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By the time they reached the apartment, Otabek was leaning pretty heavily on Yuri, and that was concerning. Yuri had seen the moment--and the brief grimace--when Otabek had landed poorly out of his triple salchow. Of course, he’d recovered easily; Otabek was so talented it wasn’t even fair, but for some reason, his talent didn’t bother Yuri like it might have in the past. Maybe it was because he saw how fucking hard Otabek worked, day in and day out. Maybe it was because they were, in every sense of the word, kindred spirits.
Or maybe it was because Yuri loved him so fucking much it hurt, and all he cared about was making sure Otabek wasn’t in pain any more.
He couldn’t think of what to say--in the two years he’d been with Otabek, he’d never figured out what to say in situations like this--but the great thing about him was that words were never really needed. Yuri could communicate with him in the way they were both most comfortable, and it sort of made them perfect… it made their relationship perfect.
Well, almost perfect.
“You alright?” Yuri asked, gingerly lowering Otabek into a kitchen chair.
“I’ll be fine,” he replied flatly, his line pressed into a thin line. “It needs ice and elevation, and I’ll compress for tomorrow’s practice.”
“Did you sprain it?” Yuri kneeled in front of Otabek, carefully examining his knee. It wasn’t too swollen, and it wouldn’t even bruise, by the looks of it. It was a frighteningly common injury among skaters, sadly--the knees were often the first to go.
“It’s twisted,” Otabek said, hissing when Yuri pressed too hard. “It’ll be alright--you know better than anyone that it’s happened before.”
“That’s what worries me,” Yuri sighed, pressing a chaste kiss to the bend of Otabek’s knee. He couldn’t help the way his stomach clenched when he heard a sharp hiss from above him, or when he felt a large hand carding through his long, blonde hair. Otabek was the only man--the only person --who ever saw him like this. When he met those gorgeous, dark eyes with his own, they were soft. It was Otabek’s version of an affectionate smile, and it drew out Yuri’s own smile. He hid behind his hair--he had a reputation to protect, after all. “Well, I can tell you what distracted you, dumbass. Your hair is in your eyes. When was the last time you cut it?”
Otabek huffed out a quick sigh of soft laughter; “You’re certainly one to talk. I planned on making an appointment, but I just haven’t found the time.”
Yuri rolled his eyes, flicking Otabek gently on the forehead; “You don’t need an appointment. I’ll fix it for you.”
“You? You can cut my hair?”
Yuri flipped his own hair over his shoulder, accompanying it with his trademark, shit-eating smirk; “You don’t get to be as beautiful as me without knowing a thing or two.”
“And I was under the impression you just woke up that beautiful,” Otabek replied dryly. “My mistake.”
Yuri would later vehemently deny that he’d turned redder than the brightest winter beet; he retreated into the bathroom before he had any witnesses to corroborate his moment of weakness. He took his time fishing out the scissors, clippers, and squirt bottle so he could compose himself. Otabek had a talent for sweeping his feet out from under him with his frank and honest words. He was normally so reticent and quiet, so Yuri knew that every word meant something to Otabek, and if he didn’t have something to say, he didn’t say anything at all.
So when he called Yuri beautiful, he sincerely and truly meant it, and it made Yuri feel like over-excited butterflies the size of condors had taken residence in his chest. It had always been like this, and that was only exacerbated by the fact that Otabek refused to even touch him.
Otabek was objectively beautiful in every way--he was all hard lines, chiseled features, and dark eyes. He was basically The Masculine Ideal on a stick. Yuri had been a little bit thrilled when Otabek had apparently chosen him to be his roommate and romantic partner, but Yuri was a healthy 17-year-old boy. He was turning 18 in a little less than sixty days, and Otabek had turned out to be as distant in bed as he was in life.
Two years. Two fucking years, and Otabek refused to touch him. Sure, he would hold Yuri to his chest while they watched movies, or gently pull Yuri’s long hair to the side for a gentle kiss at the back of his neck. Once he got past those walls, Otabek was a shockingly affectionate man. But he had made it clear from the outset that Yuri was underage, and he refused to lay a finger on him until after Yuri’s 18th birthday. Yuri had agreed to it at the time, because in truth, he’d begun falling for Otabek from the first moment he carried him off on his Harley like a white knight on a noble steed. And he was more than willing to respect Otabek’s wishes.
But Yuri was a healthy teenager. With healthy teenaged hormones. And really, what was 60 days?
Yuri slammed the cupboard closed and stalked out into the kitchen. Thankfully, his anger dissipated when he saw Otabek, bathed in the golden light of the setting sun. Shadows from the spider plant they’d hung in the window when they first moved in played over his handsome features, and Yuri couldn’t help the fond, goofy smile he wore. He didn’t care what anyone else said or thought; Otabek was the most beautiful person alive. End of story.
And now he had to stop, or he would go down an embarrassing train of thought, and again… reputation.
“I got the stuff,” Yuri said lamely. “Want to put your leg up while I work?”
“No,” he said, adjusting his leg. “It will get in the way. This shouldn’t take too long, no?”
“Probably not,” Yuri replied with a shrug. He set out his tools; he was stalling. “Just let me know if you’re uncomfortable, alright?”
Otabek nodded with a hum of affirmation, letting his eyes slide closed. Yuri took up the battery-operated clippers and set to work. The faded parts around the sides were easy, and yet Yuri lingered there for a while. There was a whole story on the back of Otabek’s neck--a scar behind his ear, a trio of beauty spots below his hairline that looked like stars, a pronounced divot at the base of his skull that made him melt when Yuri kissed it, and a birthmark shaped like a moon just at the base of his neck. Yuri thought he could keep himself under control when he only brushed against these small imperfections--the things that made Otabek unique--to illicit a contented sigh.
But then he actually had to touch Otabek’s hair, and that was a feat. Even when it was wet with tap water and combed into his face, it was impossibly soft, baby fine, and darker than onyx. It was so distinctly different from Yuri’s hair, which was also fine, but thinner and straighter. Otabek’s had a slight curl to it; it never laid flat or stood straight, even soaking wet. And Otabek melted when Yuri ran his hands through it. It was so bizarre to see this man, this gorgeous-if-uncommunicative man, fall into Yuri’s touch. It made him wonder why--what did sixty days matter, anyway?
When Yuri was done, Otabek didn’t open his eyes. Yuri brushed the stray hairs from his hands before sinking them into that gorgeous, dark hair. He angled Otabek’s face up until he could press the softest kiss against his beautiful lips. That low voice, in that contented hum, did things to Yuri’s insides that he didn’t much feel like exploring. Otabek’s hands against his back, even through his t-shirt… they burned. They were one of Yuri’s favorite features, because despite how big they were--despite how strong Otabek was--he was always so impossibly gentle with Yuri. Normally, it made his chest swell with affection.
But not today. It wasn’t enough . Yuri needed contact. He needed heat and passion. He needed to be flipped over, manhandled, and possessed. He knew Otabek was capable of it. He just had to want it enough, and damn it, he was going to get it! He bullied his tongue past the seam of Otabek’s lips, curling and tasting, stealing his breath with every fevered gasp. He sucked provocatively on Otabek’s lower lip, drawing out a hum--no, a moan --and spurring Yuri on. In a fit of boldness, he swung his long leg to straddle Otabek’s lap, settling flush and heavy against the unbearable heat beneath the curve of Yuri’s thighs.
Yuri began whipping his hips back and forth, trapping Otabek’s lips against his. Yuri scratched his nails over the freshly-shaven peach fuzz under his fingers, and as his excitement mounted, his movements grew more frantic. Otabek growled--actually, legitimately growled, like a wild fucking animal--which only spurred Yuri further. He wanted him. He wanted Otabek so fucking badly, it was a tangible ache, and judging by the way those gorgeous fingers flexed over Yuri’s hips, he was about to get what he wanted.
That is, until Otabek ripped away from their kiss with an audible grunt; “No, Yuri.”
Yuri snarled, feeling left out to dry. He tried to rock his hips again, but Otabek’s grip tightened, effectively stilling him; “Why the hell not? We’ve been together for two years, Beka!”
Otabek frowned, but he held Yuri fast; “Don’t call me that. You only do that when you want something out of me.”
“Is it working?” Yuri slipped his arms around Otabek’s shoulders, but he pulled away with a jerk, his mouth pressed into a thin line. Yuri pouted petulantly, averting his eyes.
“Yuri,” Otabek began, his voice gentle. “You’re not 18 yet. We both agreed--when you turned 18. I promise.”
“It’s only two months!” Yuri exclaimed, making Otabek wince at the volume. Yuri consciously lowered his voice; yelling never abated his frustration. “What the hell difference does sixty days make? For fuck’s sake, by Russian and Kazakh standards, I’m a fucking adult! So what’s the issue? Why the hell does it matter?”
“It matters to me, Yuri,” Otabek said, his voice infuriatingly even. “By most standards, 18 is the age of adulthood, if not the age of consent. I promised myself I would wait--that we would wait. I won’t let you feel the same regrets I did. I wasn’t ready when I was 16, but I can’t take that night back, and I wish I could. I wish I could every single day.”
“I’m not you,” Yuri protested. “I’m ready! My birthday is in two months; why do we have to wait?”
“Because I want to wait,” Otabek answered. “Please, respect my decision, Yuri.”
Yuri scowled, a mean curl of rage roiling in his stomach; “You know, I have dozens of men and women who would kill to be my first. I don’t need you to do it, you know.”
Yuri regretted the words. He regretted them the moment they left his mouth, because the flash of hurt in Otabek’s eyes cut him. It cut him better and deeper than any knife ever could, because Yuri knew him well. He didn’t wear his emotions on his face like Yuri did, so when they showed, it meant he felt them deeply. And Yuri had hit Otabek right where it hurt.
“No, I suppose you don’t need me,” Otabek said. Yuri may have imagined the wavering in his voice, but he guessed he probably hadn’t. “I’d just hoped that you wanted me.”
Yuri’s breath caught in his throat. Otabek never once broke eye contact, and that almost hurt more, because the crumpling of his normally-cool facade broke Yuri’s heart. He had to look away; “I’m sorry… I didn’t mean that. I just… I feel like… you know. That you don’t want me.”
Otabek’s grip didn’t exactly shift, but it did change. Where before his hands had been restraining, now they were embracing. Yuri felt his soft grip on his chin, the pad of his thumb warm against his lower lip. He ran his finger along the plush of his mouth so gently, it ached. Yuri couldn’t resist planting a swift kiss against that thumb.
“Yuri,” he said. “Look at me, please.”
He turned to face Otabek, taken aback but the unabashedly open and affectionate look on his face. It was priceless, and in two years, unlike anything Yuri had ever seen before.
“Please, Yuri, believe me when I say I do want you. I want you so much it hurts, and I do desire you. You test my self-control every day. You’re so special to me, but I respect you. I’m older than you, and I’d just… I’d feel gross. I want your first time to be special, Yuri, and I don’t want it tainted with that feeling. Do you… do you understand where I’m coming from?”
It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t fair that Otabek got to say those sorts of things to Yuri and turn him into a puddle of goo with that voice of his. It wasn’t fair that Yuri was so in love with him, or that Otabek’s kisses could melt him. It just wasn’t fair… but Yuri did understand. And he would wait.
After all, what was sixty days?