushes a tender thumb over Yuri’s cheek to wipe away a tear, and then curses, as he realizes he’s swiped charcoal across his new friend’s face. “Shit.”
They laugh, a conspiratorial thing, warm and playful as their bodies lean in towards each other.
“Yeah,” Yuri says, answering his question with a grin. “In a very good way. Thank you.”
Without the laughter, they’re left closer, smiling at each other. Eyes glance between eyes, searching, asking, and dart across lips, wondering, imagining.
“I wish you didn’t have to turn that in,” Yuri sighs.
“I can make a copy for you,” Otabek offers. “Or feel free to take a picture.”
“Damn,” Yuri pouts. “No Altin originals for me.”
“Let me work with you again,” Otabek blurts, begs. “You don’t have to be nude, I just… this was… really fun, and…”
“I’d love to,” Yuri grins. He holds out his hand. “As long as you’ll give me an original someday, you’ve got yourself a deal.”
“Deal,” Otabek smiles back, and takes his hand.
Yuri’s not trying to be dramatic or anything, but whew, there are, like, literal sparks where they touch.
“Also, we could like, hang out, sometime,” Yuri suggests, stubbornly barreling past the blush. “Like, without the… art.” He brightens. “We could go to Pride, together!”
“God, yes,” Otabek beams.
Yuri wants to kiss him. But Yuri is being a good boy and showing restraint, because Yuri really sees… something here, and he doesn’t want to turn this into a hookup, not yet. Altin deserves more.
He moves to rake his hand through his hair, and shrieks. It’s a sickly grey-black, like that killer death spot in the Pirates movie, and – and – oh, it’s charcoal, and Otabek’s laughing at him. Yuri whacks him on the shoulder.
“Before we do any of that, I’m teaching you how to wash your hands,” Yuri declares, dragging Otabek to the sink. They wash their hands together, fighting for control, scrubbing at each other, falling into laughter against each other.
Yuri ends up spending the night, fully clothed, and he wakes fully satiated on something better than a cheap hookup – the knowledge that somebody sees him, gets him, wants to understand him, unravel him. He’s full on hope and light, and as Otabek stirs beside him, yawns, wraps his arms around Yuri, it’s the first few etches on a blank canvas. Yuri curls into his touch, and all he knows is that together, they’ll create something beautiful.