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Jazz, rock and Mozart melded sinfully well, thundering on the eardrums of the crowd as the dazzlingly bright and kaleidoscopic spotlights swivel to focus sharply on the models strutting their stuff on the runway. Cameras clicking frantically, magazine reporters whispering furiously in their recorders, the crowd roared and applauded at each creation as they wink, smile, wave and highlight their individual panache under the brand name of international style icon, Yuri Plisetsky.
Yuri sipped his first glass of champagne as Emil cheerily made a handstand with a full split and straightened up before bowing dramatically, sending a flirtatious wink - directed pointedly at the person sitting in the front row next to Sara. The sapphire blue-sea green mix worked spectacularly well with the turquoise stones and sequins embroidered along the stitches and hem of the outfit, making him look like a Genie when the lights hit them. It was bright, colourful, cheesy, filmy and so Emil.
Which was exactly what Yuri was going for.
Yuri never employed original industry-worn models for his shows. Humanoid mannequins stalking down the runway with dead faces and skin stuck to their bones, ready to fall apart with a simple whoosh of air, did not have place in the home of Yuri Plisetsky. Here he was the puppeteer, with the strings controlling every action of his props and his puppets - zesty humans with life and love beaming from every single pore of their bodies.
Normal people with normal emotions and normal passions and talents whom the general public could relate to. And his job was to bring colour to every soul who modelled - performed - for him. Painting his performers' world with colours that resonated from deep within.
And that was his selling point.
Selling point which made the entire known world sit up and take notice of the young Russian designer and worship his ideas. Whose heartstrings he gleefully spun, all of their attention wrapped around his little finger. Fashion magazines throughout the globe published pages after glossed pages, expounding on every detail of his craft, his specific models and his work ethics. Ultra wealthy socialites and moguls sought him for exclusive deals, to which he responded with nothing but disdain.
Endorsement agencies, PR firms and conglomerates craved and begged for an inch under the clearly marked territory of the brand that was Yuri Plisetsky but he remained ever elusive. Unattainable and untouchable kingpin of style. Even by those who were acclaimed as the world's finest in other areas.
Only those deigned by the gods and those who had gotten under his frosty exterior, enough to be named as his friend in public were blessed with touting his designs.
23 years old, tall and lanky with long blond hair, already heralded the most successful in the fashion industry, fondly nicknamed by the paparazzi and the public alike as the Russian Fairy despite the petulant expression he always sported, notoriously infamous for having a temper of a short stringed dynamite, Yuri Plisetsky stood in the backstage as the performers for his Winter Fashion became the cynosure of judging eyes of the world.
His eyes narrow slightly and mouth twitched a little in a frown as he watched Christophe grope his own ass on the runway, a blushing and eerily sated expression on his face.
Fuck, he was going to throw that one out.
Or burn it.
His mood improved considerably when he takes a glance at the remaining lineup, just three more performers left until he can get what he really wanted since this goddamned event started. And all three were people who were more of an extended, informal family to him - not that he would ever be caught saying that out loud.
With a bored but a discerning eye he observed as Mila stepped up to the plate. Glass raised halfway to the lips, he internally checked off the mental list of all the things he wanted to achieve with her dress. Sexy, professional, powerful, bold yet sophisticated and elegant with electrifying colours and dark hues to bring them to the forefront. Spirit of a spitfire but the fluidity of a calm river were apt descriptions for his near-sister.
Tousled fiery red hair highlighted by gold streaks bobbed on her shoulders and long gleaming earrings dangled from her earlobes and the flowy sinfully cut dress fit every curve of her body. The crowd went wild as Mila jutted her hip and smiled tauntingly, eyes glittering mischievously. She gave them one last look as she turned to leave before blowing a farewell kiss, most likely a cue for her girlfriend to meet up later. Sara, who had been whopping and whistling and cheering as hard as the rows behind her, ran to the exit following suit of her brother's footsteps, whose seat had been vacant since the end of Emil's act.
"Fuck, I am good."
A chuckle is heard behind him and he tossed a glare at whoever dared to interrupt his personal musings. He hadn't meant to say that out loud but even then he wouldn't stand being ridiculed for it. It backfired when he realised it was Yuuri Katsuki. Grumbling a little because he was going to be ridiculed anyway, he redirected his attention on the outfit his final performer wore.
Hair gelled back, diamond studded earrings decorated the shells of his ears and one end dangled right up to the shoulder alluringly, skin-tight suit cut strategically at various places, covered invitingly by fishnets, more of which lining the sides of his legs before disappearing into the bejewelled high heeled stilettoes he wore. Ebony to pitch, the black velvet tones of the fabric subtly changed according to how much light hit them. Polished stones lined his hip and his wrists, some embellished on the dress or on the sheer, transparent, glittering black cape falling off of his shoulders or from his wrists as bangles. Yuuri Katsuki oozed lust from the roots of his hair to the pencil tips of his heels and he looked perfectly at home with that.
"That you are, Yuri."
Yuri pulled a face and gulped half of his glass in one go before scowling at him futilely. "Get ready piggy, you are up next after that bastard."
The insult never really takes off when it's been nearly a decade since they had known each other and Yuuri just beams at him wordlessly in that 'I know you love me' way. He is this close to stomping his foot into the ground like a child. Which would not help his case. At all.
Victor popped up next to him, looking slightly frazzled yet bedazzling under the weight of the huge flower crown made of vibrant blue roses adorning his head and sparkles erratically yet stylishly pinned in his long, free-flowing, snowy white hair. Artistic ice blue feathers and scales glisten even in the dark and lend a mystical look to his attire. It looked as if a water nymph had just risen out of the depths of a river and graced them with their presence. White, cobalt, prussian and electric blues danced skilfully on the ensemble; Yuri had played with them plenty to enhance the mythical element of the Russian Legend.
"Born ready, aren't we honey?"
Yuuri winks at him. "Of course, sweetheart."
Yuri facepalmed.
He wasn't worried. Nope. Not one bit. This was what made him sell. Made him the cornerstone of fashion and had the universe eating out of his palm. He knew what colours suited whom the best and what he wanted them to bring to the stage.
He had performers, not models and making their inner self show, bloom out into the world was what he was good at. Whether it was Jean-Jacques Leroy's extravagantly flamboyant style meshed with simplistic undertones depicting his considerate nature or Phichit Chulanont's spicy and sensational outfits garnering him fame yet steering the attention towards the sweet personality he was underneath, Yuri was best at figuring them out and showcasing them. They were the actors on display and he, the all powerful director.
He surveyed the rows vainly once more before Victor pranced his way up to the runway. The spotlights spun frantically and drums beat with anticipation signalling the crowd to hush before fully focusing all of their power on the Russian Ice Prince with the pomp and fervour he deserved.
Victor engaged the screeching mob with his come-hither looks and lively smiles and slow yet deadly bewitching poses. Under the intensity of the lights, he truly did look like a merman; feathers, flowers and scales, shimmer, sheer and silk and all amplifying his delectable outlook. He twirled and sidestepped and hummed and whistled and clapped hands with the people, still seemingly searching for something.
Approximately twenty seconds later Yuuri Katsuki entered the stage. The ominous yet oddly titillating music powers up and crackles and booms mesh with it, syncing in time as he sashayed seductively to where Victor stood, mesmerized.The pure and untouchable merman and the mysterious and tempting dark horse.
The two waltz to the scintillating music, tempo and beats rising in their potency as they moved seductively away from each other, towards each other and away again, maintaining eye contact the entire time. The music, the dance, the perfect - godly - syncing of their bodies, the tension in the air, drives the throng wild and raises the roof as once again everybody's favourite acting pair have bestowed them with a glimpse of their magical love. By the time the dance finished, voices became hoarse and hands red from clapping and the runway filled with flowers showered at Yuri's show stoppers.
Yuri mentally gave himself a thumbs up at a job well done. He observed how close the pair held each other under the limelight, panting heavily and not looking away, same as the day they kissed in front of everyone seven years ago. Fond, loving and overflowing. They practically radiated it. The legendary Russian actor and the Japanese prodigious star. Fairy tale ending no matter how anyone looked at it.
He sighed, set the unfinished glass down nearby and dusted his shoulder off of inscrutably small specs before straightening his coat. He should stop thinking about that now. It was show time.
"Ladies and Gentlemen, please welcome the grandmaster of this circus, the King of this spectacular theatre called fashion, our beloved Russian Fairy....Yuri Plisetsky!"
*
Yuri downed his second glass of champagne for the evening, curled up on the sofa near the window when he noticed how the snow is falling a little too fast for his taste to be called whimsical and covering every inch of visible space with their white magic. The after party had died down and it was nearly midnight by the time people had started leaving.
The show had been successful of course, lauded as the best of the year; evident with how the cameras were whirring and clicking the candid shots and reporters swarming around the designer and his models, looking for finer details on their unique attires and anecdotes of their light conversations.
Yuri had maintained his disinterested façade, letting his props speak for themselves. It was usually how almost every party went but today had been different. Unsettlingly different.
He had combed the crowds, moving from one end and to the other and gotten forced into conversations which he would customarily purposefully ignore and yet had been unable to find what he was looking for. Whom, to be exact. The messages or phone calls on his phone didn't help him much either.
He brought his knees to his chest and rested his cheek on top, gazing listlessly out the window, confused frown still in place. The public and exclusive press had left a while ago and friends were starting to leave now. People were scurrying along on the sidewalk, walking hastily and hailing taxis, rushing to get home before the snow started to get stronger. He chewed his lip over the possibility of snow being the culprit when he felt someone sit next to him. He waited for them to speak up.
"The show was wonderful, Yuri! You did great!! As always."
Yuuri Katsuki patted his head, tucking a stray lock behind his ear as Yuri grunted back a response.
"I am thinking of taking this outfit home, if you don't mind?"
He didn't look up. "For fuck's sake, you get one tear on that-"
"Not to worry, I am known to be very careful with my teeth."
Yuri snapped his head to where Victor stood, smirking at him. Yuuri gave a short laugh. He growled, frustrated and threw his hands up in the air.
"Fine. Fucking fine. Just get out before I change my mind. Go."
"Aww. Thank you, kitten. Don't worry, we will take good care of them."
"We promise."
He gave them a full-on death glare. It had the effect of a feather trying to move a mountain.
"Out. Now. And I want them dry cleaned and ironed, you hear me?"
They rushed out, putting on their coats and gloves and holding hands, beaming at each other and waving at him. Victor blew a kiss his way.
"Of course, you wont regret it!"
"Believe me, I already am."
Before they could go out of earshot, he muttered, albeit unwillingly. "....thank you for coming."
They were still waving as they went out the door, overjoyed smiles plastered to their faces.
He relaxed a little, and let out a rare smile at their stupid antics. They never changed. They still looked at each other as if it was first time they met.
What must that feel like?
The hall is practically empty now, he wished to go home to his penthouse apartment but he didn't want to move for a while. The only other person in the room is Mila who was just about to put on a wrap and call her girlfriend when his phone rang.
He picked it up distractedly, expecting another congratulatory phone call when the caller name lit up the screen.
It's them.
He hastened to answer it, "Grandpa, whe-"
"Yuri."
The low tone jostled him a little. His mother rarely called. He backtracked from using the slew of words that were on the tip of his tongue and answered in a levelled tone, mirroring her. "Mother."
"Yuri, you....were expecting Grandpa today?"
He cautiously let out, "Yes, he promised." And it hurt. When people didn't keep promises. Even small ones. They mattered to him. Every one of them.
"......oh. I see."
He was ready to tear out his hair. Getting answers from his tight lipped mother was like pulling teeth. Much tougher than that.
"Well?" He would have screamed that, but it would not have helped him if his mother chose to hang up. Which she was capable of doing.
"...he is....not ummm, how can I say? Acting proper, so to speak."
"Huh?"
"I am sorry he couldn't be there for you today, Yuri. But Grandpa, is......behaving different, I must say. Strange. I have to go now. He is okay, physically. I think. I am not sur-"
He cut the call and raced to his dressing room.
What the fuck was that?
He pulled up his backpack on the bed and stuffed anything and everything he thought he needed for the trip. Mila followed him in and helped him with packing, doing a much better job of it. She shot him concerned looks from time to time as she progressed but didn't say anything. Yet.
"It's a blizzard out there Yuri. You won't make it." There it was.
"Then why are you helping me?"
"Will you not go if I stop you?"
"No."
She made a 'there you go' gesture with her shoulders as she resumed packing his things. It was just a short trip and she could pack all the other stuff later and send them to his apartment. She zipped up the backpack and placed his wallet and phone on top and waited for him to finish up.
He furiously combed his long loose hair that fell to his waist into a tight fishtail plait, his fringe clipped to a side artfully and pulled on a huge faux-fur leopard print poncho over a thick black sweater and black leather pants. His sturdy weather trusted boots felt heavy but he didn't care and lastly, put on his matching ear muffs and padded gloves.
Sara burst into the room, "Got your message. Boy, it's a freaking storm out there. Did you see how deep it already was? It just started an hour ago! Anyway, the trains are cancelled. The flights too. Emil booked himself and my brother a room here. No surprises there. I am just wondering when exactly my darling brother would confess to our mom that he is gay you know? I mean, when I came out, he made a huge hue and cry about how he can't punch my partner cuz it would be a girl but now, wow! I would be more surprised if my family hasn't already noticed. Ah. Babe, don't you worry, I got us a room too. Good view of the snow. I was thinking we could order hot chocolate? And some nice warm big blankets, you know? Watching the snow while staying all cuddled on the couch? What do you think, hmm?"
Mila snorted a chuckle before rushing up to her and kissing her forehead. "It sounds wonderful. Thanks, babe. Also," - turning to Yuri, whilst snaking an arm around Sara's waist - "Yuri, you can't possibly go in this. Don't. Wait for sometime, won't you?"
Yuri threw them a look, a dull glare at her comment and then some at their proximity. He put on his heavy backpack, ready to leave.
"No. And you know why."
Sara protested at that, concern lacing her tone. "But....the blizzard.....Mila?! Stop him!!"
"Honey, I could bodyslam his tiny ass into the next week but that still won't stop him from sneaking out to see his grandfather." She sighed. "Stay safe, Yuri. And call when you reach there."
He gave a slight nod at that before he shut the door behind him.
*
Fuck.
He was going to die.
He was going to die right here on the street, in the middle of nowhere without seeing his grandfather again.
He was going to die without ever knowing what Victor had told him of whenever he sees Yuuri.
He had the shittiest luck of the lot. The city looked like a ghost town. There was nothing but snow swirling all around him with the rage of a hundred angered beasts, howling and hollering and making him lose his footing. He couldn't see anything beyond arm length, even then he had to manoeuvre only by pure instinct. He ended up tripping more times than he could count.
The taxi that he had yelled at to take him from the hotel had bailed on him halfway. The flights and trains were already cancelled. And now his phone was dying and he was feeling faint because he hadn't had a snack since last night, powering through the all-important day on chocolate and champagne and thinking he was good with just that.
Well, he truly fucked up.
Fuckitty fuck fuck.
He leaned heavily on the lamppost nearby, gasping for breath. There were black spots starting to appear, clouding his vision. He gathered the last bit of his strength and thumped hard on the door of a building, hoping it would be a pub. He didn't wait for it to open before he collapsed on the ground, his legs finally giving out.
Grandpa.....help........please.
*
He transitioned between wakefulness and sleep, vaguely recalling strong hands and a very toned chest pulling him inside from the cold. He recalled the alluring smell of warm soup that made his stomach growl, pushed to his lips. He didn't remember whether he ate it then, but he wanted it now. There was a short battle between sleep and hunger and hunger seemed to be winning. His rumbling stomach woke him up and he blearily cracked open one eye.
It was still dark out but the blizzard was slowing down he supposed, if the amount of frost collected on the window panes would allow him more visibility. He rubbed his palms over his eyes and sat up to find blankets upon thick blankets covering him. Looking around, he thought he had knocked on the door of a pub or a normal household but this seemed more of a studio posing as an apartment. The décor under the dim lighting appeared to be all too normal and minimal, the only thing standing out were the papers stuck to the walls with sketches on them. They seemed to be everywhere.
Sudden panic alerting his brain, he frantically searched for his things only to find them next to the sofa where he was currently resting. A big bowl of luke warm borscht was kept on the end table near him and his mouth started watering just by looking at it.
"You can eat it. It's for you."
Yuri jerked his head towards the voice. The dull lights of the room had hidden many parts of it from his view, he still wasn't able to see clearly. He scooted closer into his corner and away from the person unintentionally. The person stood up to switch on more lights, illuminating the dark room and finally showing himself to Yuri.
Rugged.
That was the first word Yuri thought of when he saw the man, sporting an undercut, stubble at his chin, wearing long sleeved black sweater that bunched when he flexed his arm and probably the owner of the toned chest that Yuri's hazy mind reminded him of. He looked to be more or less the same height as him, so Yuri calculated that he did stand a chance of injuring him in case things got......frisky.
Pulling the blankets close to his chin, he croaked out. "Who are you?"
The stranger moved to sit on the chair opposite Yuri, and he mentally thanked him for not sitting next to him again.
"I am Otabek Altin." He gestured to the house with a tilt of his head. "This is where I live."
Yuri pursed his lips and scrunched his nose, perplexed. He didn't know how to act in this situation. For someone who openly scoffed any form of social interaction, making polite talk with complete strangers was downright mortifying.
"I could heat it up." Otabek motioned to the bowl. Yuri jerked a nod, saying nothing.
Only when he was handed the bowl did he move to extract his hands from the blankets and take a cautious sip of the soup, all the while looking suspiciously at his supposed saviour. The spoon dropped back into the bowl, splattering a little on the impact.
His mouth started drooling and his eyes tore up and his stomach roared like a starved tiger at the deliciousness of the simple hot meal. He didn't think twice before inhaling the rest in mere seconds and carefully placing the dish on the end table after practically licking it clean. He cleared his throat. He wanted a bit more but he didn't know how to ask for it.
Otabek said nothing as he watched Yuri wolf down the contents. He picked up the bowl and fills it up again before placing it back in front of Yuri. "You can have more. There was some left."
Yuri beamed at him before picking up the dish in his hands and feeling the heat seep in to his fingers through his gloves. Slowly sipping his second helping, he noticed how his poncho, ear muffs and boots are drying on a chair nearby and his backpack is intact and Otabek wasn't wearing anything more than that distracting sweater and jeans.
The wind was still howling outside, rampaging its white storm and blinding everything in sight albeit not as powerful as before but here in this small studio, his body is warmed up, by the most delicious borscht and the thickest blankets. He felt the sizzling heat in his bones, melting the chills from before and radiating their power with every trickle of blood in his veins. His cheeks changed texture from the icy cold they were when he blew air into his palms and covered his cheeks with them. He knew they would have that embarrassing rosy hue, blossoming from the tips of his ears and across his nose, but he didn't care.
He set the dish on the table, completely sated. Truth be told, he was slightly sleepy now but he felt he had overstayed his welcome. Suppressing the yawn that wanted to break out, he spoke with gratitude and caution, "Thank you. For everything. It was nice of you. I will be leaving now."
He moved to stand up, when he felt a hand land lightly on his shoulder. "Wait till the blizzard passes. You can go then."
He was ready to protest and force his way out but sighed when he glanced outside the window. It wasn't anywhere close to dawn and this whole thing would be futile if all he managed to accomplish by getting out was faint on another door ten blocks away.
Besides, sleep was singing to his senses anyway since he hadn't had a good night's rest for a week due to the preparations and the maximum he could get last night was just an hour before the rehearsal.
Yup, sleep appeared to be the best option, he concluded, his eyelids drooping and his body humming satisfactorily under the blankets, happy that it doesn't have to function for a while.
Otabek had moved to wash the bowl in the kitchen, somehow knowing Yuri would stay. He pouted a little at that. He didn't want to seem predictable. Nor too trusting of strangers who lived in studio apartments and helped knocked out designers with hot borscht and comfy blankets. He guessed he could more or less get away still, if Otabek tries anything funny. But after he was rested. The guy had had plenty of opportunity to steal from him anyway so that was out. Maybe he was just a normal, nice guy. It wasn't too much to hope.
"Fine...but I leave at first light." Drifting to sleep rapidly, he vaguely sensed Otabek coming near and tucking his feet inside the cocoon and patting his shoulder.
*
"Get on."
Yuri stared at him, disbelieving.
Two more hours, he would have given the world for just two more hours of sleep but no. First light he had said and Otabek had woken him up at that. Dammit, didn't the guy understand the need for snooze buttons?
And before he knew it, he was wrapped in a leather jacket at least a size bigger than his and a helmet thrust into his hands and rushed out to find Otabek starting his bike. He hadn't even thought of asking him for a ride - didn't even know he had a mode of transport - but here was this guy who not only saved him from frostbite but was ready to take him wherever he wanted.
Talk about being generous.
Looking at the mysterious, ominous and terribly sexy vehicle and its brooding, albeit ruggedly handsome owner, Yuri thought of how dreadfully cliché it all was. Of course Otabek would have a bike that purred like a caged lion. Of course he would have black leather jackets and biker boots. The undercut and the piercings adorning the shells of his ears should have been a dead giveaway. All that were missing was a pair of aviator sunglasses and an arm of tattoos.
Maybe he should use motorbikes for his next photoshoot. Otabek nailed that look effortlessly. Maybe he can get him to model too. A delicious shiver licked its way up his spine at the thought of that.
Shaking himself out of his day dream, he strapped on his helmet, adjusted his backpack and perched carefully atop the bike. Occupational hazard, he waved it off as. He definitely wasn't thinking of anything but work when he thought of Otabek on a sleek motorbike.
"Are you ready?"
"Yeah. Let's go."
The purr escalated to an enraged snarl when the owner stepped on the gas and they shot off. Yuri gave the directions along the way, thanking the gods that the Winter exhibit took place in the capital and his town was only two hours away by flight. The road took almost an entire afternoon.
But this was much more preferable than him happening to be somewhere on the other side of the globe. Like last time. He shuddered mentally, compelling himself to forget about that and concentrate on the now. He shall see him. Soon.
Scenery whizzed by, snow painting the ground white and slicking the roads but the sun shining through the bright morning with its soothing, energy-giving rays - not enough to melt the ice but - pure unadulterated bliss after the terrifying blizzard. Wind playing with his hair, his thoughts for company, Yuri never felt more free.
Cars, trains or any other form of travel shrivel in comparison to the thrill of whizzing past unknown towns of the countryside on a thundering well oiled motorbike. There was this purest rush of freedom coursing through his veins, which he felt only when he finished a masterpiece after feverishly working on it endlessly, forgetting sleep and food.
It was like mainlining undiluted adrenaline; he couldn't help but feel giddy and spread his arms wide and giggle with childish glee when Otabek swerved the turns and zoomed on the deserted roads.
Yup. It was confirmed. He was buying a motorbike when he got home. Maybe call up Otabek for advice on which had the best mileage and horsepower and low maintenance but yet looked like a sleek lethal machine.
Speaking of, he continued to harbour some so-far-unfounded suspicions about the guy. Kind stranger he might be for helping him, feeding him, even charging his phone, but still Yuri mentally felt for the steel tip of his blade hidden in his sock. Ready to pull it out at a moment's notice, but also prepared to give the benefit of doubt to the man. For a while. Atleast for the sake of distraction. He might be taller of the two but Otabek still was bulkier than him. It might need some tricks to get away.
Nodding to himself, he directed his thinking towards far less grimier things. Like leopard print seat covers on motorbikes.
*
They halted at a rest stop two hours later.
Pulling the seat across him, Otabek cleared his throat. Yuri sat with his arms crossed and his legs stretched out under the table, a little winded from the travel but mostly hungry. It is surprising how famished he is considering he had eaten well when they left the house.
"I...know about you. You are Yuri Plisetsky, the designer. I....have been....watching you for a while."
Yuri gaped at him.
This is it.
This was how he was going to die. Fuck.
Or kill Otabek and go to jail for the rest of his life.
Maybe the rest stop were his gang. Maybe the waitress and the cashier and the other patrons were a part of this. Maybe this was their regular hangout place. Where they abduct starved designers and kill them for fun. Or take him ransom. Would Victor pay? His own family won't be able to afford though.
Goodbye life, you were kind to me, even though I have a shitfuckingload of regrets.
"You inspired me."
Just as his fingers itched to reach for his blade as a last resort of self protection, Yuri gawked as he watched Otabek roll up the sleeve of his sweater. All the way to the shoulder. The arm was tattooed, down to the wrist. He didn't get what he was supposed to see but then it clicks.
They were all his.
Animal prints - coiling cheetahs, snarling lions and pouncing jaguars. There was even his favourtie, a Bengal tiger crouching, its body ready to attack, moments before it would spring from the bushes it was hiding behind.
They were his - mirror image of how he had portrayed in his debut designs all those years ago. Animal prints were a call to his soul, siren song to his heart and the entire line of his debut had been about them. They weren't as hugely popular as the designs he made the next season, but they were his favourite, painstakingly so. The ones he had put his heart and soul in and still would, without another thought. Other designs interested him and pushed him to be better but nothing came near the irresistible whisper of these to his ears.
The debut designs, each animal made to specify the model who wore them, hadn't taken off well with the critics. Deemed too flashy and punkish, they were scrapped. But the mob had loved it. Ensuring enough success to continue the line and raise the bar the year after. And the next and the next.
But seeing the tiger tattooed on the arm, exact replica of what he wanted to show, the powerfulness, the tenacity, the danger and the encompassing well-honed strength oozing from the intricate lines of the tattoo, was enough to make Yuri's eyes widen and his heart skip a beat.
"Seeing you that day on television, displaying the patterns and what they represented, inspired me to draw them. I have watched you since. Year after year. But you were never as happy as you were with these. Yet you look content wearing just a tiger print shirt or scarf.
"Your eyes hold the fire of a brave soldier, breaking boundaries and striving towards what you wanted. I liked that. I wanted to be good at what I do, so hopefully someday I would get to draw for you, what made you happy. Just as this makes me happy." Otabek gestures to the both of them, sitting across each other in a dusty table in a rundown insignificant rest stop.
Yuri wheezes a breath he didn't know he was holding. A chuckle bursts out, then another and another. Before he knew it, he was wiping tears from his eyes and laughing like he hadn't in years. Maybe longer.
"You are just one surprise after another, aren't you?"
*
He started discovering small, little but enormously significant details about the man named Otabek Altin after that. How, when he had said he could him call him 'Yuri' and he had responded with 'Beka'. Which meant Prince apparently and truth be told, he definitely fit the part. And how his rugged features softened considerably when Yuri tested it out on his tongue. Yuri hadn't been able to look away for a while. Or blink.
How Beka sounded so fitting on him and how he wanted to call him that repeatedly. His mind kept rolling the word around, making him slightly dizzy and fuzzy at the same time. It is shocking, yet not alarming. At all.
How Beka stiffens up slightly around anybody who approached him. It was impossible to notice but he seemed relaxed only in Yuri's company and his mouth set a bit firmer and shoulders straighten even if it was just the waitress who had come to clear their table. Yuri felt special knowing that. Knowing that Beka was relaxed only around him.
And how he answered direct questions but understood the unspoken ones. It seemed as if some switch had turned on but Yuri was beginning to understand the long silences of his companion.
"Favourite colour?"
"Black."
"Favourite place?"
"Home."
"And where is that?"
"Almaty."
"Why live here, then?"
"I wanted to work here for a while. My family understood."
"Oh, how many siblings do you have?"
"None."
"When did you learn how to ride a bike?"
"....fourteen. My father taught me."
"Wow, daring, aren't we? So, when did you decide to become a tattoo artist?"
"Eighteen. I can also sculpt. And repair bikes."
"Oh wow. You should teach me how to ride one though."
"Ok."
"Why the undercut?"
"...."
"Oh? Is it something you don't want to tell?"
"No.....it is my roommate's. He is a stylist and I had long hair. Hard to maintain while on the job. I requested a cut that didn't have me doing anything to it. And." He reached up to rub his fingers through his hair, Yuri looked away feeling strangely hot. "Does it look bad?"
"N-No." Clearing his throat and shaking his head, Yuri continued, "It looks good on you. Really. It's fine. More than fine."
The small smile that made Beka's eyes crinkle and mouth upturn slightly was enough to make Yuri's blood race to his cheeks. "Thanks."
"I am visiting my grandfather, you see. He promised that he would come to my Winter event every year and this time he didn't come. And the last time he couldn't make it was when", collecting a shuddering breath, Yuri paused. Beka waited patiently for him to continue, offering support in his silent way.
"When he had a heart attack. And I wasn't there. I was halfway around the world and my grandfather was dying and I thought I wouldn't be able to make it. And I prayed every second that he would be fine. Thanks to the gods, he recovered."
Yuri looked up from where he was absently scratching the table, along the age lines of the wood. "I know he isn't getting any younger. I know he isn't getting any stronger. No matter what he says. I don't want to miss the time I have left with him. Not after listening to my mother saying he was acting strange."
Beka nods and stands up. "Let's go to him."
*
It is appalling, the emotions he felt over the course of twelve odd hours. Overworked exhaustion, accomplishment and blessed sense of euphoria were the ones he was used to with his work. Worry to the point of tears, a driven sense of purpose and frantic hurry came with his unconditional love for his aged grandfather.
Guaranteed emotions, all accounted for.
But this peculiar sense of warmth deep from the confines of his chest, butterflies in his stomach and blips as his heart did somersaults were not things he was accustomed to. And it all came from being in close proximity to this fascinating stranger called Otabek Altin who was fast breaking all the barriers Yuri had carefully built around himself, without doing anything that morally ambiguous.
Acts of pure kindness such as driving a total stranger to wherever he wanted just because, the stoic support of a silent, benevolent mountain and Yuri kept getting baffled at the generosity of it.
The one rare time during the ride when Beka had smiled after he heard Yuri's carefree laughter at the hair raising thrill of a speeding bike, unbidden and soft, Yuri had seen the dimple on his cheek, reflected in the mirror. His laughter choked in his throat and he coughed and blushed at how much he wants to touch the small dent and tease it and see it again and he wants and he just wants.
So fast, so soon and so much that it should scare him. But it doesn't. And he didn't know whether that should be scarier.
Victor had once said love was breathtaking, describing what it felt to be married to the person he loved. It was like getting punched in the gut and making you wheeze and heady everytime you looked at your significant other, not believing that the other person loved you much as you loved them. It was addictive and exhilarating, the power they had over you and you have over them. The knowledge of such power and the security of never abusing it was downright intoxicating. It was like gravity for him, magnetic and grounding at the same time. You would always, always find your way towards each other.
While he may have been right in a sense, Yuri disagreed with him in some. To him, love was like breathing. Meditation. When you felt alive with every breath you took. When you live to the fullest with every moment you spent with the one you love. It was calm seas and morning walks along the beach. It was making pirozkhi's in the kitchen with his loved one or eating borscht while cocooned by blankets. It was soft, mellow and potent. Quiet but meaningful. The slow, steep fall into love knowing that the other person is right next to you.
He inched closer on the bike, and rested his cheek on Beka's shoulder.
And breathed, his chest feeling light.
*
Ramming his fist on the door and hopping from one foot to the other, he waited on tenterhooks for it to open. The moment his mother unlocked it, he pushed past her and ran inside.
"Grandpa! Grandpa, where are you?! Where is he?" He rounded on his mother. Not waiting for her to answer, he rushed to check the rooms. Nothing indicated him of his old man's presence, not even the basement or the kitchen. He confusedly made his way back to the living room and that was when he heard a light banging coming from the shed. His ears perked up at the sound and he ran out. Beka followed him, giving a short nod in his mother's direction.
He kicked open the door in his haste.
"Yurachka!! What are you-" Nikolai Plisetsky wasn't given room to talk when his tall grandson engulfed him in a bear hug so tight, he must have felt his breath catch in his lungs.
"Grandpa! Don't you ever do that again, do you hear me?" Pulling back, he surveyed for any kind of physical injury. Other than looking weaker than the last time he had seen him, nothing seemed to scream the emergency his mother had spoken of. "Mother said you were acting weird. Did you fall? Were you hurt? Are you able to stand? Do you want to sit down? A glass of water? Anything?"
"Yuri Yuri Yuri calm down boy ha ha! I am fine I am fine, see?" He rubbed Yuri's head in an affectionate manner and placed a kiss on his forehead. "Now, I am sorry I couldn't attend the show dear boy, I am sure you were amazing. But!! I got you something I know you will like....ta da!"
Fingerless gloves stitched with white tiger faux fur pads were thrust into his hands and before he could recover from his shock, something heavy yet soft fell atop them, big enough to cover his face. It was a poncho, much like the one he made on his own, but bigger and longer and with the same white tiger faux fur, matching the gloves. It even had a hood and...were those cat ears on top? He looked at his grandfather in confusion. There was no reason for a gift this big at this time of the year, then why....?
Nikolai cleared his throat and looked at him fondly. "I was thinking of what I could get my darling grandson for his birthday and I....couldn't wait to work on it. I wanted it to be a surprise, but hey! Here you are, my dear boy! The best surprise is you home for the New Year and look! You brought a friend too! You never bring anybody home!! That deserves all the gifts in world!" He gestured wildly to where Otabek was standing. Yuri blushed and cringed and hid his face behind the poncho.
His grandfather guffawed loudly and ruffled his hair, his bangs getting messier with it. Yuri hugged him and whispered fervently into his ear, "Thank you, Grandpa."
It was a relief, a gratitude and a prayer all at once.
He didn't notice Beka mutely clapping at the scene before leaving and closing the door behind him. Leaving them to their family moment.
*
Yuri sees Otabek putting on his helmet by the time he caught up to him.
"And where do you think you are going?"
Hands balled up on his waist, Yuri did his best to look irked. Which he was. Beka said nothing. But Yuri thought he looked a little guilty. And...shy? Oh. He could forgive that, if that was the case.
"Stay." He relented. "For dinner."
"OR FOREVER!" His grandpa yelled from the house, his mother laughing next to him. He shot them a glare before reverting to Beka, who cleared his throat.
"Am I your friend?"
His voice had a slight tremor but still had a defensive undertone, as if expecting rejection. Otabek Altin looked straight at him, into his eyes, waiting for the answer. And he looked ready accept whatever Yuri Plisetsky had to offer. Even if it was a no.
Well. He was going to be disappointed.
Yuri stalked towards him and threw his arms around his shoulders, pulling him close and burying his head in his neck. Being of the same height meant they never needed to bend down or stand on their toes or curse at high heeled boots for not doing their job. They fit, shoulder to shoulder, heel to heel, like two pieces of a puzzle. He felt a wide smile spread on his face when Beka hugged him back, his arms like iron bands around his waist.
But he doesn't answer the question.
Not yet anyway.
It isn't until months later, maybe even a year, when he does.
Months spent watching boring TV together, cuddled up on the big couch and in each other. Muted cheering from the backstage for every one of his shows, selfies and snapchats with wonky filters, cat plushies given as a gift, adopting two more stray kittens and naming them after Sailor Moon characters.
Playing video games well into the night and falling asleep on the carpet all tangled in each other. Stroking dimples and creases and braiding long blond hair into complicated styles. Having matching tattoos and inventing new designs. Spending time in the garage repairing the bike and testing it out for the first time. Failing and learning and again and again. Ice cream emergencies at 3AM and brainstorming ideas for shows and frequently sleeping over at each other's places till it felt like having two homes.
When time was measured in chocolate bars consumed together, sketching outlines and powering through the crowds to get the best things at thrift stores, making pirozkhis and finding new picnic spots, riding on the motorbike with no destination in mind.
It is only when on one night, whilst playing a dumb video game together, sitting on the floor with Yuri's head on his lap and the sofa as his backrest, does Beka think about it.
And Yuri beats him to it again.
Thrusting a set of keys into his face to distract him from the TV, Yuri cheekily looked up, "Babe, we are so much more than that. And you know it."
And his Beka, bent down to softly bump his forehead with his, holding the keys to his - their - apartment close, understanding perfectly as always.