Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

It was unusually quiet in the home.

All the other kids had been shoved off to school, but Yuri remained. He was thankful, since he hated sitting in class, hated the chatter of the other kids, and hated that no one bothered to get his name down. At least by staying here, Yuri could have the room he shared with three other boys to himself, jack Kostya’s sleek blue headphones (which Yuri was pretty sure were stolen in the first place), and play with the stray cat that liked taking naps under the bushes bordering the home.  

But now Yuri heard voices downstairs. He squatted behind the stairs’ banister, scowling between the polished wooden bars as he strained to hear the conversation going on in the kitchen.

There was Yakov’s voice, coupled with the response of another man. Yuri narrowed his eyes at the latter, knowing he was the reason that Yuri didn’t have to go to school that day. As much as he was enjoying the free time, the man would remain thankless in Yuri’s book.

“Well, like I’ve been saying, it’ll be a good experience for both of you.” Yakov let out a rough scoff. “Maybe you’ll finally grow up now that you’ll have to take care of someone else, Vitya.”

A laugh burst at Yakov’s words, and Yuri gritted his teeth at the carefree sound of it. “Are you sure I’m the one that needs to grow up? Wasn’t Yuri biting people’s arms the last time I was here?” The man didn’t sound bitter about it. In fact, his tone was almost fond over Yuri’s violent habits.

“I’ve got him to stop that, trust me,” Yakov said. He was dreaming though if he seriously thought any of his stern talking-tos were actually effective on Yuri. His intimidating gaze and loud, rough voice might keep the other kids in line, but not Yuri.

Yuri gripped the wooden bars with dirty hands, soil under his fingernails. In between playing with the stray cat, he’d been digging out flowers from a little corner in the garden that no one else in the home was allowed to touch.

“I’ll still bite you!” he declared loudly. “Make no mistake about that!”

The conversation in the kitchen halted, and shadows spilled onto the narrow entrance hall. Yakov’s form followed them, as did the other man’s. Their expressions were stark opposites, with Yakov scowling and the man smiling wide. Yuri wanted to beat its stupid, fake look off his face.

“Yura~!” the man called. “It’s been a few years! Do you remember me?”

Yuri honestly didn’t, but Yakov had given him a refresher the day before.

Viktor Nikiforov. He’d grown up in this very home until he was eighteen. Instead of using his emancipation to go wherever he wanted, he stayed in St. Petersburg, earned himself a living, and was a regular donor to the home. And now, it looked like he was looking to start a family, and adopt from the same institution he’d grown up in.

Starting today, he was supposed to be Yuri’s father.

In response to Viktor’s question, Yuri stuck out his tongue. “I’m not leaving with you! I told Yakov a thousand times! I don’t care how you think we’re gonna bond over being orphans or whatever bullshit, I’m nothing like you!” Viktor had been put on Yakov’s doorstep when he was but a few months old. He was never wanted in the first place. But Yuri was different from him and all the other kids -- he knew what real familial love was, knew what being bonded to flesh and blood was, and he even had many vivid memories of his childhood that were happy and bright.

Yuri was nothing like them.

“ Yuri-- ”

“Don’t be that way, Yuri. We’re going to have lots of fun together,” Viktor insisted. He rounded to the staircase, taking a few steps up to approach him. “Do you need help packing?”

Yuri shot to his feet, bristling like a stray cat. “Get it through your skull that I’m NOT going with you, you weirdo!” He had a plan; just make it through the next few years in the foster system until he could declare himself an independent, and then get the hell out of St. Petersburg. It was a flawless plan since no one really adopted kids over ten years old. Families were always looking for rosy-cheeked babies and children, not teenagers with permanent scowls on their faces that bit people and always covered in dirt.

But then Viktor came.

Yuri stomped his foot. “Even if you adopt me now, I’m just gonna make your life hell until you dump me back here. So let’s just skip to the end already!” He went down the stairs, shoving past Viktor and ignoring Yakov’s shouts in favor of slamming the back door closed.

The world was finally quiet again. The air outside was soaked with soft summer sun and the breeze was light and warm. Yuri shuffled through the grass to go back to his project of digging out the chamomile dotting along the far end of the fence. Most of them were still just tiny yellow-green buds, as Yuri had been planning to grow them until he was independent, but now he knew that wasn’t going to happen. If Yuri wasn’t here to take care of the flowers, no one would give a shit to do so.

In that regard, he felt a special connection with the tiny blooms with their little white petals just starting to unfurl.

There were large bottles of sparkling water that Yuri cut in half to use the bottoms as makeshift pots to put the chamomile in. He’d had to settle for them after the indoor farmer’s market a few blocks down noticed he’d been stealing pots.

Chamomile. Energy in adversity . Yuri would’ve liked them as his one footprint in this house, like a spiteful message; no matter how he was shoved down by others, no matter how many times he’d been given up by his foster families, he was still here, thriving more than ever before. Spite like that was what gave him incentive to keep going forward in his life.

“Oh, you’re a gardener?” Viktor suddenly appeared. Ignoring Yuri’s irritated groan, he squatted down, examining the chamomile. “Yakov told me you had a thing for flowers, but I didn’t know you had a green thumb. How surprising!”

“Get away from me, old man.” Yuri wished he had a bouquet of yellow carnations to stuff Viktor’s face with. It would satisfy Yuri, but he knew the message would be completely lost on Viktor -- disdain .

But yellow carnations or no, Viktor was ignoring Yuri’s harsh, unyielding aura. He tilted his head curiously. “Why are you collecting them? If you plan to stay here, then why not leave them alone?”

“Because Yakov is gonna make me leave with you.”

The flippant shine in Viktor’s eyes waned, leaving him with a contemplative expression. “Then, could it be that you were planning to make a run for it?”

Yuri settled the last bundle of chamomile -- roots and all -- into a bottle and shot Viktor a glare. He tossed the leftover flecks of soil sticking to his fingers at Viktor’s face, grinning in satisfaction when Viktor sputtered out dirt and rubbed his eyes. Yuri expected him to leave, maybe curse what a brat he was, but instead a tight laugh bubbled from Viktor’s lips.

“That,” he said, “is not nice, Yura.”

“You’re wasting your fucking time if you think I’m ever gonna be ‘nice’ .”

Viktor studied him a moment, then glanced down at the messy collection of chamomile in the bottles. “I know you don’t like me,” he said, reaching a finger out for one of the buds. Yuri moved it away. “But I really want to make this work. I don’t want you out of any obligation or to feel good about myself, believe it or not.”

Refusing to listen to the gentle words reaching for him, Yuri got up, taking his flowers with him.

Viktor didn’t follow him, but he did call out, “Yakov didn’t tell you, did he?”

“Tell me what?” Yuri replied dryly, still walking.

“I own a flower shop. I’m a florist.”

Yuri’s hand paused over the doorknob, his chamomile precariously balanced in his arms. He looked back over at Viktor, who stood now and was staring back at him with hands in his pockets. He was smiling.

“Want to come and see my shop?”

For years, Yuri had only really loitered outside of flower shops. There weren’t many nearby as it was, and Yuri didn’t want to become a familiar face -- especially since he had tendencies to stuff the inside of his jacket with flowers from the outside displays. So he’d never been inside one, even when he kept staring into the glass, picturing what it would be like if he was shopping with his mother. What flowers would she get? What would Yuri pick out to brighten his grandpa’s room? But among the many daisies and sunflowers, there were never any purple coneflowers -- strength and health .

Yuri shoved the door open, startling the overflowing soil in the bottles.

“Gimmie a second.”

Yuri hadn’t been expecting much of anything from Viktor’s shop. If anything, he planned to snatch some petunias -- anger , they were a favorite of Yuri’s -- if Viktor had some then call it a day and head back to Yakov’s. Or maybe while Viktor’s back was turned, he would just bolt out the door right then and there.

The flower shop -- Moroz Tsvetok , read the cursive print on the window -- was located right at the edge of the busier part of the city, next to the river and a park. Beautiful scenary. Plenty of people. Yuri would be out of Viktor’s sights quickly if he ran away.

Yuri was just in the middle of fantasizing living under the bridges when Viktor opened the shop’s door. Silvery chimes twinkled in the sunlight, greeting them with a melodic sound that didn’t rattle Yuri’s ears unpleasantly like most noises.

The scent of soil and perfumes of flowers met them right away. Viktor stepped cautiously in front of the door as if anticipating Yuri’s escape plan. It wasn’t a baseless guard for him to have, but he needn’t have bothered -- Yuri was already trailing through the short aisles, looking around and inhaling all the familiar, refreshing scents of the flowers.

Hanging from above, sitting in rows on the shelves, standing up tall to Yuri’s thighs from their pots on the floor -- the flowers were everywhere in delicate explosions and beautiful sample arrangements. Yuri gave the latter closer scrutiny, scoffing lightly at Viktor’s ignorance in putting flowers with contradicting or malicious meanings in the same bouquets.

“It’s a bit small, I know,” Viktor said, keeping a few steps behind Yuri, “but my work spills into my apartment too, to be honest. So if you like the flowers, you’ll probably end up having some as roommates.” When Yuri glanced back at him in confusion, Viktor pointed to the ceiling. “The shop is two stories. I live on the second floor. There’s two bedrooms though, so don’t worry about not having your own space.”

He didn’t offer to take Yuri upstairs, not that Yuri would’ve agreed to anyway. Viktor caught on quick to how he operated. The man was stupid -- but smart too.

Yuri sat down on the floor in front of a bouquet of sunflowers, getting lost in their large, dark centers. Eventually he took out his phone and snapped a picture of them. He turned and took a close-up photo of an orchid.

“Do you plant and grow all these yourself?” It was half curiosity, half hope; Yuri had always wanted to stand in a greenhouse, or at least have a garden all for his own.

Viktor looked discouraged, rubbing the back of his neck. “Well, I tend to what I can, but mostly I go over to the flower market once a week -- more, depending if there’s events going on -- and pick up everything I need.” His eyes lit up again as he clapped his hands together with the coming of what he believed was a brilliant idea. “I know! When I go there on Sunday morning, you should come with me, Yura!”

“Haah?” Sunday was in four days. There was no place for Yuri to go in that timespan; he actually planned to be out of Viktor’s sight by today . Four days was out of the question.

But… Ignorning Viktor himself, the shop was beautiful and cozy. The scents prompted Yuri to lay down and wrap himself up in them, like a seed being tenderly buried into the soil, into the safe, warm darkness. Yuri hadn’t been in an atmosphere like this in years. It’d been far too long since he could feel his ever-present frown slowly ease from his brow.

While Yuri was thinking, Viktor went back to the door and lit up the pink neon sign declaring that the shop was open. He disappeared behind a door on the other side of the counter then. Yuri tracked all of his movements with wary eyes.

When Viktor came back, he was holding a metal watering can. Childish paintings of nonsense flowers decorated it, matching the stupid smile on Viktor’s face.

“Want to help me water the flowers~?”

Yuri narrowed his eyes at Viktor. Yeah, he definitely wanted to beat that fucking smile off his face. But Viktor was undeterred, and only nudged the cool spout of the can against Yuri’s cheek again and again until Yuri finally growled at him and snatched the can out of his hands.

As Yuri got to his feet and started to sprinkle water onto the blooms, decorating them in shiny dews, Viktor hummed happily and started tending to the steady trickle of customers entering the shop.

His chamomile that he brought with him were put in proper pots and sheltered upstairs in the second room of Viktor’s apartment. Just like he said, the room was empty save for a bare bed and some pots of flowers soaking in the sun next to the window.

In all his years of having foster siblings and rooming with the other orphan boys, these flowers were the only roommates Yuri didn’t mind having.

The bad news was that Viktor was the shittiest cook on the face of the earth.

He tried to surprise Yuri with a homemade dinner, but it only ended up in a pan of meat catching fire and smothering the scent of flowers with disgusting smoke. It took nearly an hour to get the stench out, even with the open windows and the fans going, and by then, Yuri was ready to stomp out the door.

“Oh my god , how the fuck are you fit to be a parent when you can burn the whole damn apartment down? Does Yakov know you’re a health hazard? What if you killed us, you fucking--”

“OKAY, new plan! I’ll take you out to get whatever you want to eat. Take-out or restaurant, whatever you want.” Viktor said it all in a great rush to bottle up Yuri’s rant -- and no doubt threats. He managed to keep a smile on though, so he didn’t seem too bothered. As a matter of fact, he was as self-assured and confident as ever, declaring, “And for your information, I am a delightful parent. You’ll see, Yura.”

“Uh-huh. I’m keeping a list, old man,” Yuri said, pulling out his beat-up phone and pulling up a notes app. “Also, no restaurants. I hate people.”

Viktor nodded, leading the pair of them back to his truck for a trip to the nearest take-out place. Yuri relished in his widening eyes when they came up to the window and Yuri listed off everything that he wanted without the slightest bit of hesitation.

Despite that setback, Viktor managed to keep Yuri content until Sunday by supplying him whatever food he wanted. Yuri was used to bouncing between families that didn’t want to feed their bratty foster child as punishment, and he would have to fight off the other kids at the orphanage that would try to steal his food. So when it came down to it, when Yuri was presented the chance to eat something, he stocked up as much as he could.

Viktor seemed to remember what that was like. So even though it was a blow to his wallet, he ordered whatever Yuri wanted, only laughing at his sizable appetite.

“Well, this gives me motivation to get better at cooking, if anything,” he said with a carefree shrug.

“You’re assuming I’m gonna stick around to be your guinea pig,” Yuri muttered into his bowl of pasta that he was practically inhaling.

Viktor only laughed and reached out with a napkin to wipe the dripping sauce off of Yuri’s cheeks. “Oh, but it’ll be such fun family bonding!”

“Ugh, get the hell off me, you balding freak!”

Viktor also kept Yuri busy by teaching him how to do flower arrangements. There was a lot that Yuri knew about flowers, but making presentable and lavish bouquets wasn’t one of them. Viktor was an enthusiastic teacher though, clapping energetically when Yuri so much was cut ribbon, and never failing to give a heart-shaped smile even when giving criticism.

“If you arrange it like that, Yura, you’ll never see the baby’s breath!”

“What are you doing leaving the saffron out? No matter how ridiculous the customer’s taste, you gotta give them what they want, you know~”

“Oh no, this won’t do, all the flowers will fall apart like this, silly Yura!”

Yuri vividly pictured the gathering of flower stems to be Viktor’s neck as he pulled the yellow satin ribbon tighter.

Sunday finally came.

Early in the morning -- the sun wasn’t even up yet -- Viktor coaxed Yuri out of bed with the sweet scents of donuts and almond milk, and dragged him to his truck. Yuri stuffed his cheeks with the soft, warm bread, letting the sugar wake him up.

With the empty, early-morning streets, it took no time at all for them to reach the flower market. Chugging the rest of the almond milk, Yuri wiped his mouth and put a glazed donut in each of his jacket pockets.

As soon as he exited the car, Viktor shoved some metal buckets into his arms, the insides still slightly wet from a wash. He had some of his own as well. Viktor held the door open for Yuri in a dramatic flourish, and Yuri rolled his eyes.

Inside the market, flowers were bursting at every corner, bundled inside and around makeshift stalls riddled with price signs and tags readint the names of the blooms. Puddles of water dotted the concrete floor, reflecting the images of the pristine flowers. At each stall they passed, not a petal was out of place. Yuri couldn’t help but be amazed none were knocked over and trampled with the buzzing activity of the people purchasing flowers.

Viktor directed them down the aisles at a decisive pace, waving hello to the vendors that he knew -- which, it turned out, was everyone.

Every so often, Viktor would come to abrupt stop and start browsing over a collection of lilies or carnations, and Yuri would subsequently knock right into him. It happened enough that he hit his bucket (now full of white and pink roses that Viktor had bought) against Viktor’s leg and stomped off. The flower market was huge, and Yuri wanted to explore more of it since he’d never seen such a large gathering of different flowers before.

Further down the aisle he left Viktor in, the delicate flutter of crimson caught Yuri’s eye. He slowed his steps, earning him impatient breaths from the other patrons behind him, but he couldn’t even summon care to glare at them. All that entered his field of vision were the poppies.

Poppies. Fantastic extravagence . Normally Yuri would have nothing to do with flowers like those. For some odd reason though, his mother had loved them. He had chalked it up to the flashy lifestyle she lived behind screens and cameras and microphones, lights dancing endlessly in her hair and eyes. No fan ever sent them to her, but she’d get a dreamy look in her eyes whenever she saw fields of poppies.

“ They just make you want to lay in them forever ,” she had said, her voice breathless and faraway. It was only fitting that later on Yuri would learn what else poppies were associated with.

Yuri reached a hand out, plucking a tissue-paper bloom up to hide in one of the buckets.

His wrist was seized. Yuri looked up.

The man -- who couldn’t have been much older than Yuri -- had a strong, unyielding grip, but there was no malicious intent behind it. The same could be said for the look in his dark eyes keeping Yuri in place.

“If you’d like some poppies,” he said, voice low and rich, “I’d be happy to sell them to you.”

Yuri had already dropped the poppy into his bucket. He yanked his hand back, the scowl returning to his face. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

The vendor’s expression didn’t change. He crossed his arms under his chest, his forearms tanned and toned, no doubt from the fieldwork he did tending to all the flowers he sold. Yuri took another glance at them, past the poppies -- and saw nothing else but tulips. Spring pink, soft reds, streaked with yellow -- all manner of sleek tulips with their petals reaching up for the ceiling.

“I was watching you coming down the aisle. I saw you stare at my flowers.” I know you stole one , was the unspoken line after those statements.

Yuri’s chest constricted at the straightforward way the man spoke, and his stomach dropped at the mention of being watched so closely. It was a busy market -- when people weren’t catching your attention, it was flowers. But the man had singled him out and watched Yuri weave through all of it.

“Tulips,” was all Yuri said. “Why do you have so many?”

“You don’t like them?”

Yuri snorted. Tulips generally sent a message of declaration of love . Striped ones meant you have  beautiful eyes . Sweet, loving confessions like that put tulips right up there with roses in Yuri’s least favorite flowers.

The vendor hummed, tilting his head as he assessed Yuri.

The poppy was starting to become not worth it. Yuri was about to fish it out of his bucket when Viktor clapped a hand down on his shoulder and leaned into him.

“Yuri, there you are! You shouldn’t just storm off like that and cause trouble! Papa was worried, you know?”

Yuri shoved him off with a snarl. “Ugh, don’t call yourself that! You’re so disgusting!”

“Don’t mind him, this is how he always shows his love.” Viktor turned to the vendor, still trapping Yuri in his embrace. “Otabek, little Yura didn’t give you any trouble did he?”

Yuri bore his gaze at the vendor, this Otabek . They met on such terrible terms, and neither of them knew the other. There was no reason for him to not rat Yuri out, but Yuri was prepared to chuck the poppy right at Otabek’s face and drag Viktor away. He had enough of the market now.

To his shock, Otabek shook his head. “I saw a new face in the market, so I thought it prudent to introduce ourselves,” he said. He reached over to the bundles of tulips crowning his stall, and plucked a single striped one from the bunch. It was small and yellow, with red stripes bleeding onto it, as if it were a flame held in Otabek’s palm.

Yuri stared at it, utterly paralyzed, ignoring Viktor’s scandalized, “ Oh my! ”

“What the fuck is this?” My eyes aren’t beautiful .

Without wavering, Otabek continued to hold the flower out. “I call it a tulip. As well as an offer of friendship.”

Friends don’t give each other striped tulips . But of course Otabek didn’t know the significance of the flower. There weren’t a lot of flower farmers or florists or brides that knew about the language of flowers, much less cared about it. Mixed messages were unknowingly sent all the time between people.

“Yuri, don’t be rude to your first friend,” Viktor said.

“He is not,” Yuri met Otabek’s eyes, “my friend.”

Without any indication he was taking this blatant rejection to heart, Otabek dropped the fiery tulip into Yuri’s bucket. “Don’t worry about the poppy either. I know you’ll pay me back one day.” With that, he closed off all interest and interaction, going to attend to another customer.

Something in Yuri’s chest felt like it was dropped into the bucket too with a wet splat.

He was quiet for the rest of his and Viktor’s time in the flower market.

When they left, Yuri refused to glance back at Otabek’s stall.

When they got back to Moroz Tsvetok, Viktor put him straight to work with assisting him in making flower arrangements for the wedding that afternoon. It kept Yuri’s mind busy and gave his hands something to do as he mentally scoffed at any bride who wanted white clusters of candytuft, indifference , to decorate her wedding.

But after they’d dropped off the flowers at the wedding venue and closed the shop, and Viktor was busying himself attempting to bake them a casserole in the kitchen, Yuri went to his room to stare at the flowers on his bed -- a poppy he had stolen and a tulip he’d been given.

Yuri picked the latter up, twirling the stem between his thumb and index finger. His gaze traced the bold colors of the petals, contemplating if he should just pluck them off one by one. Maybe he should just toss it in the wastebasket in the bathroom, or chuck it out the window.

An offer of friendship to your local flower thief. Otabek sure was a weird guy.

Yuri glanced at the poppy, the one Otabek had so surely declared that Yuri would pay him back for. Well, Yuri didn’t have a single ruble to his name so Otabek was shit out of luck there. But the longer Yuri thought of the certainty in Otabek’s eyes when he’d handed him the tulip, the more Yuri itched to think of something to have in his hands the next time he went to the flower market with Viktor.

The next time?

Going somewhere with Viktor ?

Going to see Otabek ?

What the hell was wrong with Yuri that he was suddenly bothering to remember names and make plans to see people again?

I need a sign that this is an absolutely bad idea and that I should go back to my original plan of running away and getting the fuck out of St. Petersburg. Come at me, whatever God is there! Hit me with something!

There was nothing.

Yuri sighed, tossing the tulip to the floor and flopping on the bed. Why the fuck was his life so damn complicated? All he wanted to do in his life was be left alone and never speak to another human being again while being surrounded by his garden of chamomile.

Slowly, the smell of smoke permeated the air. It was followed by the shrill beep of the alarm in the kitchen.

“Yura~! Dinner is ready~!”

Yuri wondered if that was the sign.

He stayed with Viktor anyway. Shitty homecooked food that didn’t hold a candle to his grandfather’s in the past, loud and energetic voice, always smiling, never snapping at Yuri, being way too goddamn physical with his hugs and clingy limbs around Yuri -- despite every single annoying part of Viktor, Yuri didn’t hightail it to live under a bridge while he had the chance.

Yuri told himself it was out of spite, like everything else he did. He was going to be Viktor’s charity case out of spite. He was going to deal with chatty customers that hated his scowl all day out of spite. He was going to see the tulip-obsessed Otabek again out of

pure,

organic,

salty

SPITE.

Because Yuri Plisetsky did not let anyone else have the last word. Because Yuri Plisetsky did not go down without a fight. Because no one called his eyes beautiful and got away with it!

For the next week, he pondered over what it was he wanted to bring with him to the flower market on Sunday. When he finally figured it out, he browsed through Viktor’s shelves of flowers. As he expected, Viktor didn’t have the blooms he was looking for. Figured. He ended up spending an afternoon borrowing Viktor’s rusting bike and going around the parks and neighborhoods to find what he was looking for.

(The only reason he was even allowed out was because he left all his belongings at Viktor’s as a show that he would, indeed, come the fuck back and wasn’t running away.)

When it was time to head back to the flower market, Viktor noticed the puffy yellow flowers peeking out between the open part of Yuri’s jacket zipper.

“What are those for?”

“None of your business, old man.”

Undeterred, Viktor raised his eyebrows, a playful grin on his face. “Ohhh, I see! Could it be that those are a present for a certain someone?”

Yuri’s cheeks heated up, and he was grateful for his hair and hood that mostly hid his face. “No! Why would they? I mean, I said it’s none of your business! Wipe that stupid look off your face!”

To his horror, Viktor seemed to be wiping actual tears from the corners of his eyes. “Oh, Yura, I’m so happy~ You’re making a friend! Although you could’ve chosen a flashier flower -- oh, but it makes you look so much more innocent and sweet by picking flowers~”

They entered the market just as Yuri made a distressed screeching sound. It was early in the morning, and the nearby patrons looked up with frowns at the noise he was making. Yuri paid them no mind because Viktor just mocked the well-thought message Yuri was prepared to give Otabek. It was NOT innocent! It was NOT sweet!

Viktor started to sniff. “I just wonder when you’re planning to give your dear papa a gift too. I want to be looooved.”

“Will you shut up and start shopping already?” Yuri followed Viktor along as they started a purchase for the several weddings booked for that week.

Yuri was antsy, tapping his feet and shuffling the buckets around as Viktor gathered up the flowers. He kept looking around, his gaze unfocused on all the flowers and people around him.

Viktor noticed, and nudged him away after piling short-stemmed sunflowers into Yuri’s bucket. “Why don’t you go see your friend now? I’ll meet you over there when I need the tulips.”

For once, Yuri didn’t argue; there was no way that Yuri wanted him as a witness to mistake the meaning of this gesture. He drew his hood further up and trudged through the flower-bursting stalls.

Finding Otabek’s was easy. All Yuri had to look out for were the dizzying reds of poppies and colorful sunset spill of tulips. Yuri waited until Otabek was done handing off a bouquet to a customer before slamming his own bundle of flowers down on the wooden counter.

Otabek didn’t so much as jump at Yuri’s aggressive declaration of his presence. He stared down at the flowers, then plucked one up.

“Tansy,” he said. “There’s still some soil on the stems. Did you go through some trouble for these?”

Yuri wanted to tell him not to get the wrong idea, that this wasn’t the message he was sending like some smitten fool. But if Otabek didn’t understand, then fine. If he did, then all the better. Yuri’s flowers would speak for him either way.

Tansy. Resistance. I declare against you .

By the time Viktor came over, Yuri was walking away with a satisfied huff and Otabek was gathering the shitty bouquet of tansies off his counter.

Yuri did not expect a response. Part of him didn’t even want one. But, if he were honest, the other part waited impatiently. For what, he didn’t know.

Viktor took them to the flower market just three days later, and for the first time, he seemed agitated. It was probably because of an order’s sudden change in flowers wanted, and Viktor was sighing and muttering under his breath the entire trip.

It was supposed to be an in-and-out trip. But Yuri found himself glancing over at Otabek’s stall. To his surprise, Otabek’s gaze seemed to have already singled him out. With the nod of his head, he motioned Yuri to come over to him.

Heat crawled up the back of Yuri’s neck -- something not-quite fear, but not-quite excited. Something like the anticipation that had been thrumming through him the past few days. He sucked in a breath and made his way over, stopping a few feet away.

Otabek raised a brow. “I’m guessing that’s as close as you want to come?”

If it wasn’t for how his expression stayed neutral, Yuri could swear he was being made fun of. The only hint of playfulness though was in the dark glimmer of Otabek’s eyes.

“What do you want?”

“Hold out your hand.”

I swear to god if he gives me another fuckin’ tulip, or worse, I’m flipping over his goddamn stall . The soft, purple sprig placed on Yuri’s open palm, bushy like a cat’s tail, was not a tulip. Yuri examined it -- he knew its scientific name, but had only seen it in botanical books since it was native to North American prairies. Liatris spicata .

Yuri nearly chucked the sprig out of sight, like it burned him. The closest he got was the opposite -- clutching it to his chest as he sputtered, “You -- you gave me a fucking gayfeather ?”

“You put such effort in obtaining the tansies. I wanted to be wholehearted about finding you a flower too.” Otabek said it simply, as if he’d just performed a common curtesy.

“ Gayfeather ,” Yuri repeated. “What are you trying to say?” First the damn tulip with its flirty message, now this? Did Otabek’s stoic looks hide some wannabe player that used flowers as inappropriate come-ons?

The confused blink of Otabek’s eyes showed that this was thankfully not the case. He pointed to the sprig Yuri was holding and replied, “I will try again.” At Yuri’s stare, he continued, “Gayfeather -- I will try again . Tansy -- resistance . Striped tulip,” Otabek lifted his chin, self-assured and unwavering, “ you have beautiful eyes .”

As soon as the last word fell from his lips, straightforward and strong, Yuri’s breath left him, leaving his insides in a dizzying whirlwind like fluffy dandelion seeds dispersing through his bloodstream.

Otabek had understood. He knew exactly what Yuri had been saying with the flowers, and had prepared a response in turn. It was a bold response too. A kind one. A response of an offered hand and open eyes.

“You knew,” he finally murmured. After his mom, after his grandpa, no one had understood.

But Otabek did.

For the first time, Otabek’s features altered. His eyes grew warm, a special fondness at finding someone who understood this language, who he could allow into this singular world, and he gave a tiny smile.

“So did you,” he said. “Come back again, and I’ll have something else for you. Unless you’d like to retract that tansy, and skip to something more appropriate of two people crossing paths for the first time.”

“And what’s that?” Yuri demanded. He got closer to the stall, leaning over the buckets of tulips to slam his palms down on the counter.

“I was thinking daffodils.”

New beginnings . The last chapter of Yuri’s life had ended long ago. He never attached himself to anything or anyone afterward. That Otabek thought he could just come in and persistently try to declare Yuri to be someone he wanted to communicate with and understand everything he was saying was…

It was rather fuckin’ bold. But to have it presented this way, with flowers -- Yuri was...intrigued. In awe.

This is stupid. No one wants to be all fluffy friends with a shitty orphan boy .

“...You have daffodils?” was all he could mutter in the end, his tense muscles uncoiling. “I thought it was just these.” He touched the petals of a nearby tulip.

“Come back again and I’ll surely have one for you.”

“I don’t have a response for it.”

“That’s fine. You’ve found ways to pay me back before, Yuri.”

Yuri made a noncommital sound, then snatched another poppy at the last second he decided to leave.

“Put this on my tab while we’re at it then, Otabek.”

Chapter Text

In the first month that Yuri lived with Viktor, he got two rather jarring surprises.

First, Yuri had a brother.

“Good news, Yuri! Joyous news!” Viktor had just got off the phone with a friend, and, if possible, he was radiating more careless bliss than usual. Yuri could swear he could see Viktor emit sparkles and rose petals.

Yuri slowly raised the watering can in his hands for defense. “What is it?”

“Your dear brother Makkachin is finally being discharged from the hospital~! He’s been sick so he had to stay for observation, but he’s finally in the clear. We can go get him this afternoon~!” Viktor bounced in place, practically bouncing up and down.

Yuri gaped, dropping the watering can with a loud, metallic clang ! Yakov and Viktor had perfectly neglected to mention that Viktor already had a son . But how!? Yuri hadn’t seen anyone else’s clothes or books or belongings around the apartment except for Viktor’s. Certainly nothing that could belong to a child. There was no evidence of another human being around…

Well, Yuri learned that was because his “brother” wasn’t a human being at all.

That afternoon, they pulled up to an animal hospital. Yuri watched as Viktor placed a kennel full of toys and food and water bowls into the back of the truck. Then he helped hoist a large, excitable, and fluffy poodle into the front seats. His paws kneaded all over Yuri’s thighs, his wet nose and tongue wiping themselves all over Yuri’s face. He sniffed around until he found the pastry Yuri had stuffed into his jacket pocket.

“H-Hey there! Paws off, pooch!”

Viktor pried the energetic dog away, settling him into the middle seat. “Nah-ah-ah, Makkachin! Need I remind you how you ended up so sick in the first place?”

As if wanting to apologize for making his owner worry again, Makkachin turned to start licking all over Viktor’s face. His tail whapped against Yuri’s shoulder, stray fur clinging to his saliva-coated cheeks. Viktor laughed. Yuri scowled, wiping his face.

For all the stories Yuri had heard about brothers, Makkachin the poodle might as well be one.

“Why couldn’t you have a cat instead? They’re better. Cuter. Not so annoying .”

“Hey, be nice to your brother! Tell you what, if you can get along with Makkachin, we can find you a feline sibling too. One that does well with adorable pooches.” Viktor made sure they were all settled in before starting the truck up. The moving vehicle didn’t deter Makkachin from scrambling onto Yuri’s lap again, ignoring his shouts of protest to stick his head out the window. Whenever Yuri tried to (ineffectively) shove him off, Makkachin mistook it as Yuri asking for more doggy kisses.

“He loves you so much already!” Viktor said in delight. “How can you resist him?”

“Like I resist everyone else invading my space,” Yuri said, glaring at Makkachin in a staring contest. Makkachin was just like his owner though, and continued to rain love on Yuri throughout the rest of the ride.

The second thing happened in the middle of one slow August day. The burst of summer weddings were finally slowing down, and most other customers were merely placing orders via phone to pick up later.

Viktor was sighing. It was the tenth one in a span of fifteen minutes, and Yuri was starting to get ticked off with the sound of it. What was annoying about it, other than the frequency, was that Viktor didn’t sound tired; instead the breath he exhaled was full of wistfulness, a small, dreamy smile on his lips.

He looked like a lovesick idiot. A lovesick idiot that was making a fuckin’ mess by cutting strips of ribbon that he was doing absolutely nothing with. They curled and piled up at his feet like fallen petals.

“Haah…”

Yuri shoved at him. “Hey, why the hell do you keep sighing like that?”

Viktor put down the scissors, his mood not dampened by Yuri’s behavior. “Oh, Yuri. I was just thinking.”

“Ah, here we go,” Yuri said, bracing himself.

“About ballet.”

Yuri squinted at him. “Ballet.” He didn’t buy it.

“Do you like ballet? I think I wanted to do it when I was younger. Yakov’s ex-wife used to be the prima ballerina of the Bolshoi Ballet, so one year she invited the kids at the home to see a show in Moscow. Oh, it was so beautiful, Yuri~ The dancing, the music…”

“If there’s a point to this, I’m not following,” Yuri huffed, tossing his arms over the messy counter.

“Do you want to go see a show with me, Yuri?” Viktor said it in a great rush of inspiration, scattering all the ribbon bits in a burst like confetti. Yuri bristled as they landed on the floor and on his hood.

“I’m not cleaning that. And I’m not going to a ballet show.” He got up, ready to trudge back upstairs to the apartment. He wanted to lay down next to the flowers in the warm sunlight, maybe take a nap.

As expected, Viktor whined behind him. He reached out for Yuri’s arm but missed, and settled for toppling to the floor to cling to Yuri’s leg. “ Yuraaa , why not? It’ll be a good experience for you! Plus, I was already invited to go, and I don’t want to leave you home aloneee.”

Yuri tried to keep going, succeeding in a huff to drag them to the staircase. “Ugh, god , I told you I’m not gonna be running away!” Not for Viktor’s sake, of course, but because Yuri was starting to grow attached to the routine of making flower arrangements and tending to the blooms.

And also for the trips to the flower market.

At the staircase, Yuri finally dropped himself hopelessly onto the steps, Viktor still attached to him. “Ughhh, you’re so shameful for a grown man!”

“I work hard to get my way,” Viktor proclaimed proudly, even with his less-than-modest position. He pressed his cheek against the material of Yuri’s jeans. “Hey, you should really think about coming. There’s someone I want you to meet; he’s joining the Mariinsky Ballet and it’ll be his debut, so I’d really like us to support him.”

“Who?” Yuri asked dryly, just to get this over with.

“Why, your Papa Number Two, of course!”

Yuri lifted his head.

In the span of a month he somehow went from having no dads...to two?? Wait, more to the point…

“Viktor -- you’re gay?”

“Is that a problem?” Viktor’s tone and expression were carefully guarded. He needn’t have bothered. It wasn’t like Yuri was going to beg Yakov to take him back just so he wouldn’t have to live with a homosexual. But it was the first time Yuri had met someone who admitted their alternative sexuality -- knowing that, Yuri lowered his own walls just a little bit.

Viktor noticed. “Yura, are you like me?”

“I -- never really…” He noticed pretty girls. He noticed pretty boys. He never really had a crush before though. Not that it mattered when he never really caught anyone else’s attention before anyway.

He thought of the striped tulip still laying in his room, his stomach flipping.

Viktor didn’t chase after the obvious uncertainty in Yuri’s words. He finally let go of Yuri’s leg and joined him in sprawling out on the hard wooden stairs. He was smiling.

“His name is Yuuri too. But he’s Japanese. Yuuri Katsuki.”

“I’m not being tricked to calling him ‘papa’ just because we have the same name.” Yuri glanced to the side, tugging at the strands of hair in his face. “So are you two like, married or something?”

A hint of pink stained Viktor’s cheeks. “Aha… Marriage, wow. No, actually, we -- we’re not even going out. He has no idea how I feel about him.”

“ What ?” Yuri whirled to face him. “And you’re over here declaring weird shit like you’re already together!? What are you, like a stalker or something?”

“Yura, I’m offended that you think so little of me.” Viktor pursed his lips in a moue expression. “And for your information, I’m planning to confess to him. Soon. At the show.” He said it awkwardly, like he needed to convince himself that this was indeed his plan. His blush darkened. “I was -- going to give him a bouquet I made and everything…”

“Romantic,” Yuri scoffed.

“Right!? It’ll be romantic, right!? He’ll surely fall to my charms, don’t you think?”

Ah, there was that airheaded narcissist. Yuri had wondered where he’d been hiding. He wriggled to get more comfortable on the stairs’ sharp edges. “What kind of flowers were you going to put into the bouquet?”

“I was just thinking red roses and--”

“Ugh.”

Viktor scowled. “What?”

“Red roses are disgusting. And a cliche.”

“They’re a classic ,” Viktor defended. “Besides, he’ll be dancing as the Rose in Le Spectre de la Rose , so I thought it’d be symbolic, you know?”

“That’s even more cliche. He’ll think you didn’t put any thought into it.”

Viktor didn’t seem to have a counterargument to that. He opened his mouth, then closed it, the truth of Yuri’s words settling into his eyes. Well, he was a florist. Deep down, he had to mentally cringe at red roses too.

“Well, what would you use?” Viktor asked, crossing his arms. “I see you scowling at the arrangements a lot, like the flowers people are choosing are some mistake. And I know it’s not because they’re demanding out-of-season flowers. So tell me, O Great Florist, what would you put in a bouquet you’d give to someone you wanted to confess to?”

Now Yuri was starting to blush. He mentally selected several flowers with sweet, sincere messages, arranging them in a lovely burst of petals, tying them with shining satin, presenting them to a person that would never exist for Yuri...

He got up from the staircase, cracking his back as he ascended up to the apartment.

“Hell if I know.”

Yuri had been taught that the language of flowers was a beautiful secret shared between friends and lovers. Without speaking a single word, two people could communicate all sorts of messages of love and well-wishes through well-chosen flowers.

Red roses for love . Heliotrope for devoted affection . Freesia for lasting friendship .

All very good examples for what Yuri did NOT include in his bouquet of Fuck You flowers to Otabek.

It was mid-September, and the two had been continuing their little game of exchanging flowers whenever they both happened to be in the market. Sometimes Otabek’s stall wasn’t open. Sometimes Viktor didn’t wake Yuri to take him to the market. But without fail, when they did met, one of them would have a flower ready.

And Yuri had come to find that Otabek was extremely patient and persistent. He had a positive counter for every one of Yuri’s flowers, and delivered each one without any indication that he was swayed by Yuri’s previous messages, although he was clearly acknowledging them.

Not only was Yuri running out of flowers of spite to shove into Otabek’s waiting hand, but he was running out of breath, out of resistance, out of unwillingness to not learn more about the stoic-faced flower vendor that sold blooms of love and extravagance.

So Yuri, in a last-ditch effort, stayed up all night to perfect this one last message. It wouldn’t just be one flower, oh no. He would trump Otabek once and for all with a bouquet . Nothing in their wordless back-and-forth forbade it, and Yuri wanted to pull all the stops now.

Viktor whistled low when he saw it. “That’s a rather -- interesting bouquet you’ve got there, Yura. Should I be taking notes right now?”

“These are not confession flowers. Don’t use them unless you wanna repel your twinkle-toe boyfriend forever.” Not that Yuri cared how Viktor’s love life turned out.

It was an interesting bouquet though, Viktor was right about that. A mix-matched splatter of color overflowed from Yuri’s arms, almost a childish collage of flowers -- oranges and whites, purples and yellows and reds.

Foxglove -- insincerity .

Meadowsweet -- uselessness .

Yellow carnations -- disdain .

Scarlet geranium -- stupidity .

And finally, orange lilies -- hatred .

Without ceremony, without waiting for him to finish with his customer, Yuri stuffed Otabek’s arms and view with the bouquet as soon as he stomped to his stall. For whatever reason, he was breathing heavily, as if he just climbed a mountain for this moment.

“Ha!” he exclaimed with a grin. “Try and beat that !”

Otabek pulled the bouquet back, examining each of the flowers. His eyebrows lifted up, apparently impressed with Yuri’s selection. His fingertips danced over the mass of petals, as if searching for something and the only answer he could get was via touch.

Those dark eyes finally glanced up. “You really want me to fuck off, don’t you?”

“Finally got the message, huh?” Yuri continued to grin in victory, crossing his arms.

Otabek scoffed weakly through his teeth. He put the bouquet down long enough to finish giving change to the now wide-eyed customer, sending them on their way. Then he plucked out one of the geraniums, twirling it between his fingers.

“You know, scarlet geraniums can mean comfort . But I’m guessing that wasn’t what you were going for.”

Yuri’s cheeks filled with heat. He actually hadn’t known that. It was annoying sometimes that some flowers didn’t have absolute or consistent meanings, and that some even had conflicting meanings depending on who you were talking to or what flower language dictionary you were looking at.

Like fucking scarlet geraniums.

“Well,” Yuri lowered his voice, “I mean… That is, d-don’t get the wrong idea! That is definitely, one-hundred percent, a Fuck You bouquet!”

Otabek nodded, the kind of slow, understanding nod you give to someone when you assure them that you’ll keep their secret. Yuri didn’t realize just how ineffective his flower messages to Otabek had been until this moment.

Yuri held out his bucket. “Uh -- gimmie two dozen red tulips.”

“You don’t want to just shove them in your pocket when I’m not looking?” Otabek asked, amused.

“Shut up, Viktor told me to get them. Look, I even have money.”

“What a good influence he is, raising you to be a law-abiding citizen.” The mirth continued to grow on Otabek’s face, until he was almost smiling. The changes in his expression always happened so gradually. But Yuri had literally watched flowers grow, so he was good at tracking details, and noticed every little smile blooming on Otabek’s lips.

Yuri snorted. “Yeah, aren’t you proud of me?” He stuffed his buckets with the tulips and held the money out.

Otabek shook his head. “They’re on me.”

Usually Yuri would take the offer of free stuff in a heartbeat, but he was feeling particularly stubborn that day. He tucked the money into the Fuck You bouquet. “That’s nice, but you gotta make a living, stupid.”

“You’re the one suddenly being nice. Save for the spiteful lilies and carnations, of course.” But Otabek pocketed the money.

It should’ve been the end of their interaction -- this had already gone on longer than most of their wordless exchanges -- but neither of them moved.

Otabek broke the silence. “Do you work with Viktor at his flower shop?”

Yuri started, as if genuinely surprised Otabek was continuing a conversation. “Ah, yeah.”

“Do you live with him too?”

Yuri sighed, exhausted with the mere reminder of that fact. “I kinda have to.”

“Ah, yes. Of course. Still, I never knew he had a son.”

“I am not his son, despite everything he says.” Yuri bristled. “He just decided to snatch me out of the children’s home one day. He has stupid fantasies about making a family, but trying to adopt me is a shitty first step to it.”

Something in Otabek’s eyes flickered, and Yuri knew he had zeroed in on the word “adopt”. The cogs were turning in his head, and everything about Yuri was making sense -- the prickly antisocial behavior, the eccentric taste in flowers, the permanent scowl on his face. If he wanted to ask about any of it though, he wasn’t opening his mouth. Yuri wasn’t so sure he could answer whatever questions he had anyway.

“Can I visit you?”

Yuri looked up. “What?”

“Can I visit you at Viktor’s shop? Unless there is more suitable place I could meet you.”

“For what?”

“I told you the first day we met -- I want to offer a friendship between us. I think I made it clear with the flowers I gave you that that’s what I want. Although I cannot be pretentious enough to assume how you really feel...” He glanced at the bouquet, “So perhaps I’ll ask you plainly, no flowers -- would you like to be friends, Yuri?”

Ever since that first tulip, Yuri had yet to throw out a single flower that Otabek had given him. He got as far as holding the blooms in his hand like he’d crush them, but never got further than that. His collection strewn across the floor grew each week, like the garden he always wanted.

And honestly… It had been fun . Exchanging flowers with Otabek was the most fun that he’d had in years. And really, it wasn’t like anyone else had ever been interested in being his friend before. Then again, it wasn’t like Yuri cared enough about people in the first place to keep up an interaction for so long.

He didn’t care about Otabek. He was just a random vendor, one of hundreds in St. Petersburg. With that thought, Yuri hunched his shoulders.

“No,” he said, a choked hiss escaping between his teeth.

Otabek lowered his eyes. “If that’s what your decision.” He withdrew, putting the bouquet to the side to rearrange the display of his stall. His body language and continued neutral expression were casual and unperturbed, a show of politely bowing out of Yuri’s radar instead of flat-out raising walls to ignore him.

The fact that access between them didn’t seem to be completely closed-off made Yuri hesitate to step away. He frowned, running a confused hand through his hair, and more than slightly agitated to have his refusal finally accepted without complaint.

“Hey,” he said, and waited until Otabek at least glanced at him again. “Does being friends mean you buy me food?”

Otabek gave the question honest consideration. “I don’t see why not.”

“Then… Fine. Sure.” He shrugged, trying to remain nonchalant. “We can be friends, Otabek.”

A smile played on Otabek’s lips, and he extended his hand, as he had many times in the past weeks, waiting for Yuri’s flower response. Yuri stared at his open palm, tracing the love and life lines on his skin, then slowly reached out to take his hand.

Viktor made a displeased noise when Yuri continued to laze about the shop mere minutes before the time Otabek was to show up.

“I wish you’d have let me wash that jacket of yours,” he griped, narrowing his eyes at the offensive clothing in question. “It’s so filthy since you’re always stuffing it with dirt and pollen and sugar. How does it not feel disgusting and grimy to you?” He shuddered just imagining it.

“It has character ,” Yuri said, tossing back the words Viktor had used to describe his overly-extravagant Attempt #2 flower arrangement for the Japanese Yuuri.

Viktor pursed his lips. “You should want to look your best for your playdate.”

Yuri wholly disagreed. If a heap of orange lilies hadn’t repelled Otabek away from him, he doubted his clothing choices would. Besides, Yuri liked the smell of pollen and sugar on him. He ignored Viktor’s whining by cycling through the pictures on his phone, mostly flowers, and occasionally of himself.

Viktor sighed. “I adopted a child smack-dab in the middle of his rebellious years.”

“Tried to warn you, old man.”

The chimes above the front door suddenly rang their silver melody, dancing right above Otabek’s head as he entered. He’d traded his dirt-smudged white work shirt with a casual band tee and a well-worn black leather jacket. His hair was slicked back in a light coating of gel, and the slight stubble he had earlier was shaved off. He looked immaculate compared to Yuri’s messy, overgrown hair and jacket full of character .

For a few seconds, he glanced between the aisles as a customer would, as if the flowers were the reason he was inside the shop. Then his eyes landed on Yuri leaning on the counter, both of them staring at each other with barely-hidden interest.

Otabek didn’t approach the counter, maintaining his distance as he slipped his hands into his pockets. “Ready to go?”

“Where are we going?”

“There’s a cafe my friend works at,” Otabek explained. “I thought we could get something to eat there.”

Although skeptical of not knowing exactly where they were going, Yuri was prompted to Otabek’s side at the remembered promise of food. He started shuffling past him and towards the door.

“Fine, let’s go.”

“Have a good time, my Yurochka!” Viktor exclaimed, waving enthusiastically. “Take care of my precious son, okay, Otabek? Make sure he doesn’t bite people, he has a tendency to do that!”

“I’ll return him safely before it gets dark,” Otabek promised, unfazed by Viktor’s theatrics. Yuri wished the hinges of the door were looser so he could slam it, probably knocking down the chimes. Instead he could only huff and curse,

I swear I’m gonna smother this jacket in Viktor’s face until he suffocates!!

Yuri was sure that Otabek must have a truck of some sort to be able to transport his tulips to the market each day. A truck wasn’t what he brought to pick Yuri up in though.

It was a motorbike.

“Um… What is this?” he asked, numbly accepting the sleek black helmet Otabek offered out to him.

Otabek settled himself onto the bike after securing his own helmet and slipping on some sunglasses. Yuri could see his own bewildered expression reflected in them when Otabek turned to him.

“To get in or not is your choice. But I haven’t eaten yet so I’m rather looking forward to getting to the cafe.”

After a moment of deliberation, and somewhat thrilled at the prospect of the ride, Yuri put on his helmet and hoisted a leg over the bike. The start of the bike and its first jerk of motion caught him more off guard than he anticipated. With a small yelp, he grabbed onto Otabek’s jacket.

“Make sure you hang on.”

“Got it,” Yuri said dryly into the broad plane of Otabek’s back.

The slight chilliness in the air was more apparent as it whipped past Yuri’s cheeks and through his clothes during the ride. Autumn flowers would start being in season soon. But the cold season after that was fast-approaching, which meant flowers would no longer pepper the grass. In a few weeks more, flakes of snow would vastly outweigh the colorful blooms. Yuri wondered what Otabek did with his tulips during these latter months of the year.

Otabek rode his bike smoothly, not at all reckless like Viktor’s driving. If they had the rode all to themselves and no cracks were on the road, Yuri thought he could fall asleep between the blur of the city, lulled by their constant motion and Otabek’s warm fingertips brushing his hand every so often to make sure sure he was still hanging on.

When they approached a stoplight, Yuri caught sight of their reflection in a window -- Otabek staring straight ahead, form strong and reliable, leading them forward.

He was exactly the shape and look of someone trustworthy, someone others wouldn’t be able to help but want to follow.

The last time Yuri had been to a cafe, he was about seven years old and in Moscow. The memory was still clear to him -- a small and cozy place, dark wood walls, stained-glass lamps illuminating the tea in his mother’s cup.

The cafe Otabek took them to was the exact opposite.

A red sign on the three-story building read “Biblioteka”. It was spacious, with sunshine streaming in from the windows, the light bouncing playfully along the bright walls -- all of them filled with shelves and plants, of decorative plates and framed paintings and photos.

It was already fairly busy inside -- loud, comfortable laughter between family and friends prompting Yuri closer to stick close behind Otabek for the comfort of a familiar face.

Comfort. Ha . That scarlet geranium was becoming relevant again. Yuri’s arms remembered well being full of Otabek’s waist, his hands bumping against his stomach.

Otabek led them to the second floor and sat them down next to a window, a cluster of tall, leafy plants and pots of hot-pink azaleas overflowing from the inside ledge. There were plenty of other open spots, but Yuri wondered if this was a favorite of Otabek’s because of the plants. It made Yuri feel out of sight and sheltered. He liked it too.

Almost as soon as they sat down, a girl with wavy red hair rushed over to them in a quick sway of her hips. She wore the employee uniform, but her wide smile wasn’t purely customer service-y at all.

Sure enough, she grabbed a hold of Otabek into a one-armed hug, smushing his cheek right into her chest. “ Otabek !” she exclaimed. “Oh my god, where have you been? You’ve been so scarce lately! I guess I shouldn’t be surprised, the height of flower season just ended, huh? Well,” she finally took a breath, “I’m glad to see you around again. Are Dyadya and Tetya still treating you right?”

“Mila.” Otabek nodded, easing out of her hold. “We’re all doing fine on the land.”

“Good! I know reception is awful out there, but still shoot a text every once in awhile!” The girl, Mila, finally noticed Yuri and flashed him the full brilliance of her winning smile as well. “Who’s your friend, Beks?”

“This is Yuri.”

“Nice to meet you, Yuri! I’m Mila.” She extended a hand.

Yuri just stared at it. “I was promised food.”

Undeterred, Mila flopped her hand down and gave out the menus she’d been carrying. “Well, lucky for you, we serve very delicious food. Beks will back me up on that.” She produced a pad of guest checks from her breast pocket, straightening up. “So, have you been here before or do you need time to decide?”

Otabek opened his mouth, raising a dismissive hand, when Yuri pointed at the desserts section. There had been a display of cakes they passed, and he was determined to try all of them.

“I want a mint and almond cake. And some raspberry pie. And medovnik.”

Silverware and dishes clacked in the background in the beat of stunned silence. Then, Mila laughed. “Wow, straight to sweets, huh? You sure you don’t want lunch first? We have amazing borscht with--”

“Then that too. Add it.”

At that point, Mila seemed to finally realize that Yuri was not going to be pleasant, and pursed her lips. She glanced over at Otabek, her blue eyes asking why he was hanging around such a weird brat.

“In that case, I’ll have some borscht too, and a burger, please.” He politely handed his menu back to Mila, then reached out for Yuri’s.

He snatched it out of his reach. “I’ll want something else afterward.”

Otabek released an amused breath, like he hadn’t expected any less. Mila raised a brow.

“Separate checks, or…?”

“I’ll pay for everything.”

Yuri glanced up from the edge of his menu. Viktor had started paying him a decent wage for working in the flower shop, so for the first time in years Yuri wasn’t ruble-less. He decided to let Otabek do as he wished though, and Mila didn’t question his kindness either.

“How do you know her?” Yuri asked when Mila walked off.

“It was my first time in St. Petersburg, and I was sitting in this cafe when she took an interest in me. I suppose she thought it was weird that I had all my bags and clothes with me like a homeless man.”

Another server brought over their sodas and tea, and Yuri waited until they were gone and he picked up a straw before he asked, “ Were you a homeless man?”

“In St. Petersburg, yes. But Mila got me a job with her uncle and aunt at their flower farm. I plant, grow, and sell their tulips and poppies.”

There was a lot to unpack in just those three sentences. They were perhaps the most revealing things Otabek had said about himself so far; not that either of them actually knew each other that deeply in the first place. Yuri frowned into his soda, staring at the little bubbles swirling to the top.

“So where is home?” he asked.

“Almaty. I’m from Kazakhstan.” Otabek cradled in his cup of tea, nearly engulfing it in his large hands.

“No shit? So what happened?” Carrying everything he had with him… Yuri wondered if Otabek had his motorbike back then or not. Did he just ride through the streets until he could go no further? Did he claim a freedom Yuri always wished he had -- or was it something else? In Yuri’s experience of being in the foster system, having all your belongings on you meant only one thing -- you were no longer wanted somewhere.

But Otabek’s eyes were unreadable. He was staring deeply into his cup like he might read the leaves pooled at the bottom.

Mila came by then, piling their platefuls of food onto the table. “Man,” she said when she was done placing the last cake in front of Yuri. “I really envy your metabolism, Yuri. I wish I could eat this much cake.”

“Knock yourself out, who gives a shit?”

“Yuri’s right. Your aunt keeps telling me to tell you you’re too skinny. She wants you to come over, saying she’ll make us all a feast.”

Mila’s cheeks colored. “Tetya’s always like that. But I’ll stop by soon.”

“You and Viktor should come too, Yuri.”

Baiting with food again. Otabek was getting good. But Yuri shrugged like it was a bother to even make a decision.

“Anyway, just wave me over whenever you want something else.” Mila smiled at them before disappearing behind the counter again.

Now that she was gone, Yuri pulled out his phone, positioning his food in the right light and using the flowers as a scenic background to start snapping some pictures. The desserts were like perfect sugary paintings, the creams glowing in the sunlight. He wanted to preserve the sight of such delectable food, a welcome sight from all the take-out and burned meat he’d been having with Viktor.

Otabek watched him. “Huh. So you’re one of those people that likes posting pictures of their food on Instagram.”

“Insta--what?”

“It’s an app.” Otabek pulled out his own phone -- thinner and more sleek than Yuri’s -- and showed Yuri a weirdly colorful camera icon. Clicking it opened a screen that had an endless scroll of pictures, mostly pictures of people Yuri didn’t know (though he did spot a few of Mila). “You can post pictures on it. I don’t really like social media, but Mila told me to get an Instagram and Twitter.”

“A lot of those words meant absolutely nothing to me,” Yuri said dryly. If Otabek weren’t so straightforward, Yuri might’ve thought he was being played with. He held out his phone. “And I don’t have service, anyway. No one’s paid the bill for this in years.” An older foster sibling he had once bitched about needing a new phone after the screen got cracked, and Yuri held onto the device even after being sent back to Yakov.

Otabek tentatively reached for it, and Yuri opened up his gallery to let him look through his pictures.

“So this is what you do with it then, just take pictures? They’re nice. All these flowers are lovely; the camera isn’t bad for this old phone.” His expression softened more and more with each picture he cycled through, making his eyes shimmer and the set of his jaw kinder as it relaxed. Yuri felt lightheaded just staring, but he blamed it on the steady rush of sugar as he started to bite into his pie.

Otabek raised his eyebrows. “Oh. You take selfies too.”

“Okay, I know you’re making these words up!” Yuri exclaimed with a somewhat self-conscious laugh.

Otabek glanced up at the sound of it. He was smiling. “I wouldn’t make you suffer needlessly over modern vocabulary just because of your aversion to online social networking.”

Yuri made a displeased sound around a forkful of sweets. “More like I was always too busy being bounced between foster homes to have time to get what other people were into.”

At those words, Otabek lowered Yuri’s phone, giving him his full attention with a curious stare. Yuri gave him a moment to gather his thoughts and nerve. But when Otabek only remained frustratingly quiet, the seam of his lips practically bursting with questions, Yuri sighed.

“I’ve been in the system since I was eight. Yes, I still remember my family. No, I will not tell you what happened to them.” Yuri ran a hand through his hair. “I was hoping when I was old enough to be emancipated, I could build my own life at last, you know? Do whatever the hell I wanted. Live under a bed of lilies, for all I wanted. But -- Viktor adopted me. I keep waiting for him to take me back, but…”

“You like it with him?”

“That’s… I don’t know. I don’t like him . But -- I like Moroz Tsvetok. I like being around flowers all the time. They…remind me of my family. My actual family. My biological mom was how I learned the language of flowers.” It didn’t feel like a particularly vulnerable thing to admit, not when Otabek had such a love for the same thing.

Otabek seemed to sense his question. “Mila’s aunt taught me. I learned fast, because it’s how I enjoy communicating with my family in Almaty.”

They got quiet, the weight of their personal words hovering between them; a single conversation in a cafe revealing more than weeks of sending each other flowers had. Yuri’s lungs felt empty like he’d run a marathon, and he quickly swallowed more cake than air to fill the empty space.

Music played softly overhead in the cafe. At first just stray wisps danced around Yuri’s head. But then the voice hit his ear, and the words played in his mind. A song he knew. A song he’d seen performed in person and behind TV screens and on the radio. When he was just a child, surrounded by fluffy pillows and stuffed animals, he'd snuggle up in bed and ask for a song like this to be sung just for him, like a lullaby.

The singing voice of his mother was playing all around them.

Suddenly Yuri could hear nothing else. The cake felt heavy on Yuri’s tongue, the cream flavorless. He forced himself to swallow, then put down his fork.

“I want to leave.”

Otabek looked surprised, his eyes searching for the cause of Yuri's sudden shift in mood. He seemed to chalk it up to the direction their conversation had gone, and guilt tugged down at the corners of his lips. In the end though, he didn’t press Yuri for answers. He waved Mila over and asked for some to-go boxes and the check.

The rumbling of Otabek’s motorbike zipping down the street did nothing to erase the sound of Anfisa Plisetskaya’s voice at the back of Yuri’s mind.

The next week, Viktor got Yuri a new phone and added him into his phone plan. He helped him transfer all his pictures, and three numbers were added into his contacts right away: the flower shop’s, Viktor’s number...and Otabek’s.

Otabek’s was put in the same day he showed Yuri how to install Instagram, at Yuri's insistence that he wanted to see the big deal about such a simple app. The first photo he uploaded -- after no small amount of getting excited about his new best friend, filters -- was a wide view of the tulips and poppies at Otabek’s stall.

Viktor begged to know Yuri’s Instagram like it was a crime to not have it, and he “liked” all the old photos of flowers that Yuri posted. He ended up being the one to teach Yuri how to use and navigate hashtags. Yuri spent some of his free time now going through the tags for flowers, plants, and cats. He wasn’t at all surprised to discover that Viktor posted a lot of Makkachin pictures and those “selfies”.

Otabek’s profile was just as abysmal as Yuri’s. He had less than 50 posts, and whatever wasn’t a selfie with Mila that he never smiled in were tulips -- fields of them at Mila’s family’s farm, close-ups of their dewy petals…

Yuri clicked the little heart under all of them anyway. It was half a jab at Otabek, since he liked all of Yuri’s photos too. Yuri got competitive about the littlest things.

Viktor came up behind him, announcing his presence with a delighted sigh right at Yuri’s ear. Yuri made a strangled shrieking noise, his arm swinging out and narrowly missing its target.

“What the hell, you weirdo, you can’t just do shit like that!!”

“Oh Yuri,” Viktor sighed blissfully again, wholly ignoring him, “I’m so glad that you made a friend. I was really getting worried about you, you know. What would I do if I couldn’t get you out of your shell soon?”

“That is a very stupid thing to worry about.”

“No, it isn't. It's only natural to think about someone you care for," Viktor said, ruffling Yuri's hair through his hood. His eyes gained an inspired sparkle. "I've got it! We should celebrate this momentous achievement of yours! Papa Vitya will make us a delicious feast tonight! Ahh, what should I make, what should I make... Oh! And wine, we should get lots of wine!”

“I’m only sixteen, you stupid man-child.”

“Sixteen, eighteen, close enough,” Viktor said with a laugh. Yuri knew he was only joking around, and would likely just down whatever alcohol he got himself. The man was a true Russian though -- Yuri had seen him down a whole bottle of vodka and somehow managed to stand. Yuri remembered vividly though him passionately rambling away in slurred words about Yuuri Katsuki and Yuri while he cuddled Makkachin to his chest. The night ended with Viktor passing out on Yuri’s bed after a horrible attempt to sing him lullabies to sleep. Yuri had been close to making him sleep outside the shop entirely.

Right before Viktor closed his eyes though, he’d smiled, messily petting through Yuri’s hair.

“I’m sooo glad we’re a family, Yurochka. You, me, and Makkachin. I mean, I know you’re still gettin’ used to us, and I know 'm kinda a mess, but oh my god, you never ran away. You’re still here. I’m sooo happy, because you’re such a good boy. I’ll work hard to give you a loving family, okay, Yura? Okay. Mmn… I forgot what comes next in Spokoinoi Nochi. Maybe just hummin' it is okay then ...”

The memory wasn't unpleasant. Yuri remembered burying himself just a little closer to the source of heat beside him through the night.

He sighed. "Just -- take it easy on the alcohol, alright? You get one glass."

Viktor nodded, bumping his nose tenderly against Yuri's head. "Okay, you're right. I'll set a better example for my son." As Viktor turned and started tying together a bouquet, Yuri released a breath.

“Oi, old man.”

“What is it, my Yura~?”

Yuri stuffed his hands in his pockets. “Ranunculus. That’s what I’d use in a bouquet.” Their cradled twirl of countless petals made them an innocent source of whimsy and they held a bright kind of elegance that the seductive red rose could never hope to have. Not to mention their meaning was way more dramatic and expressive; it would suit whatever Viktor was trying to convey to Yuuri.

Ranunculus. You are radiant. I am dazzled by your charms .

Viktor straightened up, stunned. “Oh. Okay. Maybe hot-pink ones? It’s not as demanding to be seen as red, but not as innocent as pastel pink.”

Just like Yuuri Katsuki, I bet , Yuri found himself thinking. He shrugged. “Yeah. That’s a good choice.”

Viktor’s smile returned, full of relief and gratitude. It was strange to see, since no one had ever been grateful towards the thorny Yuri ever.

Then again, no one had ever been Yuri’s friend before either. Yuri glanced back down at his Instagram feed, looking at the photo he took two days ago of Otabek working in his stall, his expression softened from being surrounded by his favorite flowers. Or maybe it was because he was looking right past the camera, searching for Yuri’s eyes.

Yuri exhaled once more. Maybe Viktor was right. Maybe there was a cause for celebration after all.

Chapter Text

On the last week of September, Viktor blew the last of his savings for the month in getting Yuri something nice to wear for the ballet show that Yuuri Katsuki had invited them to. A simple white dress shirt with a black bowtie and slacks were draped over Yuri’s bed to be dressed in. Yuri was like a cat being forced into a bath when Viktor had to wrestle the clothing onto him -- which, of course, prompted Makkachin to join the fray when he interpreted their rowdiness as playtime.

“UGH, do I HAVE to meet your damn boyfriend!?” Yuri griped in the truck, tugging at the stiffness of the bowtie around his neck. Their formal appearances were at such odds with the beat-up condition of Viktor’s truck.

“Of course! You’ve come this far, haven’t you? Besides...” Viktor drummed his thumbs against the steering wheel, debating whether or not to finish his thought. Finally, voice softer, he said, “I already told Yuuri that I’d be bringing my son with me.”

Yuri stopped tugging at his bowtie. It was one thing for Viktor to show off to random strangers and the flower vendors at the market that he’d adopted Yuri; but it somehow felt like a different thing when Viktor willingly brought it up to a guy he was interested in.

“You shouldn’t have told him you have a kid, you fuckin’ idiot. That’s a turn-off to guys.” Yuri clicked his tongue, suddenly feeling drained.

Plenty of lonely singles adopted, only to realize how much of a hassle it was to snag a partner with a foster child. It was disgusting and shitty that kids got neglected and eventually sent back to orphanages for reasons like that, but Yuri knew by now that adults were their own brand of horrible.

Surely Viktor remembered that feeling enough to not perpetuate it himself.

...Right?

“Yuuri isn’t like that,” Viktor said with certainty. He started to smile. “He’s actually very curious about you.” He’s going to love you , his tone said.

Yuri had been given such guarantees before, but he never believed them.

An hour later they arrived at the Mariinsky Theatre.

Stepping inside was like being suddenly transitioned back into the 19th century -- history clung to the gold embellishments and architecture, as heavy as the curtains framing the ornate stage. Idle chatter and the orchestra warming up echoed in the huge hall, and Yuri tilted his head all the way back to stare up at the painted ceiling, feeling like he’d suddenly fall right into it. He’d never been to a place this fancy or so rich in history and culture before, and it honestly made him uncomfortable to be surrounded by all these people.

They had rather good seats up close to the stage, and Yuri supposed they had Yuuri Katsuki to thank for that. He sat down right beside Viktor, who donned a full-on rented suit, his platinum bangs combed neatly back behind his ear. Yuri mocked how huge his forehead looked now, to which Viktor shut him up with a napkin full of cookies he’d smuggled inside. Yuri plopped them into his mouth one-by-one as the curtains parted, the orchestra started, and the performance began.

Yuri was never particularly interested in ballet, and he’d been prepared to be bored all evening, but watching the dances on stage unexpectedly drew his attention in.

He could tell who Yuuri Katsuki was right away -- dressed in beautiful satin reds to fit his role as the Rose, and Viktor sat up straighter as soon as he appeared.

On stage, Yuuri Katsuki was graceful and poised, as a danseur should be.  Every leap and twirl under the shining lights, every dainty movement on pointed toes, every elegant rise and fall of Yuuri’s arms like delicate wings on a bird captivated Yuri. He danced as if he was birthed and bloomed on that very stage, his body and breath one with the dramatic swell of music.

Viktor had such a stupid expression throughout the performance -- eyes wide and sparkling, and the smile had never once wilted from his lips. In fact, his adoration only blossomed more once the show was over and he shot up from his seat to give vigorous applause to a bowing Yuuri. Mere seconds after that, he rushed Yuri out of his seat and dragged him backstage.

They by-passed security and other eager fans with the lamenated pass Viktor proudly showed off, and soon they were standing in front of Yuuri Katsuki’s dressing room.

“Now Yuri,” Viktor said, smoothing imaginary wrinkles on his suit jacket over, “be sure to be on your best behavior. I know that isn’t your forte, but--”

“Don’t embarrass you?” Yuri scoffed, stuffing his hands in his pockets.

Viktor looked affronted as he knocked on the door. “That’s not what I was going for.”

“Then -- don’t bite him?”

Viktor laughed, petting through Yuri’s hair. It was long enough now to be tied back, and Viktor had brushed it and pulled it back with a hair tie himself. Yuri missed the curtain of his hair over his face, and figured now since the show was over, he could take it down. He just finished shaking his hair loose when the door tentatively opened up.

Yuuri Katsuki was on the other side, still dressed in his Rose costume. Up close, Yuri could see he was doey-eyed, round-cheeked, and held his hands close to himself, like he was scared to take up too much room. It was a completely different impression than what Yuri got of him while he so confidently danced through the whole of the stage.

“V-Viktor, you came,” he said in disbelief. “Oh, but… I mean -- I invited you, so of course you did. But you didn’t have to! But you still--” Yuuri pressed his lips together, forcing himself to shut his babble down. Then, quietly, forcefully, he started over, smiling behind his hands. “I’m...really happy that you came.”

To Yuri’s surprise, Russian was what rolled off of Yuuri’s tongue. Really good Russian, actually. He supposed it made since if Yuuri had joined a Russian ballet troupe and was likely living in St. Petersburg. As expected though, Yuuri’s words were accented, and he spoke quietly as if he were afraid of mispronouncing or messing up.

Viktor stepped forward. “Of course I came, my little star~ I wouldn’t miss your performance for the world.” The bouquet of dark-pink ranunculus that he agreed upon with Yuri were in his arms, and when he presented them to Yuuri, those round cheeks turned the exact same shade as the flowers.

“For you,” Viktor explained. Realizing how obvious that was, he stammered, “For your performance. You did a beautiful job -- I mean, you were beautiful. On stage, your dance was so perfect , I couldn’t look away for a moment. You’re so-- I’m--” He struggled for words, and if the whole scene wasn’t disgustingly sweet, Yuri might’ve found amusement in Viktor’s case of tied tongue.

Man, I wanna leave. This is so lame watching Viktor confess like some highschool girl . But like it or not, Yuri remained an unwilling spectator to whatever sappy love story was blossoming here.

Yuuri took the bouquet, gazing down at the soft layers of petals, brushing his fingertips over them. Then, shyly, he brought the bouquet to his face like he meant to hide his embarrassed face behind them, and sniffed the perfume of the flowers. His smile was barely visible behind the blooms, but certainly there, just as wide and dopey and lovestruck as Viktor’s.

Oh my god, how could Viktor think he even needed to confess? This guy is obviously ga-ga over him. Why am I watching this??

“Thank you,” Yuuri said, gently cradling the bouquet against his chest.

I do wonder if he gets it though. What it is those flowers mean. What it is Viktor wants to say to him . Maybe to Yuuri, the flowers were just flowers. Maybe he was flattered by the general gesture of receiving a bouquet -- he must get dozens after his performances.

Yuri looked at his smile again.

--Or maybe, just maybe, Yuuri Katsuki did know exactly what Viktor was trying to communicate to him.

Yuuri’s adoring gaze at Viktor shifted just slightly, but it was enough for him to notice Yuri. Mortified to have had an audience the entire time, he let out a tiny yelp.

“Oh, h-hello! I don’t believe we’ve met before. I’m sorry for being rude, I’m Yuuri.” He offered his hand out, but Yuri didn’t take it.

“Yeah, I know who you are. Viktor doesn’t shut up about you.”

Viktor cut in cheerfully, as if he couldn’t have asked for a better prelude to this introduction.  He stepped to the side, nudging Yuri forward. “Yuuri, you remember me mentioning on the phone that I adopted recently?”

Yuuri blinked, then widened his eyes, obviously surprised to see a teenager rather than a small child hiding behind Viktor’s legs. “Oh. Oh ! This is your son, Yuri!” He laughed to himself at the coincidence of their names. “It’s a pleasure to meet you. Viktor’s told me so much about you.”

“Yeah? Sounds like he just likes blabbing about people in general.”

“I just like to gush,” Viktor confessed with a proud smile. “And how can I not when I’m around such adorable faces~? I feel spoiled, being surrounded by my two favorite people~”

Yuuri was definitely burying his face in the bouquet now, and Yuri had to admit that he wasn’t far from trying to suffocate himself too.

“ So how did it go? ”

“It was pretty disgusting the whole time. They just kept making stupid lovey-dovey eyes at each other and holding hands. It was creepy. Now that he’s got a boyfriend, I just know Viktor is going to be a bigger embarrassment to be with than usual.”

Otabek’s amused breath sounded against Yuri’s ear. “ While I sympathize with you having to watch Viktor Nikiforov court someone, I meant the performance. Did you like it? ”

“Oh. Right.” Yuri was laying on his bed, formal clothes shed and dumped to a heap on the floor. Too lazy to re-dress, he remained in his boxers and only slithered into his beloved soil-stained jacket for comfort. His phone had been a heavy weight in his pocket and it was only then that he realized he’d left it at home.

The first thing he’d done was pull up Otabek’s contact information and call him. Sometimes, if Yuri was bored enough, he’d call Otabek like this after Moroz Tsvetok closed and he knew Otabek was retiring from working in the Babicheva flower fields, and they’d waste the remaining daylight talking until one of them had to leave for dinner. Yuri was definitely getting good use out of having a functioning phone now, at least.

“ It was your first time at the Mariinsky, right? ” Otabek prompted after Yuri’s pause.

Yuri idly traced patterns over his bare stomach. “Yeah. I didn’t think it would be that big, honestly.” He thought of the high ceiling again, and the sound of the orchestra filling the walls. Yuri knew that the theatre was used for opera performances too -- a singing voice could definitely carry beautifully on such a stage.

Yuri’s mother hadn’t been an opera singer, but an elegant place like the Mariinsky definitely would have suited her looks and voice. He could imagine it, her standing center stage, the spotlight reflecting in her blond hair. In his head, the red velvet of the theatre seats had unfurled into an endless indoor field of poppies.

When Yuri swallowed thickly, a bitter taste was left in his mouth. The heavyness was a rock rolling down his throat and settling deep in his chest.

“ Yuri? ” Concern laced Otabek’s words from the short answers he was being given. Otabek was weird in this way, how he slowed things down when it seemed like Yuri was started to pull away from him.

“I keep thinking,” Yuri blurted, “about poppies.”

“... Did you want some? ” Otabek asked slowly, clearly confused.

“No. I want to see them.”

“ You come by stall every week and see them .” More confusion. God , for all his attentive nature and straightforwardness, Otabek was surprisingly slow on the uptake of things.

Yuri grumbled into the receiver, flipping onto his stomach. “I don’t mean your stall . I mean where you work every afternoon. The field of flowers that Mila’s family owns. I want to see those poppies.”

“ You want to see them? ”

“What are you, a parrot? About time you get it! Why do I always have to spell things out for you?” Yuri tsked. His cheeks started to burn, and he pulled his hood up like that would stop Otabek from somehow sensing his blush through the phone. “Yeah, so -- I always see you post pictures of the farm, so… Take me to see it already. Geez, making me do all the work… You should have offered first.”

Otabek hummed, and Yuri could clearly visualize his smile -- sweet and small, just teasing the corners of his lips. “ You’re right. I’ve actually been wanting to take you for a while, but I was always poor with timing.”

“So… Is that a yes or a no?”

“A definite yes.” Otabek’s tone was fond. “I’d really love to show you the flowers, Yuri .”

Yuri pressed his lips tightly together, but couldn’t contain his happy smile, and the warmth of his cheeks spread down the back of his neck. “Okay then.”

“ Okay. Shall I pick you up on Saturday? Around one maybe? ”

“That’s cool.”

“Yuuura~ Dinner’s ready!”

Yuri sighed, slowly sitting up from bed like a cat being roused from its nap. Reluctantly, he pressed his phone between his shoulder and ear as he picked up some house pants sitting in a clothes pile next to his row of steadily-growing chamomile. “Ugh, Viktor’s calling me. Pray that I don’t die from his newest kitchen disaster. Hey, I don’t suppose you know how to cook, huh, Beka?” He put his phone down long enough to swap his jacket for a shirt, and it took just that long for him to realize the nickname that had so easily rolled off his tongue.

Oh shit. Fuck -- I mean, I’ve been thinking about it, but was it so much that it just fuckin’ slipped out ? Truth be told, he’d been thinking about giving Otabek a nickname ever since he’d heard how casually Mila referred to Otabek -- but he was practically her brother; she had every right to call him whatever cutesy name she wanted. Yuri was still just a weird, angry kid. Granted, a weird, angry kid that Otabek persistently tried to be friends with for weeks. And while Yuri had never had a friend before, he was quite curious what it was like to refer to someone so familiarly.

Call it an odd fascination with how normal people interacted with each other. Otabek just happened to be the nearest (and only) person he could experiment this with.

(Viktor cried for days over Yuri continuing to refer to him so simply and formally, saying if Yuri couldn’t call him “Papa”, then at least “Vitya”, and that just was never going to happen in Yuri’s book.)

By the time he scrambled to pick up his phone again, Otabek was answering him, sounding unperturbed by the nickname Yuri had given him.

“ I’m pretty fair at it. I’ve been cooking my own meals for years, and I’ve only set off the smoke alarm once .”

“Your track record is already better than Viktor’s,” Yuri said, loud enough for Viktor to hear as he entered the tiny dining room. “Maybe I’ll live with you instead.”

Viktor frowned at this sudden attack, putting a hand to his heart. “Is that how you thank someone who poured his love for you into this delicious meal?”

Yuri glanced down at the shepherd’s pie that Viktor made. Only the outermost parts of the crust were blackened, but it otherwise looked fine. Huh. Maybe Viktor was actually improving. Yuri would save his surprise for when he took a bite though.

“ I’ll let you get to your meal then. Have a good night, Yuri. ”

“Mmn. Night, Beka.” Yeah, I definitely like saying it . He hung up without delay, tossing his phone onto the sofa before sliding into his chair.

Viktor stared at him as Yuri took his first tentative stab into the food, cutting open all the crust and watching steam rise from the corn and mashed potatoes. “So,” Viktor said, raising his eyebrows, “you’re leaving me for Otabek? Is that how it is?”

“I like him more than you,” Yuri said, mostly to antagonize Viktor than to reveal any sort of confession.

It had the opposite effect -- Viktor looked pleased. Too pleased. Yuri narrowed his eyes at him.

“What?”

“Nothing~ Just thinking how you have less thorns these days.” Viktor continued to beam at him, cupping his chin with his hand.

Yuri rolled his eyes and shoved a bite of the shepherd’s pie in his mouth without thinking about it. Most days that Viktor cooked, Yuri split his food (sacriledge, he knew) with Makkachin who always waited under the table for stray crumbs. Of course, afterward he would leave to get something at the cafe down the block. But today he was hungry enough to scrape the bowl clean even if the food tasted like shit.

Except…

The food didn’t taste like shit.

It was -- good? A little bland at first with the mashed potatoes but the crisp crust made up for it. Yuuri took another bite. And another, a little more eagerly. He knew Viktor was watching with equally eager eyes.

“Okay,” Yuri said, getting up for seconds for the first time in this apartment, “I won’t ditch you just yet.”

Viktor’s excited cheer, followed by Makkachin’s happy panting and wagging tail, made Yuri scoff in amusement.

Just as Yuri suspected, Viktor was more of a sappy, embarrassing mess now that Yuuri Katsuki had officially moved to St. Petersburg. His danseur boyfriend visited the flower shop most mornings, usually the first customer waiting right outside the door, cheeks flushed and failing to hide a smile as soon as he saw Viktor.

Every morning, Viktor greeted Yuuri with a kiss and, sometimes, by placing another dark-pink ranunculus into Yuuri’s hands -- somehow, it had become Viktor’s personal flower for Yuuri.

“I should’ve sought your advice long ago, Yura,” Viktor told him one day. “Yuuri just lights up every time I give him your flower.”

“I’m pretty sure you could give him whatever and he’d swoon,” Yuri said dryly.

“That’s not what you said a few weeks ago. You really have a way with flowers. And you know exactly what to give others when they enter this shop not even knowing what to look for. That’s why you worked so hard on those bouquets for Otabek, right?” Viktor smiled at him knowingly.

Even if Viktor wasn’t aware of Yuri using the language of flowers, he did seem to know that Yuri’s methods were founded on a certain kind of attentiveness. Not that Yuri cared about the customers particularly, but he did have a secret joy in weaving their bouquets with messages they were trying to communicate to themselves or to others.

Still, Yuri only rolled his eyes, unwilling to give Viktor the satisfaction of figuring something out about his foster child.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Speaking of Yuuri Katsuki and Otabek though, both of them were at Moroz Tsvetok at one o’clock sharp that Saturday. Yuuri had come bursting in first, breathless and apologetic, explaining to Viktor that his ballet practice had begun early that day. He must’ve really dashed over as soon as it was done -- his sports bag was unzipped, and he was still wearing his leggings. Viktor was simultaneously endeared and fretful over Yuuri’s haste to see him, and gave him a big kiss on the lips to convey both.

“Oh wow, that’s a beautiful arrangement you’re making,” Yuuri said with an awed smile, leaning over the counter to look at the tiny bouquets of periwinkle Yuri was tying together with pearly pins and baby-blue ribbons. It was for a baby shower, and Yuri thought it was too early to decorate with flowers meaning tender recollections . Perhaps it was more for the parents, who would look back at this event with fondness, this new chapter of their lives they were entering together as a new family.

To look back on the conception and birth of their child with tenderness… Yuri knew that not all parents to-be felt that way.

Yuri didn’t pause in his work. “Thanks, I guess.”

Yuuri plucked one bouquet up, softly feeling over the petals. “You’re surprisingly really handy with flowers. But Viktor told me that you already really liked them. Did you ever think about being a florist like this?”

“Not a chance. I’m more into gardening than flower arranging.” Though he supposed recently he did rather enjoy making bouquets. Viktor praised his improvement and instincts constantly with each satisfied customer.

Right on cue, Viktor sported a proud smile. “Yes, the flowers have been looking more radiant ever since Yura started taking care of them~ I think he has the magic touch.”

“Wow, really? I can’t keep anything alive. The bamboo plant I had in college died on me in a matter of days. I might have a black thumb.” Yuuri immediately set the bouquet down, as if afraid it’d suddenly wither in his hands too. “Maybe you can give me advice, Yura?”

“Yeah, I’ve got something -- don’t touch a plant ever again. And don’t call me ‘Yura’ so familiarly!”

“Ehh, you have to admit, it’s kind of confusing when the both of you are around,” Viktor said, crossing his arms.

“Not my fault we share a name. Ugh, do whatever the hell you want, I don’t even care anymore. Here, I’m done with the arrangements.” He left Viktor to neatly package the periwinkle into a tray for the customers.

Yuri was honest about never dreaming to become a florist. He didn’t like keeping flowers in freezers or seeing so many go unloved in favor of the more well-known blooms. Not to mention he couldn’t bear putting mixed messages into the bouquets or dealing with customers in general. No, the only future he had ever wanted with flowers was… Maybe something closer to Otabek’s line of work. Out in the sun, sinking his fingers into the earth, having an endless sea of flowers to be surrounded by...

The familiar rumble of a motorbike sounded outside, and Yuri untied his apron to dump under the counter. “I’m out, Viktor.”

“Oh, is that Otabek? Okay, be careful, Yura! Wear your helmet. Be nice! Oh, and text me when you get there!”

“Yeah, yeah, quit being such a nag.”

Yuuri waved at him with a hopeful smile. “Have fun, Yuri.”

Yuri glanced back and forth at the pair of them, and wondered deep in the back of his head if this was what it was like to have two parents seeing you off. He wouldn’t know, since he was usually the one who had to watch people leave out the door.

He remembered remaining regretfully behind, waving as his mother disappeared from the house.

Don’t get used to this image. Don’t get used to Yuuri Katsuki either. Viktor might’ve been an orphan too, but he’ll be the same. Sooner or later, he’ll cut you out of this peaceful life with the same shears he uses to trim the flowers .

Yuri kept that in mind and met Otabek outside with a wordless nod, and settled onto the back of his bike.

The ride to the Babicheva flower fields was a long one. Yuri’s lower half started going numb from being in the same position of straddling over the bike. The sputter of the bike and earthy smell of Otabek soothed him, and he had to fight to keep himself awake as he rested his cheek against Otabek’s back.

Eventually though, the city roads and brick builds opened up to wide fences, overgrown weeds framing the dirt paths, and farmhouses dotting fields every so often. There were workers already outside, driving tractors and bending down in their sunhats to check the progress of their plants and crops. Yuri hadn’t been around such greenery and openness since his childhood in Moscow.

When the flood of color from the flowers came into view, Yuri felt more awake than ever. He could hardly contain his excitement when Otabek turned into the farm and sped down the rows and rows flowers, kicking up dirt and stirring up the petals in his wake.

He clutched Otabek’s shirt, and the only reason he didn’t jump off was because of Otabek’s hand holding both of his.

When they finally did stop, right in between the poppies and tulips, Yuri took off his helmet and hopped off the bike immediately. His legs were shaky from both the ride and this beautiful sight, but he managed to keep himself steady as he gazed out at the endless ocean of reds and whites and yellows. He’d never seen such a large field of flowers before -- he wanted to run through them, see how far he could go until he reached the edge.

Otabek parked his bike, but didn’t come closer to Yuri. Yuri eventually sank to his knees and clutched at the soil cradling the wide sea of poppies, the life of the earth springing up his body through his fingertips. He smiled, then laid his whole body down between the flowers, enjoying the soft tickle of their petals against his body. A content sigh left his lips, like he had finally come home to his comfortable bed after a long day.

Except for Yuri, it was more like a long eight years.

The warmth of the sun clung to his hair and clothes, pollen sticking to his skin as he continued to lay there while Otabek quietly observed him, letting him have his moment to breathe everything in. Yuri closed his eyes, wondering if they could just spend the afternoon curled up asleep in the field.

“You know,” he eventually said to Otabek, “my mom loved these flowers. They were her favorite. She would make promises that after her tours, we would go to a big field of poppies and just roll around in them all day.”

Otabek didn’t move toward him, but Yuri knew he was listening.

“She was famous, you know. Anfisa Plisetskaya, the folk singer.” Whether or not Otabek did actually know of her, Yuri didn’t know, keeping his eyes closed. He never told anyone else who his mother was, too afraid that the kids would laugh at him and say he was just making up stories. A lot of orphan kids imagined what their biological family was like, weaving themselves the beginnings of their stories to have a comfort to fall back on, to have some sense of belonging somewhere.

Yuri curled into a tighter ball in the soil. “I listened to her music all the time, on TV and on the radio. When she was on tours, I stayed in Moscow with my grandfather. She was always somewhere else in the world, but she called me all the time. No matter where she was or how many times I waved bye to her, I never felt like I was being abandoned. I knew she’d come back. Without fail, she’d come back home. --Until the day she didn’t.”

Otabek shifted around, the dirt rustling under his boots. It didn’t feel like he got closer, so Yuri assumed he merely sat down where he’d been standing. Yuri’s hand inched forward toward him, like a flower bending toward the sun. It was almost an unconscious movement, since his body felt like it was withdrawing down into the earth, dragged to the darkness by the heavy weight of his heart.

Yuri slowly opened his eyes. “You know what poppies mean, right, Beka?”

“ Fantastic extravagance ,” he recited.

“Mmn. But sometimes you’ll hear of eternal sleep . Oblivion . Like in The Wizard of Oz , where Dorothy almost falls asleep in the field of poppies forever.” Yuri’s words get carried off in the early-autumn breeze, settling into the endless field like a blanket.

Yuri closed his eyes again, wondering how many poppies he’d have to smother into his face to be utterly suffocated to death by them.

His hand was still outstretched. After some minutes, he felt the callouses of Otabek’s fingertips trace over each of his knuckles, riding the bony valleys and hills back and forth, back and forth. Eventually, he rested his warm palm right on top of Yuri’s.

Yuri was too tired to pull away.

Yuri grew up surrounded by love and song and Moscow’s brilliant white sun.

But something must’ve gone wrong. He felt like despite all that nurturing, he grew to be a flower with missing petals and a weak stem, with no roots to speak of, risking being blown away by the slightest wind.

Anfisa Plisetskaya should never have kept the child. The father had conveniently disappeared somewhere in the streets of Europe when she had called him with the news during a tour.

This did not deter her dreams of singing lullabies to her child and rocking him in her arms and pressing daffodils and primroses in between the pages of a baby book. She’d pluck daises off the road and gently nudge them against her swelling belly.

She was advised to keep the pregnancy a secret. Without a father, a whole scandel could escalate and utterly ruin her career. The press would devour her. When she started showing, she retreated to her father Nikolai’s home in Moscow, where the two happily prepared for the arrival of the child.

For nearly a year, Anfisa Plisetskaya mysteriously disappeared off the face of the earth.

Despite not having a father, Yuri Nikolayevhich Plisetsky inherited his grandfather’s name, and it gave him a complete sense of family and identity, as if he had nothing missing from him at all.

“I love him already as if he were my own boy,” Nikolai said with a large smile. “I’ll love him twice as much as a father would.”

Yuri was born in secret, and for the next sixteen years, none would know of his bloodline at all save for his mother, his grandfather, the midwife, and the doctor that registered his birth certificate. In those first eight years of his life, Yuri grew up in his own little corner of the world, homeschooled by his grandfather and always surrounded by the wildflowers that popped up in the overgrown field surrounding their home.

Yuri was perfectly content with this arrangement. Even if his mother was gone often to pick up her career as a singer again, and even if he did feel lonely sometimes, he still had his grandfather who taught him all sorts of history and science and cooked delicious meals for him, and he still had the letters his mother sent. Native flowers of the countries she toured in were always pressed inside the envelopes, and she’d scrawl their meanings down.

This became how Yuri would learn the language of flowers, one by one, until he’d scour flower shops with his grandfather to send a secret message back.

Pansy. Think of me .

Forget-me-not. Always remember me .

Yuri would smile for days when he’d open letters and see the puff of a pink carnation carefully stuffed inside. I will never forget you . Sometimes, when tours or recording periods were almost over, there would be celandine in the envelopes -- joys to come .

Even now though, Yuri wished he knew what it was that prompted a purple hyacinth to be sent to him one day.

It came so suddenly.

(Or maybe not so sudden at all.

Anfisa’s songs were becoming tinged with mourning, and during concerts, her eyes searched desperately through the crowd.

Anfisa was so happy with her family, so proud of her beloved child, why was she keeping him from this big, beautiful world? Why was she stuffing him further down in the earth, never giving him room to blossom? Why could the world and his father not want to gaze upon such her child that she loved so much?)

A single purple hyacinth.

Please forgive me .

Yuri could only assume his mother was apologizing for having to leave home once more. While it was true that he sometimes felt lonely without her, it wasn’t like he was deeply hurt or unhappy. His mother was beautiful and talented, and her singing brought unbridled joy into his heart. He was proud to have a mother that had such love and power in her voice, who spread that same love throughout the world. And she always had enough just for him when she came home. There was nothing to apologize for.

But the tails of hyacinths kept coming. Insistently. Desperately. Bursting out of the envelopes with no letter to speak of. Yuri started to become reluctant to open the mailbox, too confused and scared over this plea, of not knowing how to grant his mother the forgiveness she sought so badly.

Please forgive me.

Please forgive me.

Please forgive me.

Please forgive me.

Please forgive me .

Mama , he tried to write. Dedulya  is getting sicker. Can you come home? I’m scared. I don’t know what to do. I love Dedulya so much . He didn’t want to have to lose his grandfather, because then, he really would be alone. He’d have no choice but to face the crushing emptiness of their house, of his life, of being lost without hearing another voice ever again.

He didn’t like saying goodbye anymore.

He opened another letter from the mailbox.

Another hyacinth. But this one was crowned in a deep red, of tissue-paper petals. Poppies.

For a long time, Yuri wondered why he’d been sent the poppies. It was completely random. Perhaps it was sentimental value since his mother loved them? Was it a promise that she was coming home once and for all, and that she’d take all three of them to the open poppy fields to lay in?

Yuri started having a fantasy -- that when they laid in the field, the flowers would cure his grandfather’s aging body, that they’d prompt his mother to stay, that they could happily live their days with pollen dusting their cheeks and petals tangled in their hair. A complete and reunited family, never to be separated again.

So Yuri waited.

And waited.

But Anfisa Plisetskaya never opened the door to their home again.

It was close to evening now. Yuri had eventually risen from where he laid to help Otabek with his fieldwork, the pair of them tending to the flowers with relaxation and ease. This was definitely their element, getting their hands dirty and brushing their ankles and calves between the flowers. It was entering the cooler season, but Otabek still rolled his sleeves up his toned forearms, and sweat beaded through his tight, white shirt. Occasionally, another worker would come by and help, or communicate some updates and messages to Otabek.

A slender woman with long, braided red hair approached them when the sun had reached its peak in the sky, giving them water bottles and fresh fruit snacks. Yuri knew right away that this must be Mila’s aunt.

“Oh, who is your friend, Otabek?” she said, taking a glance at Yuri. She offered him a wide, kind smile.

Otabek popped open the plastic container of cut fruit, fishing around for the blueberries. “This is Yuri. I’m showing him around the farm today, so he’s been my assistant of sorts. He’s very good, Emilia, you should consider stealing him from Viktor’s shop to work here.”

“Ah, so you ’re Vitya’s little boy he’s gushing about to the whole market!” Emilia rounded on Yuri, her soft hands holding his cheeks to get a better look at his face. “Oh, look at you, you’re so handsome! But so skinny! Isn’t Vitya feeding you right?” She clicked her tongue, continuing to poke and prod at his bony limbs, making Yuri wince and sputter.

“H-hey--!”

“I promise I’ve seen him eat enough for ten men,” Otabek supplied, smiling almost mischieviously as he pushed another blueberry past his lips. Cheeky bastard! When did he start such a playful streak?

Emilia’s eyes lit up at the proclamation. “Oh, you must stay for dinner then! I make more than enough for all my workers every day, we are like family here. So stay, stay! Tell me all about you and let me put some meat on your bones.”

Yuri wasn’t entirely sure if saying no was an option, but it was a choice completely denied to him as Emilia pulled him in for a tight hug before waving bye to both of them. Yuri stared after her, wondering what the hell just happened.

Otabek was stifling a quiet laugh behind his hand, and Yuri pointed an accusing finger at him. “Hey, don’t you dare take amusement at that torture, you asshole! You totally just threw me at her!”

“I was standing right here the whole time,” Otabek said, feigning ignorance.

“Shut up! Asshole!” Yuri swiped an orange slice from the container and tossed it right at Otabek’s face. It slapped his cheek and then fell right into the dirt.

“You don’t have to take it out on a defenseless orange, Yurochka,” Otabek said, still smiling. Laughter was still twinkling in his eyes. The sight of it coupled with the sudden use of that name had Yuri’s stomach flipping like it was trying to win gold in gymnastics.

He ended up letting Otabek off the hook.

After the two of them finished off their water bottles and fruit, Yuri decided that he’d rather get back to Moroz Tsvetok than stay for dinner with a bunch of strangers. Otabek understood, and led them to the farmhouse where he’d parked his bike.

During the walk, Yuri looked out at the flowers again. He’d spent the remaining hours of daylight deep among not only the poppies, but the tulips as well. They were beautiful, like oil paintings. Otabek had nurtured them well, even in these out-of-season months. Each one was a culmination of his attention and love, and there were thousands, a colorful physical manifestation of his devotion. It was an admirable feat, and gorgeous.

“Hey, Beka…”

Otabek tilted his head toward him to show he was listening.

“Why did you decide to just grow these flowers? Why are they the important ones to you?”

Otabek didn’t answer right away. Instead, he looked beyond Yuri to the field, then up higher to the fiery orange starting to spill over the early-evening sky.

“They remind me of home,” he eventually said. “In Kazakhstan, these flowers bloom in wild fields. Tulips are a favorite there, so you can say their image comforts me.”

So Otabek had great pride and comfort in the place he established his roots. Even Yuri could understand that. If he had the chance, he would whisk himself back to that tiny house in Moscow in a heartbeat.

Yuri glanced over at Otabek. “Do you miss Almaty?”

“All the time.”

“Then why did you leave in the first place?”

Otabek lowered his eyes, raising one shoulder in a shrug. “There were complications with my family after my parents died. My kind aunt and uncle took me and my three younger siblings in, but they already had two children of their own.” He strayed from the path to pluck a nearby striped tulip, twirling it between his finger and thumb thoughtfully. “I decided since I was the oldest, I’d leave and look for a job, one that could support me and my family in Almaty. I drove my uncle’s bike for miles and miles… Until I eventually ended up in a cafe in St. Petersburg. Well, you know the rest.”

Yuri hummed. Otabek had a duty to his family then. He could respect that. He had nothing but admiration for a man that would go so far out of his way in order to bring security and support to his loved ones. In a way, he was jealous that he didn’t have a strong sense of purpose and duty like that. There was no compass Yuri could follow that would lead him back to a place he belonged.

For a moment, his thoughts trailed to Viktor, and Yuuri Katsuki too, to their smiles and waves as they saw him off earlier that day.

Otabek approached him, and held the tulip out.

Yuri stared at it. Again with the beautiful eyes message? “We don’t give flowers to each other anymore, Beka," he reminded, but his eyes flickered back and forth from the tulip to Otabek’s eyes. They were dark. Beautiful. Like fertile soil, new flowers slumbering right beneath the surface. He was the one that needed bouquets of striped tulips, not Yuri.

The flower continued to be offered between them, just the same as the first time they met. Yuri sighed, cheeks burning from the unwavering stare, and took the damn tulip.

“God, you’re weird.”

Otabek smiled.

When Otabek stopped the bike in front of Moroz Tsvetok, Yuri was reluctant to leave. He slid his arms away from Otabek’s waist, but his limbs remained warm from their shared body heat. The striped tulip was still clutched in his hand, kept safe inside Otabek’s jacket during the ride.

He stepped in front of the bike, and Otabek stared at him.

“You should go back to Almaty,” Yuri said, firmly. “You have a freedom that I… I can’t have it.” To be able to go anywhere in the world, yet still have one home to return to . “Take advantage of it. Go see your family.” You have no idea how lonely they feel without you . Because even though Otabek was quiet and undemanding, he had that kind of warm, intense presence you would definitely miss once it was gone.

Yuri would notice if it were gone.

Otabek remained silent, but Yuri recognized the press of his lips. He wanted to say something. Maybe something he wasn’t sure was too early to say to Yuri yet. This debate went on for a handful of seconds.

Then, finally, a smile. He reached out, swiping his thumb gently over Yuri's cheek. Yuri backed away out of reflex. The pad of Otabek's thumb came back stained with pollen, and he didn't look offended that Yuri had moved away from him. 

“Tell me when you’re ready to see a genuine Kazakh tulip then, Yurochka.”

The bike started up again, and Otabek rode off. Yuri stared after him, tulip pressed against his lips, until he disappeared down the street.

Chapter Text

“Oh god,” groaned Viktor, “it’s Georgi.”

Yuri lifted his head and looked at the man walking in front of the shop’s window. He was turned away from them, looking after something beyond Yuri and Viktor’s field of vision.

“Who’s that?”

“My neediest customer,” Viktor explained with a sigh. He ran a tired hand through his hair. “I should have expected him to come by soon enough, but I don’t have a single arrangement in mind to give him. If I don’t give him something though, the poor guy will start sobbing.”

Yuri continued to stare at Georgi, who’s face lit up when a young woman caught up to him and clung to his arm, a smile on both their faces. Yuri dropped his gaze, immediately uninterested. “He doesn’t look all that choked up to me.”

The chime above the door jingled, announcing the arrival of the happy couple now lightly laughing their way into the store. The young woman that Georgi was with exclaimed in happiness at the sight of the flowers. She started to walk around, gazing at the clusters of blooms in a corner.

“Yuri!” Georgi came over to the counter, startling the teen behind it with the intensity of his sparkling eyes and flushed cheeks. “Viktor, too. There’s someone I’d love for you to meet. Please, look upon my love there -- she is called Roza.”

At the sound of her name, Roza lifted her head and waved at them, having that same colorful glow about her as Georgi. Viktor seemed just as baffled by their aura as Yuri was, if not more so, as he returned the wave.

“Uh, Georgi. Hey… You look like you’re doing, uh, well?”

“I have never been better!” Georgi declared, placing both his hands over his heart. Oh god. Could it be? Yuri was witnessing someone more dramatic than Viktor?? “Oh, Viktor, I believe with all my soul that the heartbreak that has shaken me time and again is finally being mended. Endless flowers of the sweetest fragrance have bloomed in the cracks of my heart, for a princess has come to awaken this slumbering prince!”

Viktor held up his hands. “Whoa there, who are you and what have you done with Georgi Popovich? I’ve never seen you so…”

“Radiant? In love? Walking through a fairy tale?” Georgi supplied.

“ Stupid ?” Yuri muttered.

Apparently not hearing Yuri, and honestly probably deaf to all criticism, Georgi went on,

“Love is a transforming fire, and my heart is ablaze! Today, Roza and I will be celebrating our two-month anniversary. I have the day all planned out, but first, I wanted to get some flowers for my flower. Do you have any suggestions? Since your last bouquet was the miracle-drawer that started this!”

Viktor still looked at a loss at what was going on, and he ended up nudging Yuri forward. “Well, since Yura helped you last time apparently, how about he gives it another go?”

At once, Georgi turned his sparkled gaze to him. “Would you?”

Geez, what a pain. It was such a lazy Sunday, and Yuri had thought about using the fruit Mila’s aunt had given him to make an afternoon-dessert cobbler. He was starting to get better at his own kind of cooking, thanks to Otabek and Viktor. But Yuri resigned to putting those plans on hold and shuffled from behind the counter.

Golden trumpets of Peruvian lilies tickled the tips of Roza’s hair as she leaned over to smell them. Yuri smiled; she had good taste. The lilies meant devotion . He reached around her to pick up a few, and she watched with curious eyes. On the way back to the counter, he picked up some everlasting pea, lasting pleasure , to frame the bouquet with.

With now expert hands thanks to Viktor’s detailed teaching, Yuri had the arrangement bundled and tied neatly in less than a minute.

Roza came up to the counter, smiling in greeting to both Viktor and Yuri. When Georgi handed her the bouquet in a mighty, princely flourish, she pecked Georgi’s cheek, and Yuri internally gagged. Moroz Tsvetok being a flower shop meant that he was always surrounded by lovesick couples for weddings and anniversaries; he got enough sappiness from being around Viktor and Yuuri Katsuki, thank you very much.

After paying, and a lot more gushing and thanks for Yuri, Georgi and Roza left the shop, looking even more lovey and happy than before if that was possible, the bouquet held adoringly in Roza’s hands. Yuri huffed out a sigh then started to clean the counter.

Viktor’s eyes were on him. “How come you didn’t tell me that you dealt with Georgi recently?”

Yuri shrugged. “Is he important or something? I mean, yeah, the guy was a huge mess when he came in, but I deal with you all the time. What’s the difference?” When you compared the two of them, it was hard for Yuri to say who was the most annoyingly melodramatic.

“Very funny , Yura.” Viktor suddenly grabbed him in a loose headlock. Yuri’s instincts kicked in and he hit at Viktor’s arm and snapped his jaws to bite at him. He missed. Instead of assaulting his head with a noogie though, Viktor nuzzled into him with a bunch of kisses. The man fought with affection rather than roughness, and Yuri honestly would prefer the latter.

“Ew, gross! Get off me, god!”

Viktor rocked him in his arm, humming. “You know, Georgi gets broken up with all the time. The poor man is always at his wit’s end when it comes to romance. He comes in asking me to give him bouquets that his dates will love, but in the end, he comes back in crying. Bit sad, really.” Viktor shook his head. “I’ve seriously given him every flower in this shop, yet the instant you make a bouquet, he’s in a happy relationship. You really do have the magic touch~”

“It’s no big deal,” Yuri said, growing limp in Viktor’s hold. His resistance was slowly being drained, but he was still bristling. “Let go, old man.”

Viktor ignored him. “What did you give him?”

Yuri had actually spent a while on this one. Georgi had come in just as Viktor said, crying over a break-up, but hopeful that his coming date would go over well. Obviously the typical romantic flowers wouldn’t cut it for this guy. He needed something other than love itself. He needed a little faith to get there. He didn’t need desperation, he needed some patience. Nothing grew when it was being smothered.

So Yuri had gathered stems of lily-of-the-valley, the little bell flowers ringing with the promise, return of happiness . Then he got some celandine, joys to come , to tie around the petit lilies. He remembered how surprised Georgi had been to receive a bouquet of such tiny flowers, nothing large or extravagant, or even a centerpiece flower.

“Be patient,” was all Yuri had said. “Even little flowers like this are said to promise joys to come.” Roses will come later .

“...Nothing much.”

“Your ‘nothing much’s are amounting to very great things, aren’t they, Yura?” Viktor gave him one last kiss then finally released him. “You’re a miracle worker at connecting people’s hearts.”

Yuri wasn’t so sure about that. There were few things he had finesse in, and understanding people’s hearts enough to connect with them was not one of them.

Even so... If his flower messages were actually succeeding in communicating things to others, then he was content enough with that.

Turning away from Viktor, he smiled to himself.

The second-to-last week of October brought in the first signs of colder weather, and Mila blew right into Moroz Tsvetok’s door with the autumn wind. Her short hair was sticking up every which way, and she sighed as she tried to smooth the red waves down.

“Viktor, Yuri, you both in here?”

Since Viktor was out on a delivery, only Yuri gave a disinterested grunt in answer, not even looking up from his phone after he saw who had come in.

Mila gave a huff, her heeled boots clicking on the floor as she came over to knock on the counter’s wood. “Hey, I come all the way here on my day off and you can’t even manage a ‘hello, most beautiful Mila, thank you for gracing me with your presence today’ ?”

“Not a chance, you hag,” Yuri said, swatting his hands at her.

Mila dodged, then used her longer arms to snatch up his phone. “What are you looking at?”

Even when Yuri tried to lean over the counter, Mila held his phone out of reach. His cheeks grew warm. “N-nothing really--”

“Oh? This looks like a recipe. For pirozhki? I didn’t know you were a cook, Yura.”

“It’s nothing!” he exclaimed, giving a jump that led him to retrieving his device.

“What’re you so embarrassed about? You’ll snag yourself a partner in an instant with cooking skills. Is that what it’s for? To impress a girl?”

“No!” He wasn’t going to talk about how he hadn’t had a pirozhki since his grandpa died, how much he missed the smell and taste, and how much lately he’d been missing home. Since he was cooking these days, he thought about giving the recipe a go. It probably wouldn’t taste like his grandpa’s, but he’d perfect it. “Why are you here?”

Mila propped her elbows on the counter, resting her chin in her hands. “I come for a good cause. Beks’ birthday is next week, on the thirty-first. My aunt and uncle are planning a surprise party at their place, and I want you to come.”

“A surprise party? Isn’t he a bit old for that?”

“They’re fun, Yuri. Besides, it’s usually just me and some of my family that go.” Mila offered him a smile on pink-glossed lips. “You’re like… The first friend Beks has had other than me since he’s come to St. Petersburg. Beks would love you there. All of us would.”

All the birthday parties Yuri had been to since his mother and grandfather died were not fun. Yuri would hide under the food tables and lick frosting off the birthday cakes of his foster siblings. He’d watch the other children play and squeal with laughter and he’d only rake his long bangs over his eyes and growl when his foster parents tried to coax him out. That carefree, playful world of children was not for him. Birthdays at the orphanage were abysmal at best, just another reminder that they were another year older and still no one wanted to love them.

As if being reminded of those days, Yuri’s bangs got loose from his ponytail and fluttered in front of his eyes, like a curtain to block Mila out.

“That’s pretty sad if we’re his only friends.”

“Maybe, but he won’t interact with you in the first place unless he’s interested in you. I kinda consider it flattering.” Mila giggled to herself, and Yuri thought of Otabek. He never really looked at people passing his stall, and made only polite eye-contact and interaction with customers. Otabek never mentioned other friends, despite talking about his family and Mila all the time. He’d even been completely oblivious to a waitress blatantly flirting with him. He dodged the advances of so many people and his personality staved off the rest -- and yet he’d been the one to insist that Yuri be his friend through flowers.

Yuri barely bit back a smile. It was kind of endearing and funny.

When Yuri met Mila’s eyes, he joined her fond laughter.

“October thirty-first,” she said. “You and Viktor get there by noon, that way we’ll have enough time to set up. Oh, and Yura, don’t forget to bring a present!”

The chimes glistened in the sunlight, and the door clicked shut. Yuri stared after her even after both these sounds, and could only hear a resounding, Oh shit , in his head.

Because if there was one thing Yuri was worse at than interacting with people, it was getting them presents.

“Don’t you think it’s funny?”

Yuri had unclipped Otabek’s sunglasses right off the collar of his shirt, and peered up at him over the rim like he saw the cool guys do in the movies. “Is what funny?”

They were crowded in the narrow space of the back of the music store, where they were browsing through the discount CDs. Yuri’s taste in music hadn’t really updated since he was twelve and he’d been simultaneously shocked and elated to discover new albums from artists he liked. Otabek offered that they go shopping for CDs then, and he occasionally gave Yuri some recommendations -- but Yuri was picky, and had denied another artist just because there was a spill of roses on the cover.

Otabek scoffed in amusement between his teeth as he put the CD back. “It’s funny that you’re obsessed with one of the world’s most romantic languages, yet you detest all romantic messages. You’d rather bury yourself in petunias and thistle than give a single rose.”

“You bet your ass I do.” Yuri flipped a CD over for the track listing, but he didn’t actually read it. The flowers Otabek had given him during their first exchanges had long-since dried, but Yuri didn’t know what to do with them. He liked the idea of burying them in an empty drawer, never to see daylight again -- but he also liked to consider plucking the withered petals and putting them in a jar, like potpourri, the once-soft flowers scratching together like shells.

He might not give flowers with romantic or sweet meanings, but he sure was accepting a lot of them. But if Otabek ever expected a day where Yuri would give him honeysuckle or a sprig of lilac, he’d be waiting on that day forever.

“Viktor says the flowers I give to the customers are magic though, like the messages are actually bringing them some kind of happiness. That’s weird, right?”

“Well, we all hope that our flowers carry more than a simple message, right? Our intentions and wishes rest in each of them. One way or another, feelings find a way to be bridged.”

Yuri pushed up Otabek’s sunglasses. They smelled strongly of earth and cologne, painting all over Yuri’s face. “That’s just wishful thinking.”

“And that’s stupid?” Otabek arched a brow at him.

Yuri shrugged. Sprigs of hyacinth had poured out of Yuri’s mailbox for months, but that didn’t mean he’d understood his mother’s plea for forgiveness enough to actually give it to her, even after her death.

“It’d be nice if they really were magic,” he admitted, quietly. He turned around and tugged at Otabek’s jacket, trying to urge him out of the store. “I’m hungry. Take me out to eat now.”

Otabek exhaled an amused breath through his nose. “We had chocolate mousse at the cafe just half an hour ago, Yurochka.”

“So? You were prepared for this when you agreed to this weird friendship.”

Otabek smiled, then picked up four CDs he’d been holding off to the side before heading to the checkout counter. He paid for all of them then handed the bag to Yuri on their way out the door. When they got to the bike and Otabek hopped on, Yuri searched through the purchases, making sure Otabek didn’t slip him something shitty just to be funny.

Yuri only recognized the Пилот and ПОРНОФИЛЬМЫ album’s that were his picks, but he didn’t know the other two CDs Otabek had gotten him. “Ария and… Скриптонит?”

“Ария are a favorite of mine, and I think you’ll like their sound. Lots of guitars.” He held up a hand and tapped against imaginary frets. “I used to play Скриптонит a lot when my friend let me DJ at parties in Kazakhstan. If you like these, I have more recommendations for you.”

The sunglasses nearly fell off Yuri’s nose with how quickly he snapped his head up. “You DJ? You don’t…” He was going to say don’t seem the type , but that was probably because he was so used to the soft, hardworking image of Otabek tending to flowers. But his physical features, his haircut, his tight shirts and leather jacket -- Yuri could see how Otabek would seem to fit into a party, maybe even a club. Was Otabek actually the lively sort to dance in the middle of a crowd, or did he enjoy being off to the side, observing the party from on high?

“What parties let a kid DJ?”

“I’m going to be twenty soon, Yurochka,” Otabek defended, and Yuri couldn’t help but laugh at the shock in his voice.

“Okay, well, DJ for me sometime and I’ll judge for myself if you suck or not.”

The corners of Otabek’s lips quirked up. He reached out slowly, sliding off his sunglasses from Yuri’s face. It was hard to suppress a shiver, especially as strands of his hair whispered forward with the movement, tickling his cheeks. He imagined briefly the touch to be Otabek’s thumb stroking over his face; he could still remember the press of it when he’d brushed the pollen off of him last time.

And just like before, Otabek was giving him a warm smile, like Yuri’s words had given him the key to happiness.

“Sounds good. Maybe I’ll even let you give the turntables a spin.”

Yuri grinned, then put the bag of CDs away into the small compartment attached to the back of the bike. “That’s right though,” he said. “ Your birthday is the one that’s next week, shouldn’t I be buying you things or some shit?”

Otabek froze in the middle of putting on his sunglasses, and it was the first time Yuri saw him caught off guard. The widening of his eyes and slight gape of his mouth was such a priceless sight that Yuri was sorry it took so long to give Otabek such an expression.

“What?”

“I just didn’t realize you knew my birth date.”

Ah. Shit. Mila wanted the party a surprise and all that crap. Yuri kinda messed up on that one. He shrugged, swinging his leg over the bike. “There’s lots of shit you don’t realize about me.”

“Like your own birthday perhaps?” Otabek prompted.

“Can’t hear you, your bike is too loud!” Yuri yelled. The bike wasn’t even turned on, but Otabek didn’t point it out.

When the bike did rumble to life though, Otabek sounded like he was still smiling. “Alright, let’s get you something to eat then.”

“ Now you’re talking.”

“Why are you anxious about Otabek’s gift? Yura, you give people presents all the time.”

They were taking Makkachin out for an evening walk, and Yuri came along because it was better than being cooped up in the apartment. The fluffy dog nuzzled his snout into everything, and nearly tripped Yuri over the leash with how he ran around.

Yuri knew that Viktor meant the flowers, but what he didn’t realize was that Yuri’s “presents” were usually messages of anger and hate and insults. Yuri was utterly engrossed in one of the most romantic nonverbal languages and he used it to make marvelous “fuck you” bouquets like the one he’d given Otabek months before.

That wasn’t to say he hadn’t thought about giving Otabek some kind of arrangement. It was, after all, the only kind of gift Yuri knew how to give. He’d just never done it with a kind message, not in eight years. What kind of thing could he try to communicate to the person that was the closest he had to a friend? Would a flower be able to contain all of those intentions? Or would Yuri have to think of a new way of communication, another way to show his feelings?

“He’ll see flowers a mile away, it wouldn’t be surprising.”

“I can respect wanting to keep people on their toes,” Viktor said with a smile. He took a tennis ball from his jacket pocket. Makkachin leapt around at the sight of it, following it with his large brown eyes as Viktor offered it to Yuri. “Want to give it a shot?”

Yuri shrugged, and took the ball. He teased Makkachin with it by pretending he threw it then hiding it behind his back. Makkachin didn’t so much as flinch.

“Your brother isn’t stupid, you know.”

“Debatable,” Yuri said, then threw the ball for real into the empty space of grass in the park. Viktor let him loose to go run after it on pattering paws kicking up the leaves already fallen. Within seconds, Makkachin brought the ball back. Yuri picked up the slobber-covered ball and practically flung it away this time.

There was a click behind him, and Yuri turned to see Viktor holding his phone up, a too-pleased heart-shaped smile on his face.

“Oh!” he cried. “That was so perfect!”

“What the ever-loving fuck are you doing?” Yuri growled.

Viktor’s phone continued to make the unmistakable clicking sounds of his camera going off. Yuri bristled at the sight of the beady lens staring at him.

“Documentation!” he explained. “The first time Yuri and Makkachin played together~”

Yuri rounded on Viktor with a glare. Makkachin, ball in his mouth, tried to nudge the toy back into Yuri’s hand to continue their game of fetch. Yuri snatched the ball and shook it at Viktor. “You! Have you been taking pictures this whole time I’ve been with you!?”

The heart-shape of Viktor’s mouth grew, a loud laughter tumbling from it.

“Hey! You better not be creepily showing them off to people!”

“It’s not like you’re indecent in them or anything, you’re far too old for Papa Vitya to take cute pictures of your baby butt at bathtime.”

With a sputter, Yuri jabbed a finger right on Viktor’s sternum. “That’s it, I’m calling Yakov! I can’t stand to be with you a moment longer!” Yuri stomped down the park trail, Makkachin bouncing around him, eager for the tennis ball to be tossed.

As expected, Viktor cried behind him. “Is it so bad that I want to document these memories of my precious son?”

“Yeah, go ahead and save those pictures then! They’ll last you longer than this adoption!” Besides, Yuri wasn’t Viktor’s son just yet. There would be a court hearing in June, and, if it went well, then Viktor would officially be his father.

It hadn’t even been half a year yet since he’d been with Viktor, but Yuri was still of the opinion that the only end result to this was being sent back to the orphanage.

And if the adamant nature of that conclusion had waned ever-so-slightly in the past few weeks, well, Yuri was going to pull that false hope out like a tangled weed.

It was raining buckets by the time Viktor and Yuri arrived to the Babicheva farm on October thirty-first. Rain had been heavily going on and off all through the month, but Mother Nature was determined to give one last shower before the clouds would fill with snowflakes later in the season. Yuri was sorry that Otabek’s birthday was being heralded in such a way. He was even more sorry to see the black sheets of tarp trying in vain to protect the flowers from the heavy drops assaulting the earth. Most of the flowers would be relocated to the farm’s indoor greenhouses with the end of the warmer months to continue being grown even out-of-season.

Mila’s aunt answered Viktor’s knock right away, quickly ushering them inside.

“Poor boys!” she cried, pecking them on the cheeks. Even Yuri could get away in time, and he furiously wiped at his face with his now wet sleeves. “Come, hang up your jackets! You’re so soaked! Oh, what a miserable day for our poor birthday boy.”

“He’ll feel warm and loved enough thanks to you,” Viktor assured Emilia, kissing her cheek too. “Luckily, the presents are safe and sound. Where should we put them?”

“On the table over there, Vitya. Yura, go into the kitchen. There’s plenty for you to snack on until we eat lunch.”

More than ready to get far away from Emilia’s physical doting, Yuri shuffled through the house. It was decorated to the brim with knick-knacks and the walls were covered ceiling-to-floor with framed photos. Yuri was surprised to see Otabek in a few of the recent ones, huddled together with some of the other workers. The Babichevas really did consider everyone they knew to be family; no wonder they were more than enthusiastic about this birthday party for a Kazakh boy they’d taken in.

Yuri followed the scent of cooking meat and sound of sizzling vegetables, and found a good portion of the party already in the kitchen, making the air warm and lively. There were a few of Otabek’s fellow field workers, and another woman that looked like Emilia chatting with Mila at the stove. Mila spotted him as soon as he walked in.

“Oh look, you actually came!” She reached over to the nearby tray of mixed fruit, cheeses, and summer sausage. “Here, Tetya wanted me to give this to you. There’s drinks in the fridge, so help yourself.”

Yuri did so, shuffling out of the kitchen with his bounty to choose an out-of-sight corner near the entrance to eat. The sound of the rain and rumbling thunder was louder here, and Yuri couldn’t see anything between the lace curtins except waves of water.

Even though he had no one to celebrate it with anymore, Yuri was quite fond of the date of his birthday; in March, the weather grew warmer, and flowers were well on their way to bursting forth from the ground. It wasn’t quite spring yet, but the promise of it was marked on the day Yuri was born.

He smiled to himself, slipping a cube of cheese and slice of sausage between his lips. Otabek’s birthday was on the opposite end of the spectrum, falling when many flowers were closing their buds. There were still come that bloomed and even thrived on the coming chilly weather. Maybe Yuri could look for some…

The tap of the rain on the glass and distant lively chatter had prompted him to grow sleepy. The tray of food, now three-fourths empty, was on the verge of falling out of his lap as he nodded off. He was so tired that he didn’t even notice the front door opening, or the scuff of boots on the wood floor.

He did, however, startle awake when a hand nudged at his shoulder. He jumped, succeeding in dropping the tray this time, and met Otabek’s widened brown eyes.

“Sorry,” he said, retracting his hand. Ever since Yuri flinched away from his touch, he’d been careful not to make too much physical contact with Yuri, respecting his boundaries. The most they ever did was Yuri holding onto Otabek during bike rides. One would think that would mean he’d be getting used to Otabek’s contact, his warmth…

Yuri realized in a way, he was. If he’d known it was Otabek, he might’ve stayed asleep, just to indulge in how his large palm cupped his whole bony shoulder.

“Oh. Shit.” Yuri scrubbed a hand over his face, then looked at the cut fruit all over Otabek’s shoes. “Um -- surprise?”

“Beks! Surprise!” Mila and the others crawled into the entranceway, a chorus of happy birthday! and well wishes following. Otabek straightened up, and Yuri took the opportunity to inch away from the mass of hugging and kissing and laughter, leaving the mess he’d made behind.

Viktor saw him just as he managed to squeeze himself out of the narrow passage. “Oh, Yura, there you are! Where have you been hiding? You’ve got crumbs all over you.” He laughed, brushing the mess off of Yuri’s shirt and the corners of his lips. Yuri grumbled up a fuss, but Viktor didn’t rest until he was nice and clean. “Where were you going? Otabek just came back.”

Yuri was going to point out how he’d fallen asleep in front of the door, but Viktor might get the wrong idea if he did. “I didn’t like all the noise and touching,” he said, gagging.

“Oh.” Viktor looked to the crowd of people and nodded. “I understand. You don’t even like coming to the wedding venues with me, huh?”

“Just call me when we’re eating.” He decided upstairs would be a good place to hide out, so he dashed up the steps before Viktor could call him back.

It was darker on the second floor, all the doors closed. Yuri wandered around and opened the first door -- a bathroom. He tried the next one -- it looked like a guest room; everything was tidy with not much in personal items. The scent of Otabek’s cologne drifted from the next door, but Yuri slipped into the guest room and closed the door before flopping onto the bed. Old perfume clung to the thick comforter.

As the party went on downstairs, Yuri got out his phone and tried to scroll through Instagram. As Mila said before though, reception was shitty, and even worse with the rain, so not many images loaded.

A squeaky meow caught his attention.

Yuri jolted up from the bed, eyes widening and a delighted flush filling his cheeks at the sight of a beautiful grey Siberian cat watching him on top of a wardrobe. A bell on her collar jingled as she shook her head, rousing from a nap. Yuri cooed and clicked his tongue endearingly to her.

“Hey there, pretty girl, how long have you been there?” He held his hand out to her, and she stood on her paws to give him a tentative sniff before licking a stripe over his fingers with her rough tongue.

Yuri positively beamed. “You’re a friendly girl, aren’t you? Guess you have to be to live in this loud place.” He knew he should let her get used to him first, but it had been so long since he last got to hold and pet a cat. He managed some restraint, reaching up to scratch her cheeks and between her ears. She began to purr deeply.

It was the start of a beautiful friendship.

According to the tag, the cat’s name was Sonya. She was immediately attached to Yuri, and had taken to rubbing against his ankles and butting against him all through lunch until he would pet her. When he finally came down to eat and chose a spot in the living room, she curled up on his lap and purred away. It pleased Yuri immensely, who was half-convincing himself not to kidnap her.

Needless to say, Mila teased how popular he was with the ladies, as Emilia and Viktor gushed away and took a hundred pictures of Yuri and Sonya bonding.

Even Otabek joked about it as the party dwindled down. Everyone had eaten their fill of the great feast Emilia and her sister had prepared, but Yuri was still convinced to take just one more slice of cake up to Otabek’s room while the adults split a bottle of wine. They had loudly encourage for Otabek to have a glass, and Otabek swirled the satin-red liquid in his glass, Yuri wrinkling his nose at the strong scent.

Otabek’s room was surprisingly clean, with his dirty clothes neatly put in a hamper, and not much sign of dust or trash. The top of his dresser was the only mess, where opened envelopes were scattered, letters peeking out, and even some dried and pressed flowers. His shelf was full of CDs, and books on botany, as well as field guides. He was shocked to find his Fuck You bouquet dried in a vase of its very own by the window sill, the lilies curled back further, the flowers mostly drained of color like a faded photograph.

Other than that, there wasn’t much personality to the room, no posters or other decorations. But it was still comfortable, his bed saturated with his sweet, earthy scent.

“So did you really come here for Sonya or for me?” he asked. Sonya had followed, and had made a loaf of herself right between their thighs. He softly pet down her back, making her purr louder.

“If I had known there was a cat, I would’ve accepted invitations here a lot sooner,” Yuri said with honesty. Cats and cake were all he needed in this life, other than flowers, but there was a cute yellow-frosting tulip on the slice Yuri got, so he supposed he could die happy right now.

Otabek set his glass down without taking a drink and nodded to the package on the other side of Yuri. “So what on earth did you get me that you didn’t want me to open it in front of everyone else?”

Forkful of cake still in his mouth, Yuri shoved the present onto Otabek’s lap without a word, but with plenty of burning in his cheeks. Sonya crawled onto his thighs at the rustle and bustle of the wrapping paper. It was poorly wrapped, with too much tape and wrinkled corners, but there was no way Yuri was going to ask Viktor for help packaging the present -- partly for his own pride and partly because, again, Viktor might get the wrong idea.

Yuri sure was giving lots of openings for the “wrong idea” on how he felt about Otabek…

Carefully, Otabek tore open the paper, sliding it off and letting it all crumple to the floor at their feet.

A rectangular book sat on top of Otabek’s thighs -- the cover was made of black leather, and what Yuri had pasted onto the front of it was a patch with a vibrant red rose embroidered on it. Yuri watched as Otabek flipped through the pages, but each one of them was blank.

He cleared his throat, idly stabbing at the last piece of cake. “It’s, uh -- it’s a scrapbook. You said you get lots of letters and flowers and photos from your family, so… I don’t know, I thought maybe you’d want to keep them all some place, instead of letting them sit in envelopes.” He nodded to the top of the dresser. “Then you could look at them whenever.”

He’d gotten the idea from Viktor that day at the park. Preserving memories was an important thing to people. Having something to look back on, having proof that those moments of happiness happened -- they were important pieces of people’s lives. The letters Otabek received from his family had to be a large, irreplaceable treasure to him. All the letters Yuri had gotten from his mother no longer existed, but he magically was given a book full of her words, they’d be the most treasured thing he’d have.

But he had nothing anymore. No mementos. No photos.

Otabek ran his fingertips over the pages and the leather cover, and then lastly the rose patch. He glanced at Yuri, his eyes dancing.

“I thought you would never give a rose to someone?”

“Shut up, it’s not like they go around mass-producing periwinkle patches or something. Don’t misunderstand.”

“Alright.” Otabek looked back at the scrapbook, smiling. “Thank you, Yurochka. I’ll take good care of it.”

“Yeah, you better.” He stabbed the last of his cake and shoved it into his mouth.

“I can put whatever I want in it? Whatever memories?”

“Go nuts, I can’t tell you what to do with it.” Yuri put his plate to the side and resumed petting Sonya. It was definitely a distraction, to keep from looking at Otabek who was staring intently at him.

Otabek reached out, following Yuri’s hands as they both pet the purring fluffball of a cat. “Then,” he said, and his voice was closer and deeper than before, “would you mind if I put pictures with you in there too?”

Yuri’s hand froze. Otabek’s bumped into it, and both of them pulled back at the same time. Yuri’s eyes trailed after that hand.

Why ?

Why did Otabek do this? Why did Viktor do this? Why did everyone want proof of Yuri’s presence in their lives? He shouldn’t belong in Viktor’s vision of a family, just like he shouldn’t belong in Otabek’s vision of a friend. These memories with him weren’t ones to be cherished, and they would only be empty reminders of an angry orphan boy with a weird obsession for flowers once Yuri left.

At the same time, Yuri felt like, just maybe , he was allowed to do this. Neither Viktor or Otabek pushed Yuri to be someone he wasn’t. In their own ways, they gave him room to be who he wanted, even when Yuri wasn’t sure who that was yet.

Maybe now he was allowed to find out. Maybe he didn’t have to wait another two years when he hightailed it out of St. Petersburg in just a dirty jacket and pot of chamomile.

Yuri swallowed.

“...Like I said, go nuts.”

Otabek shifted closer. “Then, do you want to take a selfie now?”

“Oh. Now ? I mean -- yeah, sure?” Yuri scooted closer too, his hips colliding with the solid build of Otabek’s.

Otabek brought out his phone, and they both leaned their faces in to squeeze into the screen. They held up peace signs, Yuri managing to cock a grin. Even Sonya managed to sneak into the picture, meowing up at the camera. Otabek looked like he was close to laughing.

“You have frosting on you,” he said, lowering the phone.

“What? You took a picture anyway though!? Beka, delete it, I demand a do-over!”

“Let me keep it, Yurochka.” Otabek pocketed his phone to keep Yuri from taking it. Before Yuri could even make an attempt to dive at it anyway, Otabek cupped the side of his face.

Yuri froze, feeling the familiar swipe of Otabek’s thumb over the corner of his lips, soft and slow.

“There, all done,” Otabek said, though he didn’t pull his hand back. He seemed to be waiting for Yuri to be the one to back away.

But Yuri didn’t.

From the tips of his fingers to the crown of his head, to the steady crawl of roots down his lungs, Yuri could feel the turning of a tide as he looked into Otabek’s eyes. Their faces tilted toward one another, like a flower slowly bending towards the rays of the sun. Sonya leapt out of Yuri’s lap, and that gave him room to turn his body toward Otabek’s. He could feel himself slowly become swaddled in the heated soil of those eyes.

“Is this okay, Yuri?”

Otabek’s breath was warm and sweet against his lips. He’d probably taste like the one sip of wine he took in front of the adults to appease them. Yuri didn’t care, not when his whole body felt like it was running with the same sickly-sweet adrenaline.

He pushed forward, his lips crushing against Otabek’s at the same time a gentle rumble of thunder sounded outside. Otabek cradled his face, gently tangling his fingers into Yuri’s hair. He pulled back for a breath, then brought their lips together again, softer this time. But Yuri never felt in more urgent need of anything else in his life, and he clutched onto Otabek's shirt tightly.

He pressed harder, biting.

Otabek soothed their lips with the swipe of his tongue.

Rougher. Softer. Both of them giving and taking until they met each other halfway with their kiss.

The scrapbook fell between them, the red rose shining.

Chapter Text

Whenever Yuri withdrew, Otabek quietly chased after him. It had been the build up to their friendship, and was a present oscillation throughout the days they spent time together, a comfortable push-and-pull -- it was no surprise then that their kiss was the same way.

Except for the first time, Yuri was the one to close the gap, to build a bridge with touch, and his head absolutely spun with the exhilaration -- until the vertigo approached an unsettling speed.

This...this was uncharted territory for Yuri, and he opened his eyes.

Otabek’s strong scent became too dizzying to his senses, and Yuri pulled back. Otabek, still swept up in the moment, followed him and kissed Yuri’s lips again, then his jaw, then his chin, his faint stubble scratching against Yuri’s skin. Yuri’s vision momentarily swirled, and his hands on Otabek’s shirt started to shake. He became hyper-aware of being in this bedroom that was not his, and the hot brush of Otabek’s breath and lips were too much, too much .

What am I doing?

A shuddered breath left him when at last Otabek withdrew, and Yuri knew his expression didn’t reflect the warmth melting in Otabek’s eyes, that drew up the corners of his lips. That smile fell, lips parted as if they were arms that meant to catch Yuri before he fell.

“Is something wrong?”

“A lot of things,” Yuri muttered. Where to even start? His palms pressed back on Otabek’s chest, creating more space between them. Otabek let him with all the openness and patience he always had.

It was frustrating . That kind of kindness was frustrating for Yuri -- he was teetering on the fence of what to do and how to feel and only Otabek actually being forceful for once would push him on one side.

But to leave it up to Yuri to name what was going on here -- how could he possibly manage it? There was nothing about this situation that he understood, even though he was partially to blame for initiating it.

I kissed Otabek. I kissed him .

By the time he had his knees hugged to his chest, fingers curling in and out of uneasy fists, Yuri could feel himself slowly fraying at the edges. His lips tingled, his cheeks burned, and he didn’t dare wet the dryness on his mouth, knowing he’d only multiply the taste of Otabek already saturated on his tongue. He focused his gaze on Sonya’s soothing form; she sat on the cushion of Otabek’s desk chair, licking her paws without a care in the world. Not for the first time, Yuri wished he could’ve been born as a cat.

“Talk to me, Yurochka,” Otabek said. He didn’t come closer and breach Yuri’s space, though the restless movements of his hands showed he wanted to.

Yuri wasn’t used to this. Being given space. Being given kisses and desire and love .

“I don’t know what you want me to say,” he said with a dry laugh. “I -- I didn’t realize you were interested in guys.”

“I’m interested in you,” Otabek admitted, voice rich with sincerity. Yuri finally looked over at him, trying to find the lie, to search for a single chink in Otabek’s feelings. But Otabek’s gaze was unwavering, and Yuri’s stomach twisted in knots to be faced with someone who was so emotionally certain, so utterly strong and unyielding with his heart -- and yet still radiating a pleasant warmth and openness.

In an ideal world, Yuri would fall for him right there because he knew Otabek was perfect for him. But the world wasn’t ideal. It was fractured, and so was Yuri. No one in the world was simply created for another. The universe wasn’t convenient that way, and Yuri’s heart wilted, snatched of a hope he didn’t dare let himself have.

Because people changed . They weren’t plants that you could tell exactly what they’d bloom into just from a seed. You could never predict the kind of person they’d be.

One day, they might just leave and splinter your whole world.

“Your face,” Otabek noted, lowering his eyes. “You’re not sure if you feel the same, do you? I thought when I asked if it was okay, you had an answer, but…” He leaned down, picking up the fallen scrapbook. His fingertips brushed over the shining rose patch. “Perhaps I was still going too fast. I’m sorry.”

Yuri froze, feeling his brows knit together. A familiar boiling ache grabbed hold of his chest, and he unfolded himself. “Sorry? You’re apologizing ?”

“It’s not my intention to push you. But without thinking, I… I think I must’ve started forcing my feelings onto you.”

Heat flared in Yuri’s stomach. Good, this feeling he could work with. Anger was something he knew how to flow with a lot better. He stood up, scrunching his face in a scowl. “Force me? Pushing me? Is that what you call this?”

You’ve given me room to run away since day one.

I don’t know why I never did. I wanted to. I think I really did hate you, but…

You can’t just -- shake my world like this then apologize for it and think that’ll settle it. You can’t pull away first like they did.

“So what? You regret this? Gonna sweep it under the rug, take back everything you’ve said up until now like a coward?”

A subtle frown creased Otabek’s brow as he watched Yuri’s explosive reactions. “That’s not what I said, Yurochka.”

“Then what is it?” he said, closing his eyes. The shape of that tender name forming on Otabek’s lips bloomed behind his eyelids; he could probably imagine how it’d feel if Otabek spoke it against his own lips now.

“What is what?”

“What is -- this ?” Yuri gestured around them like there was a horrible mess making the place unsightly.

Otabek followed the movement, then slowly slid his gaze back to Yuri. Yuri tensed when Otabek rose up too, laying the book on the bed and closing the space between them.

“I dislike repeating myself, Yurochka.” It wasn’t unkind, but it reverberated in the cavern of Yuri’s body.

For once, there was no room for Yuri to run. Otabek cupped his face with a little more force than he ever used on Yuri, squishing his cheeks as he brought him in for another kiss. It was deep, consuming, and Yuri flinched at the tastes filling his tongue again. He wondered what Otabek tasted in him -- something horrible, the core of Yuri’s own withered being, something like ash and anger and distrust.

How could Otabek not know? How could he not tell that this was all wrong?

That Yuri was all wrong?

On reflex, Yuri bit down -- hard. Otabek gave a low, pained grunt, pulling back, a tiny piece of skin between Yuri’s teeth. Left behind was a fat line filling with blood on Otabek’s bottom lip. Yuri stared at it a moment, appraising his damage with heavy breaths, then spun away.

Yuri nearly stumbled onto Sonya’s tail. She scampered out of the way, her bell jingling as she followed Yuri out the bedroom when he opened the door. He took the stairs two at a time, dashed past the adults laughing in the kitchen, and slipped right out the door.

It was still raining outside. Yuri strode into the storm, squinting through the assault of drops to find Viktor’s truck. He tried the handle, relieved to find it unlocked, and slipped right inside, dripping wet with his clothes plastered to him. The rain gave a suitable white noise that replaced the spinning thoughts in Yuri’s head.

He exhaled heavily, feeling so full of energy that he didn’t know what to do with. His thumb rubbed against his bottom lip, remembering the new wound he gave Otabek, but also the inexperienced passion of their kisses.

“Talk to me, Yurochka.”

“I’m interested in you.”

Yuri scrubbed his lips with the cold rain water again, and again, but still could not erase the sensation lingering there.

“Yura?”

Yuri closed his eyes at the tell-tale sound of Viktor’s concern that followed the annoying knock on his locked door. It might as well been a knock against his skull for all that it rattled on his nerves. He gathered up his comforter and pulled it into himself, glaring at the window as he turned away from the door.

“Go away,” he said dryly, as if he actually expected Viktor Nikiforov to listen to him.

There was a creak, possibly Viktor leaning dramatically against the door as if he meant to pass through the wood by sheer force of will. “Yuri, did something happen at the party? You’ve been on edge recently.”

“I’m always on edge, I warned you of it when your dumb ass adopted me.” Yuri sighed, gutturally. “Leave me alone already.”

“But what about dinner? You’re really not coming out again? Come on, Yura, I’ll let you have dessert first if you come out.”

Tempting . Actually, any food was tempting, even though Yuri had been snacking a lot more than usual lately. He supposed he should have seen it coming that he was a binge eater when he was pissed off -- or “on edge” as Viktor put it. Even so, he was more insatiable than usual; since he could exactly bash holes into the walls and shatter windows, he settled for burning his energy by shoving things in his mouth and angrily chewing them to bits. Chip bags and wrappers already littered his floor.

He decided to just plug into his music and drown out the rest of Viktor’s concerned pleas and knocks. He’d give up eventually. He had for the past three days, anyway.

As always though, Viktor was Persistent, and the knocks on the door were starting to grate on Yuri’s last nerve.

“Yura?” Viktor called. “Yuri, you’re in there, right? Please come out. Tell me what’s wrong, I’ll try to help you. I won’t know if you don’t tell me, Yuri.”

Ugh, god, you’re not my father so just drop this charade already, just shut up, shut up, shut up! He didn’t realize he yelled that out loud until Viktor’s shadow froze, then slowly disappear from the door.

Almost daily, Yuri was crossing the line because of his strained patience, and with each knock at the door, another thread in him snapped. He was losing it. And he knew it. His guilt though was wildly eclipsed by the sick delight of being able to finally destroy something . He didn’t know why he was taking out his confusion and anger out on Viktor when he’d done nothing wrong. But he was just like Otabek, so -- so wanting to give Yuri love, so bright and kind , and--

And they were both in the wrong just for that. That was Yuri’s justification, and he ran with it to prick their reaching fingers with his thorns again and again.

...This was the kind of boy people expected him to be anyway. They thought he was soft once they saw him tend to the flowers, not knowing that this nurturing side of him wasn’t one he could replicate with human beings.

A week passed like this.

When the days grew dark, Yuri would creep out of his room in the dead of night to see that Viktor left plates of food for him on the table with plastic wrap over them. There was the jingle of Makkachin’s collar inside Viktor’s room, and Yuri quickly balanced the plates in his arms before Makkachin could alert his owner that he was out.

The sun rose, and Yuri heard some bustling about in the apartment followed by the wooden stairs creaking as Viktor made his way downstairs to the flower shop. Yuri didn’t come down, even as he missed the flowers. He settled for spending the hours curled up in the sun next to his chamomile, staring at each individual white petal.

Energy in adversity .

That was right. This was just another obstacle in his life, another battle. He could get through it, he always had before.

But Yuri had never felt so trapped . Trapped in a room, in his own head full of incomplete feelings. Was this how hothouse flowers surrounded in glass or blooms shivering in the freezers all night felt like? Yuri was sure he was losing his mind, and it was making too many memories get mixed up in his head, even when he was asleep.

He dreamed of his mother wearing crowns of poppy.

Of taking Otabek to Moscow to meet his grandfather.

Of going downstairs to the flower shop and instead of four walls, there were endless flowery meadows under cloudy skies.

Of laying in the soft grass, Otabek’s hot palms on him, teeth biting into his skin, the bruises blooming tulips on his body.

Yuri woke up after such a dream, sheets tangled around his legs and heart beating wildly like he’d just missed the last step on the stairs.

Viktor was knocking at his door again.

“Yura?” he called, a bit quieter and more gentle than his earlier attempts. It was probably to be mindful of the time -- it was still rather dark in the room, and outside, it was completely still.

Rolling over, Yuri resolved to ignore him.

“Yuri,” Viktor tried again, voice lighter, and Yuri could imagine him forcing a smile, “it’s Sunday. Want to go to the flower market with me? I’ll buy us something to eat on the way. The donut shop has some new flavors for November, want to try them?”

The words went in one ear and out the other. Yuri’s stomach was the first traitor as expected, urging him to just forget this stupid bout of angst and leave with Viktor. But when he sat up from bed, it was only to run a frustrated hand through his hair. It was getting ridiculously long, the strands tickling his collarbone now, the bangs able to cover his whole face if he didn’t clip them back. Usually, Yuri hacked at his own hair, but right now he could think of nothing better than raking it over his face so he could block out the world.

Viktor lingered, probably trying to pick up any movement. In the end, he gave a deep sigh. “Alright. I’ll be back in a few hours. Yuri, I…”

Yuri had flashbacks to his mother looking back at him from the door when it was time for her to leave and catch her flight.

“...I love you, Yura.”

Viktor paused, then finally walked away. The chime downstairs jingled, and the door locked. Yuri could hear the truck sputter as it started up, the engine’s breaths gradually fading down the darkness of the street. Feeling too awake, Yuri slipped to the floor and groped around blindly for his jacket to retrieve his phone. The light was too bright, and Yuri scrunched his face as he quickly adjusted the brightness.

So it was already Sunday. While most people were slumbering away, flower vendors were wide awake and setting up their stalls. While Yuri sat here in the quiet dark, Otabek was miles away arranging a kaleidoscope of colorful blooms.

He opened up his text messages.

From: beka

Yuri are you okay?

Let’s talk about this.

(Last week, 5:39pm)

From: beka

Are you ignoring me?

I guess you’re angry…

(5 days ago, 1:22pm)

From: beka

Viktor’s calling me to talk to you. He says you haven’t been feeling well.

I want to come see you. There’s something I want to ask you.

(4 days ago, 6:51am)

From: beka

Answer my calls Yurochka. I’m not going to leave voicemails for this.

(2 days ago, 2:47pm)

From: beka

It’ll be Sunday soon. I’ll see you at the flower market.

Come to my stall. We won’t talk about anything you don’t want to.

(Yesterday, 11:58pm)

Yuri scrolled up and down the flurry of messages, waiting for something to tell him to reply to them. All he felt though was a recoil deep in his chest, like the texts burned him. The more he read them, mentally hearing Otabek say them so clearly, the more he felt like he was once more being invaded by something terrifying and foreign.

With a soft grunt, Yuri tossed his phone to the side. It didn’t matter whether or not Otabek would be waiting for him to come to the market. He’d be bitterly disappointed when Viktor came alone. Or maybe Yuri ignoring him and cutting him off would be exactly what Otabek would expect from him. After all, Yuri had warned him time and again the kind of person he was. It wouldn’t be his fault if he couldn’t meet whatever silly hopes Otabek and Viktor had for him.

In the end, Yuri was only a dry, prickly bush of thistle.

Yuri flopped onto the floor, staring at his flowers in the gradually fading moonlight.

He wondered...if Otabek really did like him. If he did want to build something with Yuri, to touch his heart… Yuri couldn’t fathom why anyone would want to form a bond with him.

But...this was Yuri’s fault in the first place. What was he thinking? He gave Otabek such a stupid present, he allowed himself to think, just for a second, that he wanted proof that he’d been a part of Otabek’s life. He didn’t want to be forgotten.

For this one random person, this nobody flower vendor miles away from his homeland, Yuri thought, It’s okay if I leave proof on him that we met. It’s okay if I look forward to seeing him every day.

If Yuri kept pushing him away though, maybe Otabek would end up forgetting him anyway.

And Yuri would be the fool left behind with the sensation of a kiss burned on his lips.

When Viktor knocked on his door again, Yuri was cold. He’d fallen asleep right in front of the window, the November chill creeping in through the glass. It was an overcast day, the sun barely managing to slip through in muted rays. Yuri felt miles below the surface, suffocating in dry, cold earth that clung between every one of his bones. But he roused all at once at the sound of a lock clicking, and he jolted up from the floor just as Viktor opened the door to his room, a key in his hand.

“What the fuck, Viktor, get out! This is invasion of privacy!” he yelled at once, chucking a pillow at Viktor.

The pillow fell at Viktor’s feet and he bent down to pick it up. “I’m sorry, Yura, but you gave me no choice. You haven’t come out for a week, do you know how worried I was getting? Even Yuuri and the shop’s customers have been asking why you aren’t around lately.”

“I fail to see how that’s my problem!”

Viktor frowned, the usual carefree sparkle faded from his eyes, leaving them a serious, cold blue. “You’re sixteen, Yura. You can’t keep acting like this, you’ve got to start having more awareness for the people around you.” He came closer, sitting on the bed with the same pillow still in his hands. How he hugged it like a child was at odds with the authoritative tone of his voice.

Yuri scoffed. “Don’t sound so much like a parent now.”

“I’ve adopted you, Yuri. This is what a father sounds like, so of course when things get turbulent, I can’t keep being so carefree with you.” Viktor looked over at him, and probably for the first time, Yuri really noticed the experience and years etched on Viktor’s face -- the faint lines around his eyes, the thin press of his lips, the unwavering resolve in his gaze. All of it reflected Viktor’s history, his life alone, yet he was still here, like a snowdrop that had braved the cold.

Delicate. Strong. Striking. With how Viktor’s spine curved as he almost slumped over the pillow, the flower suited him perfectly.

“Hey,” he said, quietly, “tell me what’s wrong with you. What’s been on your mind this past week?”

The comforter had fallen to the floor in the middle of Yuri’s tossing and turning. He plucked it up and wrapped it around himself, laying back on the floor. “None of your business,” he said, voice equally quiet.

“But I can help you if you tell me. I’m here to support you--”

“I don’t want your support , I want you to leave me alone for once!” He didn’t want to grasp the hands that reached out for him. He didn’t know where they led. He didn’t know if they even had the strength to lift his leaden body up. No one else had to be dragged down to keep him company. He would be fine.

Everything was fine .

But Viktor’s silence said the opposite. Finally, he said, “What’s happened to you, Yura? You were doing so well… You were eating meals with me, getting along with Yuuri… You’re really getting the hang of the flower shop and you became friends with Otabek even. So why is this happening again?”

Because you’re an idiot if you think I could possibly be a part of that family you want. Because flowers that are used to growing from the harsh weather and unforgiving earth can’t possibly thrive in warmth and gentle nurturing.

None of this is who I am. I’m not supposed to be here with you, or Otabek, or Yuuri, or anyone.

Viktor shifted on the bed, leaning over to put a hand over Yuri’s bundled up form. “Yura--”

“ Don’t ! Don’t treat me like a little baby that needs coddling! I’m not your kid, alright? I’m not your kid! ” Yuri recoiled from Viktor’s hand, but when he backed up against the hard wall, he wished it was someone’s warm chest instead, where Yuri could bury his face.

There was a long stretch of silence. Yuri wondered if in the middle of his screaming, he’d missed Viktor leaving the room. He took a peek, and saw Viktor staring back at him with sad eyes, as if the ocean-blue of them would pour out, leaving them colorless.

“I see you need more time,” Viktor said, voice carefully neutral. “Alright then. I’ll be downstairs if you need me.” He got up, the bed-springs creaking. Before he left, he called out, “Otabek missed you at the market today. There’s a present on the table for you from him.”

Yuri was still, curling back under the comforter. He waited ten minutes after Viktor went below for the shop before finally emerging from his warm makeshift nest.

As soon as he stepped out of his room, Makkachin came walking to him, tail wagging. He licked at Yuri’s hands, not minding how Yuri always hated it, his brown eyes shimmering in happiness. It made the pooch look so innocent, and so unrelated to the mess of Yuri’s life, that he finally sighed and scratched Makkachin behind the ears.

Just as Viktor said, there was something on the table for him. Yuri froze immediately at the sight of it -- long, feathery stems, a splash of color spilled on the table in purples and pinks and yellows. Leave it to Otabek to finally use flowers to send a message; he must’ve known that Yuri would give them more consideration than words. He had no idea where the hell Otabek discovered zinnia in Russia at this time of year, but Otabek found a way.

He always fought to find a way.

The daisy-like puffs of the zinnia surrounded a single, haunting sprig of purple hyacinth.

I mourn your absence.

Please forgive me .

Yuri grabbed the bouquet, uncaring if he crushed the flowers. He shoved the bouquet deeply into the trash, out of sight, buried in garbage. The hyacinth felt like it seared his skin, and all that flashed behind his eyelids with every blink was a mailbox overflowing, envelopes bursting, purple flowers swallowing Yuri’s feet.

Please forgive me .

Yuri closed the lid of the trash and then shoved it into the hallway closet, as if he were some murderer hiding a dead body. He shook, leaning heavily against the door.

Why? Why had Otabek sent a flower like that ? It wasn’t like Otabek knew what they meant to Yuri, he couldn’t have possibly predicted the horrific sight they were to him.

And yet, somehow, once again, someone was begging for his forgiveness, and Yuri had no idea how to give it.

Yuri took deep breaths, pressing a hand over his jackrabbiting heart. His face felt horribly flushed like he just ran a marathon, and his lungs certainly ached in the same manner. He’d been so frenzied that he hadn’t even noticed the small card attached to the bouquet, now fluttered down to the floor.

More than apprehensive, waiting for the paper to grow fangs or growl at him, Yuri slowly plucked up the note.

From Almaty, with love

Yuri re-read the card. Turned it over. There was nothing else. He read the front message again, his heart gradually sinking as he connected the words with the bouquet.

Maybe Otabek didn’t send those flowers because Yuri left him. It was quite possibly the other way around. Otabek had told him through the texts that there was something he’d wanted to tell Yuri, something he could only say face-to-face, and now Yuri knew what it was.

Otabek was going back to Almaty. He was leaving.

That…

That was fine, right? If Otabek was further away, then Yuri wouldn’t have to deal with this heavy weight in his chest. He wouldn’t have to get stupidly nervous and excited when he visited the flower market. He wouldn’t anticipate the sound of a motorbike through the day or become overly familiar with the shape of Otabek’s waist in his arms. Otabek’s family would certainly be happy to see him, and if someone had a good and loving family, then surely it was preferable to be with them.

It wasn’t like it was Yuri’s place to stop him, or to say he wanted to go with him…

“ Tell me when you’re ready to see a genuine Kazakh tulip .”

Yuri ran a distracted hand through his hair, messing it up.

This was fine. Otabek leaving was -- for the best. It was better that Yuri never answered his calls or texts. He didn’t need to hear this from Otabek himself.

Otabek had the freedom to go wherever he wanted.

So did Yuri.

Fuck waiting until he was eighteen.

As soon as he plucked himself from the ground, Yuri’s body was possessed by an overwhelming urge to act . To move. To run. He went back into his room and put on proper clothes, shoving others into a duffel bag he found in Viktor’s closet. With his backpack, he crammed in whatever food he found in the pantry and in the fridge. Inside one of the cookie jars was a wad of rubles Viktor kept aside for emergencies. Yuri put them in the pocket of his jeans.

It was getting too cold for him to take his chamomile anywhere, so Yuri decided to leave them in the room. He had meant for them to be a parting gift, after all, and so they would be Viktor’s. The tiny flowers, assuming yet incredibly powerful, would be the last proof that Yuri had ever been in this apartment.

Makkachin followed him around as he packed, wagging his tail curiously. Yuri spared him some small pets in between stuffing his bags.

“I’ve gotta get out of here, Makka. Viktor deserves a better kid than this one. And you need him to have one that actually likes playing with dumb, smelly dogs.” Yuri scratched behind Makkachin’s ears again then straightened up, bags over his shoulders.

Downstairs, he heard Viktor chatting away with a customer. Good, he was occupied then. Yuri didn’t want Viktor to know he’d left until at least the end of the day. This wasn’t the kind of parting that needed good-byes, after all. Yuri couldn’t stomach it anyway.

Outside the living room window was a fire escape. Yuri unlatched the window and pulled the glass and screen up. Behind him, Makkachin started to whimper.

“Hey, shut it,” Yuri hissed, but not unkindly. He held a hand out to Makkachin, both to soothe him and gesture for him to stay. “You’ll be fine. The other Yuuri likes you a hell of a lot more than me. He’ll love you and Viktor better.” Yuri hooked a leg over and stepped onto the fire escape.

The air was cold outside. The weather forecast promised early snowfall this year. What Yuri was leaving behind was a roof over his head, warmth, food, a bed… And, if he had stayed a few months more, possibly even a family. Yuri thought briefly of Viktor and Yuuri’s faces, of Viktor’s loud, dramatic affections and Yuuri’s sweet, quiet laughs. There was no doubt that they loved each other. A love like that could survive anything.

Any love Yuri tried to grow, on the other hand, would wither in an instant.

He shut the window with a note of finality and started to slowly lower the rusted ladder to make his escape.

Yuri was tired of watching people retreat their backs on him. This time, he would have a say in his fate.

This time, he would be the one to leave.

The first thing to go was his cellphone. Yuri tossed it into a dying bush that lined the perimeter of the block. He didn’t know if Viktor had put one of those GPS tracking features on his phone, but Yuri wasn’t going to risk being located.

He’d never run away from a foster home before, or from the orphanage itself. His need to survive was greater than his need to escape, and so he’d stay with his foster family and in Yakov’s home, swallowing down his burning desire to run from everyone.

Now though, the world was open for him. Finally, at last, he could go anywhere.

Lifting his hood to shield him from the cold and keep his hair from flying everywhere, Yuri searched for his new home. He felt like a nomad, a person who belonged nowhere, so the whole world became his. The possibilities felt endless.

This weightless feeling only lasted about five minutes as the reality of his situation started to catch up with him, but Yuri had always been a fighter. So many things in his life had tried to swallow him whole, but he would not give in.

I will not be afraid.

I will not be afraid .

The Neva River was vast beside him, the once-glittering surface that danced in the sunlight gradually growing still under the approaching winter and heavy clouds. Soon, it would freeze. Maybe Yuri wouldn’t be far behind if he didn’t get his wits about him now that he was without the comforts of a roof and heater.

There was a children’s park Viktor passed on the way to the flower market. It wasn’t too close to the flower shop though, so hopefully it would be weeks before Viktor thought to look for him there. His stomach clenched, thinking of how much Viktor was going to lose it once he realized Yuri was gone. Viktor had been left behind so many times in his life, starting with his biological parents, and he had tried so hard with Yuri to finally have a family, to give them both a loving and warm home.

And to show his gratitude, Yuri ripped it all to shreds.

The park was empty when he arrived over an hour later; no surprise, since it was barely past noon so most children were in school. A small, decorative gazebo, sat under the nearby trees. The white paint was peeling, and vines wound around the posts, thick bushes bordering the gazebo’s base. Yuri nestled the duffel bag under the bushes and secured the straps around one of the posts so it wouldn’t be stolen. Then he tossed his backpack inside the gazebo before squeezing in himself. It was a tight fit, but Yuri managed to fit thanks to his thin, lithe body. Between the bushes and the lattice of the gazebo’s base, it would be difficult to spot Yuri unless someone deliberately peered in, and he was mostly shielded from the wind.

For now, it would be an adequate home.

Exhaustion settled on his bones as he laid there, and he arranged his bag as best as he could to make a pillow for him to lay on and fall asleep.

Maybe he should have found a way to hold out until spring. At least then, he’d be able to be surrounded by more flowers, and maybe even be able to start his own garden, right here in the park. Now, the bushes and trees were starting to lose their leaves. In a month, he’d be surrounded by bare branches. But Yuri had made his decision, and he already knew that he didn’t want -- shouldn’t want -- to go back to Moroz Tsvetok.

It was late at night now. Yuri had bundled himself in more layers to stave off the cold, and stared up at the twinkle of stars beyond the frame of the gazebo’s roof. About now, Viktor had probably already figured out Yuri was gone, especially once he saw over half his food and all his spare money was missing. Yuri had used some of that money a few hours before to get some fresh pretzels and two cups of hot chocolate to warm himself.

This money won’t last forever. Neither will the food in the bag. What’s your next move?

Yuri sighed, scrubbing a hand over his face. He’d cross that bridge when he came to it. For now, he wanted to enjoy his first taste of true solitude. It had always been nagging foster parents and siblings and Yakov until this point, so Yuri was going to relish this moment of peace, with the world at his fingertips.

Maybe… I should find a way to go back to Moscow .

The thought of returning to his place of birth, to that little home in the fields, filled Yuri with a giddy, childish kind of hope. Deep down, he knew that no one was there to greet him. He was eight the last time he’d been in Moscow, so it was likely he wouldn’t even remember how to navigate the streets. Still, still , it felt a thousand times better than sitting in one place here.

He burned with resolve, vowing he’d go searching for the nearest train station once the sun rose. There might’ve been overnight trains, but he didn’t trust leaving his little respite while it was still dark out. From where he was, the lights of the buildings barely reached him. Lamp-posts near the entrance of the park were the only sources of light aside from the moon that peeked out between the rolling clouds.

Yuri watched the night sky, imagining the stars raining down, shaped like edelweiss flowers, tangling into his hair.

Finding a train station was easier said than done. He’d only gone on one once, when he was first brought to St. Petersburg. Since he chucked his phone, he’d have to go about this the good old-fashioned way.

He slipped himself and his bags into a bookstore he found and looked around for travel guides. In between the aisles, he found the botanical section. He pulled out some eye-catching volumes of gardening and field guides to the flowers of Russia and curiously glanced through them. To his surprise, there was also a flower dictionary hiding on the shelves, and he flipped through the pages with barely-contained delight, the book a ray of light in the sudden uncertainty of his life.

Most of the meanings he already knew, while some of them, as expected, weren’t anything he’d heard of before. It was still a useful book at any rate, complete with breathtaking photos of each flower featured, and Yuri figured he’d scratch out meanings he didn’t agree with and put in what his mother had taught him.

In the next aisle were books on cooking, and Yuri’s gut twisted, both from knowing he wouldn’t have a home-cooked meal in a while, and from the memories of Viktor’s various kitchen disasters before he and Yuuri had to start helping him.

In the end, he bought the flower dictionary and the travel guide with more of Viktor’s money, and he hoped he would still have enough for the train ticket. If not… Well, he’d cross that bridge if and when he came to it.

A new kind of isolation surrounded Yuri as he walked down the busy St. Petersburg streets, with not a single glance towards this boy in rumpled clothes and tangled hair carrying everything he owned. They knew not where he came from or what he had chosen to leave behind. He kept his head held high though, earbuds pressed into his ears. An old CD player was the only piece of technology he had kept with him, the player shoved into the ample space of his jacket pocket, the disc spinning inside the Ария CD that Otabek had recommended for him. The heavy bass pulled at his spine, punctuating each one of his steps.

“ Your home - became a jail to you

For those inside, you are a foreigner

You were naive and hoped for a change”

Yuri tensed, looking around when he swore he heard the sound of a motorbike down the street whispering under the music’s current. He immediately slipped into the nearest alley, uncaring when Viktor’s duffel bag shoved into a woman’s side.

One, two, three… The motorbike’s rumble faded away from Yuri, and he exhaled. The street was only full of cars.

He’d been careless; this was a common street he’d been in with both Viktor and Otabek. If he wasn’t more cautious, he’d be spotted before even finding the train station. Still, he didn’t emerge from the alley right away, only staring into the cracked brick in front of him, ignoring the bustle of the world beyond that threatened to break him.

His heart thudded in his small chest, in time with the guitar still blaring in his ears, an unnatural soundtrack with his peaceful surroundings.

“ You yourself decided to take that risk

Nobody told you to "Beware!" ”

It was well into the afternoon by the time he woke up the next day to the sound of children that had come to play in the park, chasing each other down slides and being pushed on swings by their parents.

Today was it. The day he was leaving St. Petersburg at last. Yuri had mentally marked the path to the train station, and had told himself he’d get ready to head out first thing in the morning. But all night, his thin veil of sleep was interrupted by cars and buses passing by, and he woke up swearing that he was going to get caught. As a result, when he finally did pass out, he overslept.

He rubbed at his eyes and quietly got out of his gazebo home. Yuri occupied one of the picnic tables to eat lunch, pulling out sandwich meats and cookies and peeling oranges with his nails until his skin burned with the citrus. As he ate, he mindlessly observed the families playing in the park.

Back in his childhood home, Yuri’s grandfather had crafted a swing for Yuri, tying it onto a strong branch in a tree out in the yard. He’d push Yuri back and forth until Yuri got the hang of swinging his legs in a rhythm to keep him going higher and higher. He’d laugh in delight when his grandfather would stand in front of him, high-fiving his little bare feet.

“Mama’s gonna get you, little one! Better run~!”

“Eeeek! Mama, hehehe!”

Not for the first time, Yuri imagined what kind of life he’d have if his family were still around. It was hard to think about it, if he’d still get into dumb arguments with them like he did with Viktor, or if he’d still scowl all the time and get his forehead rubbed on to ease the creases like Otabek did to him once.

It was getting harder though, trying to reconcile his happy childhood self with whatever thorny teenager he was now.

The more he thought about it, the more he wondered when that happy child started to wither within him. Yuri had watched his grandfather die right before his eyes, in slow motion with his physical sickness. He couldn’t say that his mother had been alright either -- mentally, anyway. The guilt that had been plaguing her had taken her life too… And Yuri had to learn it via a breaking news story on television.

His house had been so empty. It had been a dying home for months. It didn’t erase the happiness Yuri did have, but Yuri definitely recognized now just how oppressive the loneliness and fear had been. Pain had existed in that home, and it was just now becoming to clear to Yuri.

“Papa, wanna slide now! Wanna slide!”

“Okay, okay, let me help you up. Oh, look at you go! Such a big girl now!”

But it was pointless to think about his life going differently. Sitting here, homeless and in the cold, citrusy fingertips growing pink, was his life now.

He glanced away from the families and towards the last wrinkled buds of petunias trying to weather the chilly winds. He got up from his picnic table and plucked them up, seeing how the blooms sat pathetically in his palm.

All these years, flowers had been his only solace. It was such an unassuming and unlikely match for him, yet when he couldn’t handle being around human beings, simply brushing sweet, soft petals over his cheeks and skin felt like a soothing embrace. Their colorful faces, their delicate lives that required nurturing and a bit of fight, their secret messages -- Yuri loved all of it. All he needed was to be away from people with their plastic love and just be among the flowers, his last gift from his family.

Even the petunia in his hand held significance; it was one of his trademark flowers. Anger .

He should be angry. He had every right to resent this world.

But he...wasn’t angry at all.

Yuri’s vision blurred, pain clenching his chest tightly. This sure felt like anger, where he could barely hear anything around him, and his breathing grew unsteady as his whole body shook with unreleased energy. But what threatened the dam in his chest wasn’t explosive. What Yuri felt instead was the dam caving in .

In the blur of his vision, the petunia shifted to hyacinth, the flowers a cold amethyst.

( Please forgive me.)

Mama…

(Please forgive me.)

Dedulya… Viktor, Yuuri…

Beka--

“Fuck,” he whispered, crushing the flowers in his trembling fist. “Oh fuck… ”

Everything...was his fault, wasn’t it? His mother conceiving him had been an accident. He ruined her career. He wasn’t good enough to keep a father or strong enough to keep a grandfather. And he certainly couldn’t keep a foster father that actually, sincerely cared about him, or a friend that wanted to only show him fields of love in his homeland.

Yuri had been implored to forgive, when his existence fucked everything up in the first place.

I don’t know what to do, I don’t know what to do…

All the flowers Otabek had given him before the hyacinth and zinnia were so beautiful , full of such strong yet tender messages, starting with that striped tulip. Yuri didn’t think that he let any of their meanings in until this moment, now that he was looking back on a path where he chose to walk alone.

“ Well, we all hope that our flowers carry more than a simple message, right? Our intentions and wishes rest in each of them. One way or another, feelings find a way to be bridged .”

When was the last time he gave flowers that weren’t full of hostility?

“ Your ‘nothing much’s are amounting to very great things, aren’t they, Yura? You’re a miracle worker at connecting people’s hearts. ”

Maybe he could connect other people together, but Yuri was still only weeding out bonds made with him and others before they could spread.

Yuri sniffed, swiping furiously at his eyes with his jacket sleeve. The petunias fluttered down to his feet and got swept up in the wind.

When he looked up, Otabek was looking at him on the other side of the park’s gate.

Chapter Text

It was like some sick joke. All his life, there had always been something separating Yuri from other people -- whether it was the physical walls of his home in Moscow where his birth was a secret, or the mental ones that Yuri drew up like thorny bushes to keep others away once he was put in the foster system.

That same wall was but a short park fence now, separating Yuri from where Otabek stood. It was a flimsy barrier, one either of them could easily jump over, but neither of them made a move. Yuri had been prepared to turn away as soon as Otabek recognized him, but Otabek wasn’t taking a step closer. He stared though, and that alone was enough to reach Yuri, who stood straighter, trying to make himself bigger, daring Otabek to do anything.

There was a scab on Otabek’s lip, the indent of where Yuri’s teeth had bitten into him. It was brandished and bare, almost with pride. Yuri pictured Otabek running his fingertips over it, his tongue licking up the blood. Maybe Yuri wasn’t the only one who would remember the kiss forever, after all.

He should get out of here. Otabek had to know by now that Yuri had run away; he wouldn’t hold it past Viktor to alert all of St. Petersburg of his disappearance. Yakov might have heard by now too, and Yuri’s stomach curled at the thought that this would be the chance he’d been fighting for to break off Viktor’s adoption of him. It’d be proof of Viktor’s negligence as a parent and Yuri would be taken away, just like he wanted.

Just like he wanted…

“I thought you were in Almaty,” he called out, only because how Otabek stood there like a park statue, just staring , was driving Yuri up the wall.

“I thought you were locked in your room,” Otabek quipped without missing a beat. Very slowly, so that Yuri wouldn’t mistake his intention, he shifted his weight and stuffed his hands in his pockets. “I tried calling you.”

The breeze had finally died down, leaving a chilling silence in the late-autumn air so that Yuri could make out the low tone of Otabek’s voice. The sound of it settled soothingly on Yuri’s shoulders, resonating between the bars of his ribcage where Yuri felt most empty. He licked his lips, chapped from cold, and still salty with his dried tears.

“Yeah? I threw my phone out, so I wouldn’t know.” Yuri thought of the missed calls and texts from Otabek, and wondered how many more there were now since running away.

Otabek’s face softened, searching for any answers that were written on Yuri’s face. Yuri was bad at hiding what he felt, and never actually needed to put on a front; he always let past families and Yakov know his disgust and displeasure through the years. But as always when it came to Otabek, Yuri wondered just what it was he was seeing.

“Can we talk?” he finally asked. “That’s all I want to do.”

Yuri scoffed. “Yeah, right. How do I know you won’t call Viktor or the police or something?”

“The police?” Otabek raised a brow. “You’re hardly a fugitive or criminal, Yurochka.”

Yuri nearly winced at the sound of the nickname. With Otabek’s light tone, it was almost like they were having a normal conversation like they had any other time, sitting on the motorbike and eating frozen yogurt while sharing earbuds to listen to music. Those images weren’t to be repeated in the new future Yuri had planned for himself, single-handedly ripped away by his own frustrations and shortcomings. For that alone, he might as well be on the run.

When Yuri didn’t join in the playfulness, Otabek held up his hands. “I won’t call anyone. Knowing you, you’ll take off the moment I even pull out my phone.” To prove his point, he fished the device out, holding it out. “You can hold onto it, if you’d like.”

Yuri watched as the phone was tossed out, landing with a soft thump on the grass a few feet from where Yuri stood. He walked over and picked it up, the phone still warm from being in Otabek’s pocket.

“My truck is parked down the street,” Otabek said. He pointed in the direction his truck was in.

Yuri ignored him. For liability’s sake, he decided to put the phone in his jacket. It started losing its floral and damp, sugary scent when he slept outside, traded in for stale sweat and dead air. Even though it was getting colder, Otabek probably still smelled like warm, dry earth. Like tulips. He would be refreshing, like sunshine.

Yuri took a step back. Then another, starting to turn. He picked up his bags, leaving the mess of his food on the picnic table. When he straightened up again, Otabek was still there, watching him, probably expecting Yuri to ignore him and run off. Yuri could do it, but Otabek would be able to catch him in an instant.

So why this stupid beating-around-the-bush game? You could grab me and stuff me in your truck now, if you wanted . If Otabek really wanted him, he could just pluck him up like a little daisy. The fact that Otabek was holding back irritated Yuri, who itched for a reason to fight. 

God, he saw me being so weak. Crying like a little lost baby, then just standing on the sidelines like this -- how humiliating! Otabek already knew far more about Yuri than he cared for, too dangerously close to this pain Yuri hadn’t even known he’d been burying. Even if Otabek knew about Yuri’s revelation, there would be nothing he could do; there wouldn’t be some magic place he could give Yuri where he’d belong with his arms perfectly around Otabek’s waist.

Yuri thought of his determination he’d woken up with, his goal to return to Moscow. That wasn’t his magic happily-ever-after place, either. He knew that. Yuri’s chest clenched, the loneliness and desperation pressing in on him again, but he refused to cry again while Otabek was still around.

But then where am I supposed to go? Back to the flower shop?

Yuri couldn’t go back. He kept telling himself that as he walked down the length of the park, away from the children still laughing with their families, away from the lovers that slowly rocked on couples’ swings and shared hot chocolate. He couldn’t go back. He was toxic to the touch. He made himself that way so that none could pluck him up.

If not with his running-away stint, there would be countless other ways for him to break Viktor’s family, to crush this relationship with Otabek. They were just all fragile buds of yarrow under his foot.

Yuri could see Otabek follow him out of the corner of his eye, paralleling every one of Yuri’s steps on the other side of the fence. Yuri stared back down at the scruff of his shoes, his vision spinning around the edges.

I don’t know where my feet are taking me.

It wasn’t too late to run away. If he ditched his bags, he could probably run faster than Otabek. It wasn’t too late.

It’s not too late, the words came in Yuri’s head sounding quiet and warm.

In Yuri’s straight path that he’d been walking, he’d come to another edge of the fence. He paused in front of it, long enough for Otabek to come around and stand in front of Yuri, only an arms-length away.

Yuri squatted down, uncaring when the heavy, stuffed bags fell from his shoulders and thumped onto the grass. 

“Yuri…”

“Just,” Yuri raised a hand, slowly curling it into a shaking fist, “just wait. Just wait a minute. I thought -- I thought you left. You...you fucking asshole , I thought you left !”

First Otabek’s worn boots, then his legs and torso came into view as he squatted down too. “You...ran away because you thought I left?” Otabek was confused, not out of guessing the situation, but wondering when Yuri’s thought process worked this way; when the loud, headstrong boy started depending so much on others’ presence.

He’d be right to be confused about that; it wasn’t like Yuri at all, and Yuri barked out a dry laugh. “I’m not that fucking pathetic. Don’t think so highly of yourself. Now tell me why the hell you’re here and not miles away with your family!”

“I told you that if I went back to Almaty, I’d take you with me.”

“That’s not what your stupid message implied! You made it sound like you needed forgiveness for leaving, you piece of shit!”

Yuri glared up, seeing that Otabek’s eyes had widened a fraction, his lips parted. Those lips pressed together then, straining the scab there as he recognized his error. “I was just trying to remind you of that promise. I wanted to fix things, so I thought they’d help. The flowers and the reminder that we’d go away together, that is.”

Yuri wished the fence wasn’t in the way. He needed to give Otabek a good punch in the face. Several times. Stupid! Sending such an easily misinterpreted message! But Yuri supposed when it came to flowers, people tended to misread them all the time.

He reached out, gripping the bars so tight that his bony knuckles turned white. “I,” he huffed hotly, “ hate hyacinths. Don’t ever ask for my forgiveness, you hear me? If you ever send me shit like that then leave , then no matter how many flowers you give me, I will never ever forgive you.”

“No hyacinths,” Otabek promised with a curt nod. “And no leaving.”

Yuri could see plainly in his eyes that he wasn’t lying.

Otabek rose to his feet, and waited until Yuri did the same.

Then, one by one, Yuri picked his bags up and tossed them with force at Otabek, who caught them without complaint. He always just took whatever Yuri threw at him. Part of Yuri wanted to test just how much Otabek could handle before he’d finally snap. But another part hoped that would never happen.

After all, Otabek promised . And Yuri needed proof that this wouldn’t be a mistake.

He braced his hands on the fence. Otabek gave him some room. With a short breath, Yuri hopped up, swung his leg over, and landed on the other side.

The first snow was early this year. As soon as Yuri stepped into Otabek’s truck, the first flakes already started to flutter down from the grey skies. It was light, and would probably melt as soon as they hit the ground. The grass and trees would be dotted with the cold droplets within the hour.

Otabek must’ve been fresh out of the flower market. The back of his truck was packed with the remaining flowers, and Yuri could see poppies dance under the gap in the black tarp. Yuri glanced away from them and instead traced the falling frozen flakes outside like constellations.

“What are you going to do once winter comes?” he asked. “And the farm gets all frozen?”

“The Babichevas have a hothouse, so we’ll grow most of the flowers there. I’m not overly fond of the method, but I suppose we have to keep business going somehow.”

Yuri guessed that was true. The earth might grow cold, and plants might start to die, but human beings’ lives kept going -- there were still funerals, babyshowers, weddings, hospital visits, first dates, anniversaries… All manners of occasions that people celebrated, even when the sun wasn’t shining.

Otabek turned the heater on and faced them toward Yuri, whose fingertips were still dark-pink from cold.

They drove down the streets, and Otabek never mentioned where they were going. Yuri resolved to make a break for it if they so much as turned down Viktor’s street, but they approached it then just as quickly left it behind. Yuri stared back at it, but they were gone before he could even see if the shop was open or not.

The buildings continued to pass aimlessly, and Yuri was tired of the silence. He pressed play on the car’s half-busted CD player, and it whirred to life, heavy metal thrumming through the truck. Yuri slumped in his seat, soaking himself in the bass thumping against his temples.

Maybe they were driving to Almaty right this instant. Yuri wouldn’t mind it. Not so much for the destination itself, but more for the journey. Even when he fantasized about going back to Moscow, what Yuri always anticipated the most was the movement, the mobility , to be able to go wherever he pleased. He spent the past eight years in the back seats of cars, heading to the set destination of his new foster home, his supposed permanent home, and he was always filled with dread during the drive there.

This was the first time someone else drove and Yuri didn’t mind having no control over where they ended up. The sky rolling overhead, the blur of the buildings, and the truck’s low, soothing rumble taking them along with the wind’s ride… Yuri felt relaxed, and nearly fell asleep.

But then they took a turn, and Yuri knew that their ride had ended. The dread returned. The music was cut off as Otabek parked, and Yuri took a peek out the window.

It wasn’t the streets or brick buildings or concrete that greeted him outside, but the Babicheva flower farm. It opened up before them, like an embrace welcoming them home.

Yuri stared at the fields, unmoving until there was the rusty slam of the door as Otabek got out of the truck and looped around to Yuri’s side. He waited until Yuri unglued his forehead to the window before opening the door wide. He gestured out, the act almost laughably gentleman-like.

It took little coaxing for Yuri to slide out, and he put his hood up as he did so to avoid the bits of snowflakes from sticking to his hair.

They were at the edge of Otabek’s plot of land, once bursting with his beloved Kazakh flowers. A few healthy tulips and poppies lingered, but where their rows ended, cyclamen shot up, curious and proud. They meant timid hope , but it was completely at odds with the bold vibrancy of their purple and red petals, and how straight and sure their stems stood. In Yuri’s opinion, any flower that managed to weather through the approaching cold was not timid in the least. Their fight was long, their flourishing blooms a well-deserved badge of beauty and bravery.

Yuri settled down beside a row of purple ones, thumbing at the butterfly-wing petals, feeling their softness and energy flow into him, revitalizing him. He exhaled, grateful.

Otabek sat down beside him, stretching out the tightness in his muscles and popping his bones. His keys settled between them, and Yuri looked at them. The notion of grabbing them and taking the truck was a brief one, a lingering desire of rebellion since he was still pissed at Otabek. He was pissed, and definitely planned to give Otabek those punches, but -- Yuri knew if they ever sat together like this again among the flowers, he wouldn’t toss the moment aside.

“You’re cheating,” he muttered petulantly.

“Maybe. But I’d like to think I just know you a little.” Otabek leaned back onto the ground as he said it, carefully wedging himself between the thick foilage of the cyclamens’ leaves.

Yuri huffed a breath, a faint mist in the cold. “Yeah. Just a little.” Eventually he laid down too, a patch of flowers separating them.

Something was tossed onto him, warm to the touch. Otabek’s jacket. Yuri thought about tossing it back, but the scent well-worn into the clothing was too sweet and familiar to pass up. Yuri curled it around his body without saying thanks.

The light drops of snow continued to float down.

“What were they for?” Yuri asked. “If you weren’t asking me to forgive you for leaving.”

Yuri saw Otabek’s exhale rather than heard it. After a moment, he replied, “It wasn’t for the kiss. You made it clear how you thought about me apologizing for that.”

“Then what?”

Another pause. “I was just sorry for making you upset. I… Ever since I first saw you, I wanted to be your friend. I wanted to reach out to you. I thought we finally had a bridge between us. But then that day, you started pulling away. You left.”

You left .

That was right, Yuri had been the one to walk out this time. He huddled more into the jacket, his nails digging into the dirt. “Yeah, I do that. It’s -- reflex, you know. But,” he thought of their first few meetings, “you already know that.”

A soft, amused sound breathed out from Otabek, full of memories of those spiteful bouquets Yuri had tossed at his stall. “I do.”

“You kept giving me flowers anyway. You kept wanting to be friends anyway.”

“Yeah,” Otabek said. “I really do.”

Yuri dug into the dirt deeper, stray flecks being kicked onto his nose and cheeks. He knew how he wanted to respond to that, but the words remained stuck on his tongue, heavy in his throat. He pressed his lips together, frustrated, and abandoned his dirt hole to reach further out. Halfway through the cyclamen to reach Otabek, he hesitated, then pulled his hand back.

“You’re an idiot,” he whispered, breath hot. “A fuckin’ A-grade asshole . I hate…” His tongue refused to move and finish it. Yuri growled. “I hate… !”

Otabek shifted, propping himself up on his elbow to look over at Yuri in the middle of his frustrated rant. At the sight of him, Yuri finally burst, shoving the heel of his palm into Otabek’s sternum. Otabek barely budged. Yuri shot up and shoved at him again, then again with a fist. His hits came full-force, then died like shattered comets on Otabek’s chest.

He didn’t cry when he clutched onto Otabek’s shirt, so hard his nails dug into the tanned skin.  His lungs squeezed with burning anger, his throat clenched to block out the explosion of meaningless profanities, and he sagged down until his head was on Otabek’s thighs. Even then, he fought, headbutting him and pounding fists on his chest. Otabek took it all without pulling back.

“Fight me!” Yuri said. “Fucking fight me!” At least if Otabek fought back, he could get some satisfaction. He’d be able to properly vent this unbearable heat coiled in his chest like some caged animal.

But Otabek did nothing. “I am,” was all he replied, utterly motionless save for his breathing and throbbing heartbeat. The worst part was that Yuri knew he was telling the truth.

“Fuck you! Coward! Asshole!” Yuri’s fists dropped, panting raggedly against Otabek’s belt, his breath fogging up the buckle. He became aware then of the awkward spread of Otabek’s thighs, and how heavily Yuri leaned in between them. It irritated him even more, burning his cheeks, but Yuri didn’t pull back.

“Why the hell did you ever give striped tulips to someone like me?” His words came out in a rasp. He focused on the folds of Otabek’s shirt, the tight stitches on his leather belt, thinking about cutting them one by one.

Otabek didn’t answer right away. Instead, he shifted, holding Yuri’s shoulders to bring him back up to eye-level. The tussle had disheveled his hood and hair, and Otabek’s gentle, persuasive hands brushed back both, leaving Yuri’s face in plain view. The chilly air brushed his cheeks and stung his eyes, but he continued to glare defiantly against it.

One of Otabek’s warm half-smiles graced his abused lips. A quiet laugh soon followed, showing a flash of teeth. “Because of that ,” he said, meeting Yuri’s gaze with equal intensity, even if with a different feeling. “Yuri Plisetsky. It was your eyes that caught my attention in the first place -- the strong, piercing eyes of a soldier.”

Despite that claim, Yuri found himself stunned, and had to break their stare. “What, me? A soldier?”

“Yes. Even before you came to my stall, I noticed you because of your eyes. The fierceness in them, the unyielding fight… I thought they were so striking. So when you came by, I could think of nothing else to give you but the tulip.”

The heat returned to Yuri’s cheeks, creeping up the nape of his neck. He resisted the urge to pull his curtain of hair in front of his face again.

When he had packed up to leave, he’d taken everything with him but the flowers that probably mattered the most to him, the most basic proofs of his existence -- the chamomile, and the striped tulips.

“I wanted to be your friend,” Otabek continued. “But I know that things have happened to you, a long string of battles that you can’t stop fighting. I don’t know if there is ever anything I could do for you, if you’ll ever let me in more, but at the very least -- I wanted to be your comrade on the field. I wanted you to rely on me, Yurochka.”

Yuri released a shuddering breath. The words were striking a deeper chord in him than he anticipated. They weren’t ones he deserved. This kind of love that didn’t stab him in the back wasn’t one that he was used to. Limitless. Unconditional. Like the love between a parent and child, between best friends that found each other.

But I mean, who believes in something like unconditional love?

“I don’t think I’m the kind of person you should invest in,” he confessed in a whoosh. “I’m a lot of things, but -- I’m not a friend and I’m not a son. Not anymore, anyway.”

“You can burn down a field of flowers, but that doesn’t mean nothing can grow there anymore,” Otabek said with equal certainty. “Maybe it takes years until it happens. Maybe it takes some clean up. Even then, ash will linger in the soil. But as long as the earth exists, something can sprout there again. You still exist, don’t you?”

Yuri choked out a laugh, staring pointedly at the scab on Otabek’s lip. “You have the proof of that, don’t you?”

“Yeah, I do,” Otabek agreed, the simple words carrying the weight of every moment shared between them. That proof would be forever tattooed into their hearts and minds, and Yuri knew there was no need for bite marks or scrapbooks or flowers to prove that.

Yuri laughed again, breathlessly, and maybe a bit deliriously. He shook his head, hanging it low. “This is shit I can’t do, Beka,” he whispered to the ground, but he knew Otabek had heard him.

The cyclamens’ leaves rustled as Otabek stood up. “Not alone, anyway,” he said, and leaned down to ruffle the unruly length of Yuri’s hair. It had to be grimy and gross by now, but Otabek didn’t seem to care as he nuzzled into it.

“Come on,” Otabek murmured into his hair. “It’s time to go home, soldier.”

Yuri refused to return until they had scoped the whole farm and then several flower shops. Otabek made the suggestion that they wait until tomorrow only once, and said it quietly outside the truck’s window, as if he knew he wouldn’t be able to stop Yuri’s tirade.

If Otabek thought he was unyielding, fine. Yuri was going to show him just how much he was ready to fight for this. The same burning sensation to spring into action pumped through Yuri’s veins as it did a few days ago. But this time, he wasn’t using that energy to run away.

It would probably be better to just show up at Viktor’s doorstep as he was. He kept Viktor worried long enough, but Yuri was never good about being selfless. Just a little longer now, Yuri wanted to do things his way. It might be the worst way, but for now, this was how Yuri knew how to do things.

Besides… He had Otabek right there to support him.

“This is what happens when you search for flowers out-of-season,” Otabek sighed after they left the third flower shop.

“Shut up, it’s for a good fuckin’ cause,” Yuri snapped back, climbing into the truck. He still had Otabek’s jacket on over his own, so he had to roll up the sleeves a bit to grab the door’s handle and hold onto the flowers properly.

Otabek started up the car, managing an amused smile. “That’s true enough. Do you have everything?”

Between all the locations they visited, Yuri had managed to bring together a bouquet, and now currently combined them as they drove, arranging the stems and blooms in a presentable way. After months of working at Moroz Tsvetok, Yuri’s hands automatically itched to cut some ribbon and hold a pin in his mouth, but he worked with what he had.

In the end, what laid on his lap was an arrangement of flax and bluebells, the small blue star and bell-shaped blossoms crowning the daffodils in the center. Yuri framed the bouquet with the herbs the shops had given him, until it looked somewhat pretty. Viktor’s critical eye for flower arranging would find all the flaws and mismatches, but hopefully they could be looked over, just this once. Yuri kept fidgeting the flowers around, just to have something to do.

“Yeah,” he finally answered. “It’s ready.”

“And you?”

Yuri nodded. “I’m ready too.”

It was already well into the dark hours by the time Otabek drove them in the direction of Moroz Tsvetok. The last shop they went to had already been seconds away from closing before Yuri literally barged in demanding the last flowers and nearly scaring the middle-aged shopkeeper out of her wits. All the running around and searching had been worth it though.

As expected, the lights to the shop were off, casting lonely shadows over the window and onto some forgotten displays that Viktor hadn’t put back in the freezer. Yuri didn’t even need to wonder why Viktor suddenly got so sloppy with taking care of the store. Upstairs, the blinds were down, but light was illuminated in the living room area.

Otabek parked a few yards away and turned expectantly to Yuri. “Do you need me to go with you?”

As much as Yuri appreciated the sincere concern, he shook his head. “Nah. I’m not a little kid. Besides,” he looked down at the flowers in his hands, “Viktor said I have to start having more awareness for the people around me. I don’t know how to do that yet, but…”

Otabek nodded to the bouquet. “It’s a start.”

“Yeah.” Yuri rolled his lips between his teeth and kicked the door open. Halfway out, he paused. He stared at his shoes, then fished out Otabek’s phone, handing it back to him. “Hey,” he said, “I’m sorry.” And he was. Otabek had put up with him all day after being missing, had went along with every one of Yuri’s whims, and had even gotten Yuri to slowly feel at ease. He was the earth itself, cradling the stubborn bloom that was Yuri.

This kindness wasn’t something he understood, but neither did Yuri want to live without it. It might be the most selfish thing, and he might use all that kindness up from Otabek, from Viktor. But Yuri wanted to keep fighting. He wanted to believe in the person he could grow to be.

“It’s okay.” Otabek said it the way he said most things; full of unspoken meaning, and full of emotion. He was a quiet guy, tough and stoic, but he was surprisingly expressive and kind. Yuri loved it immensely.

He slid down to the sidewalk, and Otabek cleared his throat.

“I’ll see you at the market, then?”

“Assuming I’m not grounded for fuckin’ life,” Yuri said with a dry laugh.

“And my jacket?” Otabek raised a brow.

Yuri shook his head. “I’m keeping it. Looks cooler on me anyway.” He closed the truck’s door and walked up to the storefront. It occurred to him too late that the door was locked, and he didn’t want to explain breaking in on top of running away in the first place.

To his surprise, light suddenly filled the back of the counter where the staircase was located. A shadow fluttered down at high-speed, weaving through the half-empty displays until Viktor was behind the door, frantically undoing the locks and pulling the door open. Yuri glanced over, and saw that Otabek was already driving away. Viktor noticed too, but spared the truck only the barest glance before his gaze and arms and relieved breaths were wrapping around Yuri like a safe blanket.

“Yuri!” he breathed, fingers weaving in Yuri’s hair, his body nearly crushing the bouquet before Yuri moved it out of the way. He held him tightly, afraid he’d disappear again. “Yuri, thank god, thank god , you’re here!”

“Can’t breathe,” Yuri gasped, face pressed awkwardly into Viktor’s shoulder. Approaching from behind was an excited Makkachin pressing his paws on Yuri’s legs, and Yuuri. He had his hand pressed to his chest, like he was trying to calm his heart.

Viktor finally pulled back, his eyes wide and rimmed with sleepless nights. He held Yuri’s face in his hands, stroking through his hair and patting down his shoulders. He recognized the jacket Yuri was wearing then. “Otabek found you. I-- Yuri, where have you been ? Where did you go ?”

“Nowhere,” Yuri choked out lamely. He told himself the squeeze in his lungs was because Viktor had held him so tightly. It sucked how small he suddenly felt, like a piece of trash left on the sidewalk. He shivered.

Viktor coaxed him inside. “You must be freezing! Come on. Come upstairs.” He held Yuri around the shoulders as they walked, not as hard as before, but definitely needing the reassurance and needing to give it to Yuri as well. Even when Viktor was probably angered and scared beyond his wits, he was still trying to be gentle with Yuri. It reminded Yuri so much of his grandfather’s love.

A delicious scent wafted through as soon as they were upstairs, like meat and eggs. It was past dinnertime, but it looked and smelled like something was being well-prepared in the kitchen. It had to be Yuuri’s cooking. Halfway back to the kitchen, Yuuri proposed that he’d make some tea.

“Yura, which would you like?” Yuuri offered him a warm smile. “Oolong? Chrysanthemum? Passionflower? I kind of went crazy on teas lately…”

Yuri didn’t need to think twice. “Passionflower,” he murmured. For faith . He needed some at this moment. And, if he hadn’t already expended what faith Viktor had already been giving him. Ever since he first adopted Yuri, Viktor had suspected him to run away; who knew that those fears were completely founded.

As Yuuri went into the kitchen, Viktor sat in his chair across from Yuri. Under the light, his tired appearance was more visible. The lines around his eyes were deeper, and his hair was disheveled like he kept running his hands through it. The blue of his eyes were swallowed by red -- had he been crying? Yuri’s heart stuttered.

“What’s that?”

Yuri looked down at the bouquet in his hands. The flowers were still intact, tiny explosions of stars surrounding suns. The flowers suddenly didn’t seem to be nowhere near enough to convey what Yuri wanted to say to Viktor. But he had to try.

He took a deep breath, holding them out to Viktor. “Flax,” he said. “They mean I feel your kindness . Daffodils are for new beginnings . And bellflowers...for gratitude . I got lucky with the fern; they’re for sincerity .”

Viktor stared at him, realization slowly dawning in his eyes.

Yuri pushed the flowers closer. “They’re for you. I -- I know there should a hell of a lot more, but it’s getting to be off-season for a lot of flowers, so this was what I could put together on short notice, y’know?” His arm lowered a little. “I totally get it if you can’t take them.”

“No. No, I love them.” Viktor shook his head. He got up and took the bouquet, carefully like he was cradling a child. Bringing them to his chest, he smelled the blooms, the petals tickling against his cheeks.

“This is how you handle flowers, isn’t it?” Viktor pieced it together, why Yuri turned his nose up at so many bridal bouquets, why he arranged the flowers the way he did.

Yuri nodded, watching as Yuuri came back with the teas, placing them one by one onto the coffee table. He plucked his mug up, staring into the curling steam and letting the sweet passionflower’s scent tickle his nose. “Yeah. My biological mother taught it to me, the language of flowers.”

Viktor held the bouquet closer, then got up again to circle his other arm around Yuri. “Why did you run away?” he asked into his hair.

“It just got too much. This got too much.” Yuri gestured to Viktor’s hug, to Yuuri and his delicious tea and small, open smile. Makkachin approached the bittersweet love pile, and rested his head on Yuri’s lap. The words settled in, and they all took a large gulp of tea, the warmth and taste melting on their tongues and soothing their insides.

“I’m sorry,” Yuri finally whispered. “Does -- does Yakov know? Or the police or anyone?”

Viktor shook his head. “That probably would’ve been the responsible thing. But I kept thinking about what if they took you from me once you were found. I got-- I panicked. Not very adultlike, really.” He huffed out a dry laugh.

“We’re just really happy that you’re okay,” Yuuri said. He looked like he wanted to reach out, but memories of Yuri snapping at him and flinching away from his touch flickered in his expression and he refrained.

Yuri sighed, and rested his head on Yuuri’s shoulder. His cheeks burned, embarrassed, but the soft curve of Yuuri against his forehead didn’t feel unpleasant. After a moment, Yuuri raised a hand and started stroking through Yuri’s hair. Viktor, having shifted along, still held him. They had to have looked so ridiculous. Yuri had to have looked ridiculous. It felt like coming full circle, being this dirty, rebellious boy in the middle of a home that was supposed to love and raise him.

This was the first time in years that such a home felt tangible for Yuri.

Yuri drank his tea until the mug was empty. Yuuri offered him his cup afterward, which unfortunately meant he took his hand away from petting Yuri. When the soothing feeling came back though, Yuri had to grit his teeth to keep from crying.

He’d come back. He’d come back home.

“You smell gross,” he said to Viktor.

“You’re not any better, mister,” Viktor replied with a laugh, slumping further down Yuri’s skinny body.

“He literally hasn’t showered in days,” Yuuri informed. “No matter how many times I tried to coax him.”

“What a child.”

“I missed my child, that’s why!” Viktor very nearly flinched as he said it, as if wondering if it was too soon to say that again during such a sore time. His hold tightened just a bit around Yuri like he expected him to bolt right out the door again at his slip.

But Yuri had made his decision already, and he didn’t like doing things half-assed. Just this once, Yuri decided to cut him some slack and not mention it. “Hey, twinkle toes. What are you cooking in there?”

Yuuri perked up. “Oh, right! Hold on, I think it’s done.” He gently eased Yuri back up and slipped away, but Makkachin quickly took his place, licking at Yuri’s face.

“Ugh, gross, get off me, you stupid fluff-bag!” Yuri turned his face this way and that, but could not evade the assault of kisses until Makkachin was at last satisfied. Yuri sighed, patting the dog’s head; this family was growing to be nothing but a bunch of babies.

“Let him off the hook this once. He missed you too. He’s actually how I knew you had gone.” Viktor reached out to ruffle Makkachin’s curly fur. “I came upstairs because I kept hearing Makkachin whine and paw at the door. When I went up to check on you two… You weren’t there.”

Yuri met Viktor’s gaze. Those blue eyes had gained their resolve again, bright and strong. It matched the hopeful smile on Viktor’s lips.

“We’ll go slow,” Viktor promised. “One day at a time, okay, Yura? But no more running away. Just tell me when you need space. Tell me when you need anything . A father does his best to provide happiness. So even if I can’t give it to you today, will you stick around? Until we meet each other halfway. That,” he brushed back Yuri’s bangs, “is my way of showing my love.”

One day at a time. The future didn’t have to be set right now. But on this path, Yuri could see for the first time what was right in front of him. He was afraid, but at the same time he’d never been so sure and full of courage in his life.

He nodded at Viktor, mirroring his smile.

“Deal.”

After a minute, Yuuri came back, carefully balancing three bowls of food in his arms. Viktor stood up to help him, and they all gathered at the dinner table. Yuri followed the delicious scent and sat down, peering curiously at the food Yuuri gave him. It was loaded with rice and vegetables, egg and some sort of breaded meat. Forks were given to Viktor and Yuri, and Yuuri broke apart his own set of chopsticks.

“What’s this?” Yuri poked at an egg. It didn’t smell or look bad in the least. As a matter of fact, Yuri was just realizing how starved he was. He dug right in, shovelling forkfuls in his mouth, barely even taking a moment to swallow or breathe.

Yuuri laughed at his enthusiasm. “I’m not sure how to translate it to Russian, but where I’m from, it’s called katsudon . My mother made it all the time for me, and it made me happy, especially on bad days. So it became my favorite thing to eat. I did my best with finding the right ingredients, but well… Does it taste good?”

A dish made from a parent’s love. Food made especially to make a child happy. It brought comfort, and Yuuri had probably made it hoping to cheer up Viktor. It just so happened the night he made it was the same as when Yuri came back home.

Yuri could taste it, rich and filling, settling in his stomach and chest. A taste of comfort and love. He remembered this flavor from the pirozhki his grandfather would make in Moscow, presenting them to Yuri with a proud grin and a pat on the head, telling him to eat and grow strong.

"You'll become so strong," his grandfather would predict.

He paused in the middle of stuffing his face, stray bits of rice sticking to his lips and egg on his chin as he stared into his half-empty bowl.

“Yuri...?”

“Oh -- ahh, is it bad after all? I’m sorry, I’ll make something else--”

Yuri shook his head vehemently. “No. No, don’t. It’s good.”

Yuuri paused right in the middle of getting up, and both he and Viktor stared at Yuri. Even with his curtain of hair, his expression was obvious.

“Oh, Yura…”

Yuri scrubbed the forming tears from his eyes and picked his fork up again. “It’s just really good, y’know!” he exclaimed, and went right back to eating.

By the time he was done, Yuuri had already prepared a second bowl for him, and Viktor had found a vase to put the bouquet of blue stars and sunshine in.

Yuri fell asleep at the dining room table fuller than he’d been in years.

Chapter Text

❀ Seven Months Later... ❀

Mila leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed as she stared at the two boys inside the bedroom. “Look, are you sure you don’t want to wait until after the hearing to do this?” 

They’d dragged a full-length mirror from Emilia’s room and propped it against one of Otabek’s walls. The desk chair in the corner was pulled in front of it, where Yuri sat with Otabek right behind him. Towels were laid on the floor, another pulled around Yuri’s shoulders. The fluffy rose-pink fabric was a contrast to the sharp scowl on Yuri’s face.

“It’s only another week,” Mila reminded.

“Shut up, hag! If I wanted to wait, I’d do it, but I want this now .” Yuri glared defiantly at Mila in the mirror. She only stuck her tongue out at him.

In her own way, Mila had learned how to put up with Yuri over the past few months. Mostly, whenever she didn’t challenge his brattyness with her own snarky remarks said with saccharine smiles, she briefly lowered herself to his level and pinched his sides and grabbed him with surprising strength for noogies. Or, worse yet, she’d purposefully withhold cakes from him when he and Otabek visited her at work. Petty hag. Yuri noted to himself that he never, ever wanted an older sister.

“You should shave him bald, Beks.”

“Hag, if you’re not helping, get the hell out!” Yuri huffed, his overgrown bangs fluttering out with his breath. “It’s getting so bothersome, I want this shit out of my face already. Come on, Beka!”

Behind him, Otabek brandished some shears in one hand and an electric shaver with the other, which he flicked on for dramatic effect. It was a bold fuchsia color, and had been borrowed from Mila, who re-did Otabek’s undercut and her own side-shave every few weeks. She had made a casual remark one afternoon that Yuri was the only one of them with “virgin hair,” but that was definitely NOT the reason Yuri sat in Otabek’s room that day.

As golden strands of Yuri’s hair rained onto the floor and the shaver buzzed, Mila shook her head and said, “Viktor is going to kill you.”

As it turned out, Viktor didn’t kill Yuri, but Yuri sure wished he did.

“Viktor, get your stupid hands off me!”

“But Yura, your haaaair ! Your beautiful angelic locks!” Viktor’s fingertips rubbed over the golden fuzz that covered half of Yuri’s head. The other half was trimmed but kept long enough to still brush over Yuri’s cheeks and chin.

Not one of Yuri’s hairs had been so short since his birth probably, but he found the new lightness that came with the removed weight of hair liberating, and not in a purely physical way. It felt like he’d cut out another kind of weight from himself, like he was someone new. It was thrilling. Exciting.

As  soon as Yuri finally managed to shake Viktor off, he dashed to the other side of the dining room table to put distance between them. “It’s just a half-shave, old man, get over it!”

“But your haaaair .” He’d repeated the same old whine for half an hour. “Yura, we have to stand in front of a judge next Thursday!”

“Oh, so you’d prefer I cover my head, right? With a hood , maybe?” Yuri tilted his chin up in a show of defiance, knowing this would strike a nerve.

As expected, Viktor completely froze, and wrinkled his nose. “ No . Oh no. Not that old thing.”

“You jacked it from me and washed it! It’ll take forever to build the charm back into that jacket! I’ve decided!” Yuri nodded, crossing his arms. “I’m definitely rolling around in the park in it then wearing it to court with my new haircut.”

“Yura, dooon’t-- ”

The door leading down to the shop opened, keys jingling from the lock as Yuuri stepped inside the apartment, his sports bag slung over his shoulder and cheeks lightly flushed.

“Sorry I’m late!” he said, pushing up his slipping glasses. “Opening night is soon so we’ve been rehearsing like crazy. What are you two going on about now? I heard your voices all the way from the shop.”

Right away, Viktor clung to his ally. “Yuuri, my love, just look ! Look at what our son did to his pretty little head!”

Yuuri’s eyes got wide, clearly imagining something horrible like an accident that had cracked Yuri’s poor skull open. When he found Yuri, the wide eyes remained, but considerably less full of fear and more of intrigue. He released a relieved breath, putting a hand on his chest. He did the gesture so often that Yuri was convinced he gave Yuuri mini heart-attacks at least three times a week.

“ Oh ! You just cut your hair! It looks great, Yura.” He dropped his bag on the sofa and went over to admire Yuri’s new style, tentatively reaching out to run his hand over the shaved part.

Out of reflex, Yuri tensed at the contact, but he slowly released his breath and let Yuuri touch him. It had slowly gotten easier to stop dodging every hand that reached for him, the tension dissipating from his body especially from Yuuri’s well-meaning touches. He was too warm and too nice to pull away from. Sometimes, when Yuri let him, Yuuri would patiently brush the tangles from his hair or put it in a plait. It was comforting, especially on lazy evenings, not that Yuri would ever admit it.

He grinned, butting into Yuuri’s palm like a cat, encouraging him to feel. “Right? It’s cool, right?”

“Yes, you’ll certainly feel cooler since summer’s coming.”

“Not that cool, twinkle toes!”

“He couldn’t have waited a week , is all I’m saying,” Viktor continued. “The judge will think I made him into a delinquent .”

“Yes, the man that owns a flower shop, baby-talks his poodle, and is ga-ga for a ballet danseur has hurdled me down the hellish path to his criminal ways.” Yuri rolled his eyes and went into the kitchen to grab a drink from the fridge. “He’s just mad because I chose to shave my head while he has no choice but to be bald.”

Any protests Viktor would’ve had were silenced by audible smooches bestowed to him by said ballet danseur. “Let him be, Vitya. Besides, I love your bald head,” Yuuri teased.

“Oh, you’re both horrible!!”

When Yuri came back to plop onto the sofa, using Yuuri’s bag as a cushion, Yuuri was holding an envelope out to Viktor.

“By the way, I saw this taped to the shop’s door. It’s from Georgi.”

“Oh?” Viktor eased a tear into the envelope and pulled a card out from inside. It was highly decorative with white silk ribbons tied to the corners and glitter flashing into Yuri’s eyes and raining onto the floor when Viktor opened it up. As soon as he did, his eyes widened like he’d encountered the tenth wonder of the world. It was rare for Viktor Nikiforov to be surprised, so Yuri paid closer attention.

“Oh,” Viktor said again. “I -- I can’t believe it. Georgi is -- getting married .”

“ Excuse me? ” Yuri shot up from his seat, having nearly spat out his drink. “The same Georgi that got a million reject dates and basically funds your whole store?”

“Looks like he’ll be keeping that up; he’s inviting us to the wedding and wants us to do the floral arrangements for it.” Viktor scanned the contents of the card again and again, and easily let Yuri snatch it from his hands to find the mystery punchline that he’d missed.

When he came up empty as well, Yuri tossed the card behind him. “I can’t fucking believe this shit.”

“I don’t understand why it’s so surprising,” Yuuri said, clearly unamused. He bent down to get the card. “He came by for a bouquet literally every time he and Roza went out on a date. Every anniversary and miniscule holiday. I’d actually be disappointed if they didn’t get married.”

Well, that might’ve been true. Even Yuri started getting used to Georgi’s presence and came to expect the theatrical way the man spoke and moved and nearly danced around with Roza in the shop. Honestly, they all thought it a miracle that she hadn’t run for the hills like his past lovers. Somehow, someway, it seemed like Georgi had finally found his match.

Of course, their displays of affection were disgusting in Yuri’s firm opinion and he would’ve left Viktor to deal with them altogether if it wasn’t for how Georgi specifically requested Yuri’s consultation on every single bouquet. Yuri had no idea why he had to be dragged into it, but Viktor was more than happy to give the reins over and Georgi was all-too-pleased to continue believing Yuri’s bouquets were miracles of love themselves.

It got a good chuckle from Otabek every time Yuri told him about that, that Yuri had somehow become a couple’s romantic consultant. Yuri himself didn’t know what about his arrangements were making Georgi and other customers so insistent on Yuri’s touch to things. Little by little, he’d explained the language of flowers to a curious Viktor so that he could try making more meaningful bouquets himself if he wanted; Viktor was more suited to deal with customers anyway, yet Yuri’s advice continued to be in demand.

Viktor, though still in disbelief over this news, gave Yuri a hopeful smile. “Well, what do you think? I know weddings aren’t your thing, but you’ve helped him this much so far. And I’d love to hear your ideas for the arrangements.”

“You should do it,” Yuuri agreed with a smile.

“Georgi will probably cry if you don’t,” Viktor pointed out with a grimace, “and I’m not equipped to deal with his special brand of bridezilla.”

Yuri thought about it. A few months back, arranging flowers for a wedding would’ve been something he would scoff at. Bouquets declaring love and innocence, brides holding bright flowers of indifference or false riches -- none of it interested Yuri.

But then he remembered the joy on Yuuri and Viktor’s faces every time a ranunculus passed between them, the devotion when Georgi passed bouquets of every size and color to Roza that made her smile. Even if they didn’t know the meanings, the flowers were always passed with such heartfelt intentions as if the messages of their heart really had manifested in the form of those blooms. Viktor liked to insist that Yuri really was bridging people’s hearts together, and Otabek said the act of giving their flowers was always filled with hope to bring people closer, to give them happiness.

And Yuri...couldn’t deny his intrigue in it, especially if others had the same respect and consideration for the flowers. Georgi, despite all his annoyances, was a bit of a favorite customer for Yuri, trusting in Yuri’s choices, and presenting the floral arrangements to Roza with sincerity.

Finally, he shrugged, turning to hide his smile. “Tch, whatever, I guess. That guy is useless without us anyway.”

“And now Viktor is doing the whole sighing wistfully thing again. I think he’s totally thinking about tying the knot with that twinkle toes.” Yuri huffed, giving the world his resting bitch face as he stared out the window of the cafe they were in.

It wasn’t Biblioteka, but a new place Otabek had apparently passed on the way to the farm and invited Yuri to. Currently Yuri was in the middle of shoveling a large crepe into his mouth, strawberries and cream bursting in his mouth in sweet flavors. Occasionally, Otabek shared a bite of his, filled with mandarin oranges and topped with ice cream. Yuri didn’t even care what they might look like when he ate right off of Otabek’s held-out fork.

Otabek raised his eyebrows slightly. “Oh? To think the day would come when Viktor would get married.”

Yuri flicked his gaze back inside. “Is that surprising or something?”

“A little.” Otabek shrugged. “Viktor’s looks and personality naturally draw people in. But he always gave me the impression that he was always riding the winds. Like he was rooted down to no place in particular.”

Yuri tore into another bite of his crepe, contemplating between chews. He agreed that Viktor was friendly with everyone, and he seemed to attract people. But Viktor had always struck him as clingy and over-affectionate, if how physical he was with Yuri and Yuuri was any indication. To him, Viktor was completely rooted to what he devoted his love to.

“Maybe it’s just you,” Otabek mused, reading Yuri’s disbelief. “I think he’s definitely become a more grounded person since meeting you. Hmm. Yes, remembering who he was before and after that first day he brought you to the flower market, I think that’s definitely the case.”

“Hey, we’re talking about him marrying that pig in tights; I have nothing to do with this,” Yuri hastily reminded. He had no idea what Viktor was like before. All he knew was what stood in front of him now.

But, he supposed if Viktor had somehow changed… Then this was good, right? Could it really be that Yuri’s presence had been a positive thing to someone’s life? The mere idea made Yuri flustered and restlessly bounce his leg under the table.

As he thought, pressing another piece of crepe against his lips, Otabek huffed an amused breath and lowered Yuri’s fork. “You’re getting your face dirty, Yurochka.”

“So what?” Yuri stretched his tongue out the corner of his lips, trying to lick up whatever cream he could.

Again, Otabek smiled ever-so-slightly. He reached out and rubbed his thumb over Yuri’s cheek. Yuri didn’t wince or pull back. He waited until Otabek cleaned him up, then watched in a secret kind of delight when Otabek brought his thumb to his lips, licking up the cream.

It had been months since their first kiss, and more than a handful had followed ever since. Yuri had expected that pushing back Otabek’s touches would be something that would forever pulse his body, like a warning signal.

But day by day, kiss by kiss, with every firm embrace around Otabek’s waist when they rode on his motorbike, Yuri found a new kind of peace and contentment and pleasure he’d never known that settled his gut impulses. During long days apart when they were too busy at work to see each other, Yuri craved Otabek’s company, his voice, his warm hands running down Yuri’s back. When he had free time, there was no one else he wanted to spend time with. In the long transition of frozen winter to gentle spring to passionate summer, so too had Yuri’s heart gradually blossomed under the love, patience, and desire in Otabek’s eyes.

The boy he used to be was still lingering inside, but Yuri could already tell looking back just how different he was from him.

“What about you?” Yuri asked.

“What about me?”

“What were you like before me?”

Otabek glanced out the window, like the answer was twirling in the streets, speeding right along with the cars. Finally, he said, “I think I was the opposite. I felt like I couldn’t move at all.”

Yuri frowned, thinking of the motorbike that had taken them here, that had carried Otabek all the way over from Kazakhstan. “You can go anywhere though, Beka.”

“Probably. But I didn’t believe it. It felt like home was too far away, that everything I loved was out of my reach, and I wouldn’t be able to return to it. And not just in a physical sense.” Otabek’s eyes clouded over just slightly as he stared out the window, full of invisible memories, possibly of his childhood, of those carefree days with his whole family by his side. His home would always be with the love of his family and his birth country, and that was what made being apart from both of them so painful.

Then, slowly, he started to smile in that small and sweet way that Yuri had learned to look out for. “But now I’m sure that even if I stay in the same spot, I can reach anywhere. Like the scattering of dandelion seeds.”

Yuri nodded. As he let Otabek’s words sink in, Yuri could feel them ripple inside him, resonating in his heart with a special kind of understanding. For the longest time, Yuri had felt the same, but he hadn’t realized it until Otabek put it into words.

Yuri too hadn’t been able to move anywhere. He was always rooted in the memories of the past, clinging to the love and loneliness and guilt he’d had back then, never letting himself resurface from them.

Buried. Never growing.

But Yuri was certain now that something had slowly broken free, touching the sunlight -- and with the first gentle wind, he’d scattered to the skies. These seeds would soar far and wide, and where he landed, he could grow something new.

The world was his. He could belong anywhere he wanted to, could always have a place to go back to, if he but reached out and took root.

Overhead, a familiar melody began to play warmly in the cozy cafe. Yuri blinked, lowering his fork to his now empty plate. Otabek noticed the shift in his mood and glanced up to the speaker above them where the music poured out.

Lyrics slowly rained down on them, like sunshine, singing of a garden. In that garden, there had been laughter and wonder, love and innocence. Butterflies fluttered against their hair, and flowers tickled their ankles. The picture was a familiar one for Yuri, one so familiar to his mind that he couldn’t recall if it was a memory, or the result of hearing this song so often in his childhood. The sunlit haze of the image made it impossible to tell.

“This is her, isn’t it?” Otabek murmured.

Yuri started, wondering how he knew.

“When you told me her name long ago, I decided to look her up. I listened to some songs. She truly did have a lovely voice. And in the photos I saw… You really do look so much like her.” Otabek pressed his lips together somewhat regretfully. “I hope you’re not upset that I pried, though I’d get it if you are.”

Yuri shook his head. “No, not really.” He felt like he should be upset, but if it was Otabek, he didn’t mind. He wanted at least someone else to know what a talented and beautiful person she was. After all, this would be the closest Yuri would get to introducing Otabek to his mother, since they never would be able to in person.

“You can tell, right? How sad she was near the end. This song though… It was still when things were okay. She was happy. She’d sing this one to me on the phone to put me to sleep at night.” Yuri’s chest constricted as he said it. Actually putting his feelings into words was what finally made the sound of the song affect him, and he reached over and took Otabek’s plate and ate his crepe to keep himself busy.

Otabek stared at him, but of course was unaffected by Yuri snatching his food. Instead, his eyes were lightly rimmed in worry. “We can leave, Yurochka.”

Unable to talk with his mouth full of food, Yuri just shook his head. The song continued to play gently, his mother’s voice clear and unmistakeable, as if she would soon take a seat right beside him. She wouldn’t though. But maybe she was there, in the speakers, in the impossibly blue sky, in the little vase of goldenrods on the table.

With each note, each word, each beat of his heart, the pain eased. Memories continued to play in Yuri’s head and ache in his bones with the suffocating scent of hyacinths. But the feelings weren’t as overwhelming as they had once been. Bit by bit, Yuri could breathe better.

He didn’t think there would ever be a day where he could properly remember his mother or grandfather without missing them dearly. But at the very least, he could finally give some forgiveness -- not to his mother, who he never blamed in the first place.

No, this time, Yuri thought he could finally start forgiving himself . The fact that he’d been born on this earth, that he had so unabashedly blossomed into the person that sat across from Otabek now, was not an unforgivable thing.

It’s okay now.

You can get up, and face toward the sun.

Blossom. Grow.

Without regret, and with all the fight you have .

“You know what I always thought was funny?” he said to Otabek when the song reached the last note. “That plants like roses and cactuses have sharp needles and thorns -- and yet they have meanings like love and ardent love. How stupid is that?”

Otabek laughed, the sound short but deep, coming from the cradle of his chest. Yuri’s stomach flipped. “I said the same thing to Emilia when she started teaching me the meanings. It’s not easy to touch them, and they can be completely unappealing just for their thorns alone. But when you think of the reward of holding a rose after carefully handling it, or how cactus flowers bloom despite the extreme climates...” His eyes locked onto Yuri.

Immediately, Yuri snorted, loud and crude. “Oh my god. Do you think I’m a cactus? A precious little rose? Beka .”

“Of course not.” The idea hadn’t even seemed to cross Otabek’s mind. “When I look at you, I can still see nothing but the flaming bulb of a striped tulip.”

The answer was honest and straightforward, and said with such conviction that Yuri was sure if he were less balanced, he would clatter straight to the floor.

Over the past few months, Yuri had grown used to Otabek’s brutal honesty, and had even come to value it and be grateful for it since it meant Yuri didn’t have to put up with bullshit or fronts or try to decipher Otabek’s true meaning. But sometimes, like this, his earnest nature made Yuri’s heart stutter and his tongue tied. He was the only one who could steal Yuri’s words and breath.

Like always though, Yuri never backed down from what he considered a challenge, and he met Otabek’s gaze straight-on, giving him the full view of the eyes that Otabek claimed so many times to love.

On cue, Otabek grinned. “Yeah. That’s why.”

Yuri scoffed, rising from his seat -- not before shoving the last mandarin orange slices into his mouth. “Come on. Pay the bill then let’s get out of here.”

“Where are we going?”

Yuri swallowed, licking the juice from his lips and fingers. “Letting you get a closer look at these flaming eyes. Maybe burn you a little.”

Otabek raised his brows, amused. The gentle earth of his eyes also seemed to gain a heated spark, and he got up, slapping some rubles onto the table before leading them outside.

Hopping onto the motorbike, Yuri honestly had no idea where they were going after all. Maybe to that dreamy garden in his mother’s song. Or maybe the flower fields where Otabek’s tulips were growing in full swing again. To Moscow, to Almaty, the cities where their hearts were born.

They’d lay in the soil together again, Yuri pulling him close until they were blanketed under the swaying petals.

Wherever they ended up, Yuri wasn’t scared. The world was his.

The night before the hearing was deceptively quiet, not betraying how fast Yuri’s heart was beating against his bones. He rolled this way and that, tried listening to music, scrolled through Instagram, but nothing was helping him fall asleep. With a final deep breath, he sat up and shrugged his jacket on.

Yuri wasn’t surprised at all to shuffle out of his room at two in the morning and see Viktor already sitting at the dining room table, a mug of tea in his hands and Makkachin curled up over his feet, dozing.

The kitchen lights were on, and Yuri squinted against them, rubbing his eyes. Viktor raised his head when he noticed Yuri pad over, and smiled in a way that showed he wasn’t surprised to see Yuri awake either.

“Couldn’t sleep? Here, let me make a fresh pot of tea.” Viktor turned the stove back on, and the two stood waiting for the kettle to whistle.

Yuri found himself staring at the vase of flowers sitting on the table. Every other week, Viktor put fresh ranunculus and daffodils into the vase, the large yellow stars popping in between the tissue-paper swirls of dark-pink. He’d grown attached to them ever since Yuri explained their meanings, the flowers reminiscent of his love for Yuuri, and the faith he and Yuri had in their new life.

Tonight though, Yuri just noticed the addition of dogwood laying next to Viktor’s mug. The leaves were slightly pinched where it met the stem, and the four flat white petals appeared winded, as if Viktor had absently been twirling it between his thumb and index finger.

Love undimished by adversity .

The kettle whistled. But instead of giving Yuri the mug of tea, Viktor dumped some sugar and milk into it, turning the liquid into an inviting sweet and creamy color. Yuri’s insides squirmed a bit as he was finally offered the mug and took a sip.

Viktor knew exactly how he liked his tea. It tasted perfect.

“Thanks,” Yuri said. They both returned to the table, Viktor’s feet against Makkachin’s warm belly and Yuri folded on the seat of the chair, his knees up to his chest as he drank his tea. The liquid warmed him up pleasantly, soothing the lingering thoughts that had been knotting up his insides all night.

“You were out here when I went to my room. Did you ever go to bed?”

“I did. I mean, I tried .” Viktor gave a tired smile. “I really should sleep though. What’ll I do if I show up to court with knotted hair and bags under my eyes?”

Yuri gave a dry chuckle. Perfectly coiffed and composed Viktor, reduced to a mess out in public -- wouldn’t that be a laugh.

“I hope it goes fast,” Viktor admitted, picking at a small chip in his mug.

Yuri shrugged. “I wouldn’t know how long it takes. This has...never happened to me. I was always lucky to even enter six or eight months before Yakov had to show up and take me back. He was always so pissed.”

“ Try ,” Yakov would say to him. Whether it would be dropping Yuri off to his new family or taking him away from it, he’d say that to him every time. “ Just try to open yourself up, Yuri. You’ll never make a family if you don’t let yourself trust them .”

Back then, the words were utter nonsense to Yuri. He already had a family, even if they were dead. No one could possibly hope to replace them. Moreover, there was no way Yuri should trust others. They said one thing and did another. They acted one way but truly felt the opposite. Yuri hated having to figure people out, separating what he could and could not trust. People were unreliable like that, which was why he could only find peace with his flowers.

There was nothing worth trusting in people. Nothing worth building with them. Their hearts were dry and infertile, or entirely incompatible for Yuri.

And yet, his adoption as Viktor’s son would be finalized in a matter of hours. At this time tomorrow, he would legally and officially be Viktor’s son. And Yuri was doing nothing to stop it.

Then again, Yuri knew now there was nothing to stop.

The past year in Viktor’s home had been turbulent to say the least. There hadn’t ever been another incident where Yuri ran away, but there had been disagreements that sometimes escalated a bit too much, or times when Yuri suddenly felt the need to dash out the door. During those times, he was usually in the nearby park, or with Otabek if he was nearby.

Every time though, he eventually came home. Sometimes, if he did feel genuinely bad after an argument, he’d apologize -- not so much in words though. It was always in little gestures -- putting his head on Viktor’s chest, offering to make the tea, or slipping a flower onto Viktor’s lap. Viktor joked how stubborn and cute he was, but never once did he not welcome Yuri back with warm, relieved embraces, Yuuri ready for him with tea and large bowls of katsudon . Sometimes it was pirozhki. When they started getting a little more creative in the kitchen, Yuuri got the idea to combine them both.

It was strange, combining the tastes of the two different foods. At the same time though, it felt like finally reconciling Yuri’s past self with the person he was now. Two kinds of love, from two different families he’d had, but Yuri felt full and warm from them both.

He felt like he could admit it now, just how much he was looking forward to the person he’d be tomorrow, and what family he’d belong to.

“Hey,” Yuri started, “what was it about me that made you want to adopt me? There were -- so many other kids you could’ve chosen. Kids that would’ve loved to be in your home, and probably wouldn’t run away. Kids that like smelly dogs.” He nudged his foot against Makkachin’s fur as he said it, and the pooch huffed sleepily. Yuri smiled, but only barely. “I think kids like that are definitely more deserving of this home.”

Viktor hummed, swiping his thumb thoughtfully over his chin. “Ha. I shouldn’t be surprised that you think that way, but it still hurts a bit, hearing you talk about who does and doesn’t deserve homes.” He met Yuri’s gaze, an unwavering meaning burning lightly in his eyes. “It hurts that you think that you ’re not deserving of a home, or love. Especially since the first time I saw you, you were taking care of flowers that were half-dead in the first place.

“I remember it, Yura. During all the times I’d visit Yakov’s home, you isolated yourself outside, knee-deep in flowers and soil. That first time, it was only your skinny hunched back that I had seen, looking just like the bent, half-withered flowers.”

Yuri listened, half-surprised that he’d been noticed being in the garden all that time. It was also embarrassing to be seen and described as something so small and vulnerable. That weakness was something Yuri had done his damnest to bury under his own anger and biting words.

“The next time I came, the garden had perked up considerably, like -- like you had a healing touch. No,” Viktor shook his head, “it wasn’t that. You just decided to dedicate your time and love to something others would see as pointless or overlook. Effort and dedication like that is what makes flowers bloom.” Viktor lowered his gaze. “I thought maybe…”

“That you could do the same for me?” Yuri murmured, embarrassed to even say it.

“I thought you at least should have the same chance. Even if I couldn’t become your family. I knew it would be a lot of work, especially considering the first few weeks we lived together, but…” Viktor’s eyes became uncharacteristically solemn. “I lived with Yakov until I was eighteen. I never found a family, but I was still surrounded by love all those years. That’s the love that shaped me. You too already have love inside you, love that never left even when your family passed. I just wanted to keep giving it to you. To let you know that you aren’t alone.

“You must have thought me presumptuous all this time,” Viktor said after a small sip of tea, his dry laugh stirring up the steam. “I kept calling you my son before we even properly connected or had the hearing. I suppose that was me forcing my wishes onto you, my own desire to have a family... But that was what made you run away back then. I just -- I thought the more I said it, the more true it would be. I’m sorry if that forced any kind of expectation on you. I never wanted you to be anyone but yourself, Yura.”

Yuri’s knees bumped against the edge of the table. He hadn’t realized that he’d slowly been slipped in his seat, further curling his body into itself. His insides were shaking, and even his warm mug and Viktor’s voice couldn’t soothe the quake.

It was hard to keep from crying, but Yuri made do by biting the inside of his cheek. This was the most he’d heard of what Viktor thought about their time together. Most of it Yuri had picked up, but he could see now just how much love and anxiety had been balanced between them, feelings that Yuri could empathize with, especially with the approach of the hearing. But seeing how far they’d come in the past year, Yuri couldn’t regret what he’d come to learn from the man sitting beside him.

Viktor was just a human being like him, and he deserved that “chance” of time and love and effort dedicated to him as well.

“What assholes,” he muttered after a while. “Why did you never get a family but you’re the one reaching out to somone like me? That’s not fair. You’re, like, fucking forty--”

“Ouch, Yura, I’m barely hitting thirty --”

“We’re gonna do it, you hear?” he snapped. “Me and you and Yuuri Katsuki and anyone else who comes along -- hell, even you, Makkachin! We’ll do it fucking right. We’ll make up for all our lost time. We’ll take care of this family!” He sat up, snatching the dogwood from the table and brandishing it. “No matter what!”

Viktor’s eyes, wide with surprise, started to shimmer, threatening to spill over with joy. “For better or worse,” he agreed. “If you love each other, you meet halfway.”

“Damn fucking straight!” Yuri nodded, settling back in his seat with satisfaction.

Delight and amusement spread on Viktor’s expression as he watched Yuri huff and take determined gulps of his remaining tea. Then something dawned in the blue of his gaze. “You know,” he said, “I gave the flower shop its name. Did you ever think it was silly?”

Yuri thought back to the first time he’d seen the sign for the shop, Moroz Tsvetok advertised with beauty and confidence. He couldn’t deny how strange and out of place it looked when you compared it to what Viktor was selling.

Frost flower .

“It’s pretty weird,” he admitted.

“Do you know what frost flowers are?”

Yuri frowned, rifling through his mental field guide of flowers. He knew of ice plants but he doubted that that was what Viktor was talking about. After another moment of frantically recalling every flower and herb he knew, he reluctantly conceded, “No.” He narrowed his eyes. “You’re making it up.”

Viktor laughed behind his hand. “It’s real! Honest. Frost flowers grow from water extruding from the stems of plants, in a phenomenon called crystallofolia . The water freezes and curls as soon as it hits the freezing air, looking like petals of a flower. They’re extremely beautiful, but you must be gentle with them. Even touching it might undo the effects.”

“You named your shop after a thing that’s not even a real flower? Something that fades as soon as its touched? That’s pretty pessimistic advertising.” All this time, Yuri had assumed that Viktor was a romantic and extravagant person; Yuri couldn’t imagine something as fragile as frost flowers suiting him. It could be that all along he was actually a glass-half-empty kind of guy.

Viktor laced his fingers under his chin. “Hmm, is it? In order for frost flowers to form, the warmth of the soil and cold of the air have to be just right. They have to meet each other halfway to make it. Frost flowers are rarely seen, so when you do find yourself one after that hard work… It’s the most exquisite and beautiful sight you could imagine. That’s why I gave the shop this name.”

Ah. There was that grandiose romanticism. Yuri shook his head at the poetic explanation, but the scoff between his teeth wasn’t harsh. In fact, the corners of his lips teased an oncoming smile.

Meeting halfway. It would be a long process, one that would take trial and error before any of them got it right. But they would keep trying. Because Viktor was right, and Yuri knew it now -- that that was exactly what you did when you loved someone, and someone loved you.

“By the way,” Viktor said, “once you’re, you know, legally mine, will you keep your name?”

Yuri nearly dropped his mug.

“Or change it? I mean, you could ,” Viktor’s words whooshed out, awkward and stilted, but brimming with a sort of passionate excitement. The subject wasn’t one that they had brought up before, and it was obvious why. The legalities of the adoption, the court hearing… All of it had taken up so much thought that Yuri hadn’t pondered the deeper after-effects, such as having the option to change his name, to  transform into a completely new identity.

But it was a difficult topic, a heavy weight on his tongue and heart that kept Yuri from being able to answer. Yuri’s grandfather had loved and raised him just like a son. The patronymic name Yuri had was inherited from him, and it made him uneasy thinking about no longer having it.

Viktor noticed his distress and waved his hand. “Not your patronymic, of course! I wouldn’t dream of taking that from you,” he assured. “Perhaps you could be Plisetsky-Nikiforov? It sounds like I married into your family though.”

“Oh fuck no,” Yuri said, snorting.

“Oh, and what would we do then once Yuuri and I got married? You’d be Yuri Nikolayevhich Plisetsky-Katsuki-Nikiforov.”

“That’s such a fucking mouthful! No way would I answer to that stupid name, it makes no sense!”

Viktor had already been breaking into a smile, but now he bursted into laughter, the kind that sprang from deep in his chest, the mirth clear at the corner of his eyes. As much as Yuri tried to keep up his scowl, going so far as to kick Viktor’s shin to keep himself in the petulant mood, he couldn’t stop the force of his own smile for anything.

Yakov arrived bright and early with Yuri’s social worker to pick them up from the flower shop and head out to the courthouse. It was the first time Yakov had come in person to where Viktor lived, so the visit no doubt doubled as a reason to quietly examine the place. Yuri sat on the sofa as the adults exchanged pleasantries, and pulled out his phone.

>we’ll b heading out soon

From: beka

Are you nervous?

>a little?? I’ve never done this b4

From: beka

I’m sure it’ll go smoothly Yurochka.

>then why do i feel like barfing on my social worker’s shoes

From: beka

Because you ate like 4 stacks of pancakes? I saw your instagram.

Or, you know. Because they’re too shiny for your liking. Cleanliness always bothers you.

Yuri snorted loudly, recalling all the times he purposefully rolled around in Otabek’s freshly-made bed or left trash in his room. His own room was properly cleaned up for once just for this visit after Viktor saw the whirlwind of flowers, soil, clothes, and food wrappers strewn around. It had taken all day, but Yakov and the social worker would be content enough with the sight of it now.

Yakov had heard Yuri’s amusement and turned to him, raising a brow as he took his appearance in. The plaid shirt in shades of golden-yellow was a birthday present from Yuuri, and the slacks and suspenders were something Viktor had taken him shopping for the other week. Between all this and all the ballet performances they went to at the Mariinsky, Yuri’s repertoire of formal clothing had grown considerably, and he was pretty impressed with himself how he looked in comparison to the baggy, wrinkled clothes Yakov was used to seeing on him.

“Your hair,” Yakov said with a raised brow, “you cut it.”

“Felt like a change.” Yuri ran a hand over the shaved part, then shrugged.

As Viktor talked with the social worker, Yakov came over and sat down next to Yuri. He technically didn’t have to be there, but Yakov was attached to all the children in his home, despite what his outward appearance and mannerisms might’ve indictated. With Yuri especially, Yakov kept a close eye on him, seeing him through every process with his foster families. This was the longest Yuri had ever gone without seeing him.

Yakov seemed to realize it too, taking off his hat and letting out a breath. “To think this day would happen. I almost can’t believe it.”

“You and I both, old man.” Yuri let out a soft scoff, disbelief thick in his own voice.

“Well, the home finally had some peace and quiet,” Yakov said. “But the garden… I don’t think I realized how much you kept up with it until you were gone for so long.”

Yuri wasn’t surprised. The garden had essentially been his solace and escape space during his years in Yakov’s home. It almost felt like the real place he’d lived in, rather than the room he’d shared with the other boys. Yuri made a mental note to check back on it some time; even it had turned to utter shit in the past year without his care, he couldn’t help but feel like it was still his duty to look after the plants there.

“I’m not just surprised about you, either. Viktor too.” Yakov tilted his head, staring at the man in question across the room. “As many times as he visited the home, he never tried to adopt a child. He mentioned wanting to a few times, but never did. It was the one thing in his life he seemed to hesitate over.”

Again with that kind of talk about Viktor. Yuri never paid particular attention to others, so he couldn’t say he remembered what Viktor was like during the times he visited Yakov’s home. But it really seemed to be true between Yakov’s word and Otabek’s that Viktor hadn’t tied himself to anything or anyone but his flower shop. The flowers had been his only company and the closest thing he had to bringing fulfillment to his life -- Yuri knew that only because he felt the same way.

He also didn’t need to know Viktor back then to know that he’d been just as lonely as Yuri.

A year ago, Yuri had firmly believed that he and Viktor were nothing alike. But Yuri had only been looking at the surface of things.

Deep down, they were very similar.

Viktor walked to Yuri, a smile on his face. “Ready to go, Yura?” The composure in his voice was only barely betrayed by the tremble of nerves and excitement.

With a small, bated breath, Yuri got up. “Yeah. Let’s go.”

The hearing had been the longest event of Yuri’s life, but when he checked the clock afterward, barely half an hour had passed. Reviewing the conditions of his year living with Viktor, Yuri answering whatever questions his social worker needed personal clarifications on, all while the judge looked on behind half-moon glasses had been a much more nerve-wracking experience than Yuri had anticipated. He kept his hands in his pockets, one hand clutching a stem of chamomile, the other a stem of dogwood.

There would be no adversity that he wouldn’t be able to surmount.

Viktor kept smiling at him in encouragement, and behind them, Yuuri sat among the witnesses. Yuri half-wished he had asked Otabek to be there, but he knew after this was over, he’d be waiting right outside Moroz Tsvetok -- right outside Yuri’s new home. He’d be there, and they would start their next adventure, the one they’d prepared for for months. Beyond that, they’d have every day of the rest of their lives.

From this moment on, Yuri didn’t have to be alone anymore.

“Well, Mr. Plisetsky, Mr. Nikiforov, everything checks out beautifully,” the judge said, shuffling through the paperwork. She offered Yuri a smile, taking off her glasses. “I declare this adoption case approved. Congratulations, you two, and enjoy your new time together as a family.”

The bang of the gavel startled Yuri, snapping him to reality. Before he knew it, he was ushered out the door and both Yuuri and Viktor’s arms were around him, squeezing the breath from his lungs. Yakov was beside them, beaming as he took his hat off and wiped the sweat from his brow. Yuri’s social worker emerged next, the paperwork in her arms, but she stood by and let the new family have their moment.

Family . Yuri tested the new weight of the word in his mind. Family .

He had a family .

Yuri was dizzy, and even when he was released, he felt like he was floating. He wasn’t sure if the swell of emotion in his chest was happiness or paralyzing fear. Maybe both. Definitely both.

Maybe it was the feeling of his new self emerging, unfurling from its dormant state at last.

He laughed a bit, incredulous. “Holy shit. Holy shit .”

“Yura, mind your language! You’re still in a courthouse,” Viktor reminded him, but his eyes were still sparkling.

“Fuck, who cares ?” Yuri laughed again.

“You should listen to your father,” Yuuri said, barely hiding a smile behind his hand. “He can totally ground you now.”

“Hey, don’t go abusing your authority already! This doesn’t change anything, I’m still gonna act the same!”

“Of course.” Viktor reached out and ruffled the unshaved part of his hair. There was a large smile on his face, full of pride and love. Even without looking, Yuri could tell it was an expression he was mirroring. “I wouldn’t have you any other way, Yura.”

Yuri tossed his bag into Otabek’s truck, making sure that it was properly tucked against the motorbike tied down to the back. On the other side, he could see where Otabek’s own black duffel bag sat. The pot of fresh tulips he’d seen him carry was in the front seat, where they’d be safe from the whipping wind of their ride. Even so, the scent of flowers was still all over the truck, pollen clinging to the exterior like the whole contraption was a metal bouquet. Yuri snorted at the image.

When he turned around, Viktor and Yuuri were standing in front of Moroz Tsvetok’s door, Makkachin sitting between them, tail wagging. It was still fairly early in the day, but the journey ahead was long, and so everyone got up to see Yuri and Otabek off, and set up shop early.

It was the beginning of July, and summer was in full swing, which meant weddings would be keeping everyone busy for the better part of the season, including Georgi’s, but Yuri promised to be back before then to help Viktor out just like he said he would. With the warm season, Moroz Tsvetok was bursting more than ever with explosions of colorful flowers both large and small, with a litter of leaves and winding stems. It seemed like all of the world’s wonders had been packed into one shop, forever open to Yuri like comforting arms.

It was what made leaving painful, but coming back all the more welcoming.

Today was the day that Otabek was returning to Kazakhstan to visit his family for the first time in years, and he was taking Yuri with him.

As Otabek hopped inside the truck and sputtered it to life, Viktor came over and patted Yuri down, smoothing his clothes and fixing his hair. “Okay, now you are sure that you have everything?”

“You insisted on packing half my bag yourself, you tell me,” Yuri retorted, half-heartedly slapping Viktor’s hands away. “Viktor, I’m fine! Geez, you make it sound like I’m gonna be gone for years . It’s just one trip for three weeks.”

Viktor huffed, getting all petulant like he had been doing whenever he was reminded how long Yuri would be gone. “I know that, but it’s my job to worry about you, you know!”

“Ah, so that’s it,” Yuri said dryly. “You’re just doing this because you have to.”

“Don’t get smart. I really will fret about you. Really, you being with someone reliable like Otabek is my only peace of mind.” Viktor tapped under Yuri’s chin, lifting his head up. Even without him saying that, Yuri knew Viktor’s concern was the truth. To be honest, Yuri would miss him too, even if he couldn’t push the words from his mouth.

So Viktor did the next best thing, and pulled Yuri into a hug, burying his face into his shoulder. The scent of flowers and spicy cologne and freshly-brewed tea filled Yuri’s nose, and he hummed at the comforting, familiar perfume. Slowly, he brought his arms up and splayed his hands over Viktor’s back.

“Have a safe trip,” Viktor murmured into his collar.

“Mm. I’ll be home soon.” After a moment more of indulging Viktor, Yuri slowly backed away from the embrace, and got into the truck right next to Otabek, slamming the heavy door closed.

The rearview mirror framed Yuri’s family perfectly as they stood together and started to wave.

“Don’t forget to call every day!” Viktor shouted.

“Take lots of pictures!” Yuuri reminded.

“Otabek, I apologize in advance if Yuri is a brat! Don’t hesitate to ship him back!”

Yuri leaned out the window to shoot Viktor a scowl, ignoring Otabek’s short, amused breath. Viktor played innocent, blowing kisses to them like they were voyagers heading out to uncharted lands. For Yuri, he supposed that was rather literal.

The two of them waved to Viktor and Yuuri, and as they finally drove off, Yuri watched their reflections in the rearview mirrors get smaller and smaller. His stomach flipped. They were off.

Soon, they were on the road. It would take about three or four days until they arrived in Almaty, but Yuri insisted on them driving. He never left Russia before, and hadn’t explored much of it in the first place. So Otabek had proposed they make a road trip of it, so that Yuri could take in all the sights on the way and they could stop whenever they wanted. Yuri’s phone was already out, ready to snap pictures even though they hadn’t even left St. Petersburg yet. They rolled down the windows, letting in the fresh air as the warm sun started to rise higher and higher.

“I’ve never been to Kazakhstan. You’re gonna have to show me everything , you hear? I’m counting on you to be a proper tour guide.”

“I’m sure there’s plenty of places my family will think of taking you. And a few I’ll keep just for us.”

Yuri’s heart fluttered. “The tulips? You promised , Beka.”

Beka glanced over at him, the gentle light in his eyes visible over the rim of his sunglasses. “The tulips will just be the beginning, Yurochka.”

Satisfied, Yuri sat back, smiling out the window, watching St. Petersburg gradually get left behind them.

During the drive, the world whirling past city by city, Yuri’s nerves slowly crept back in. It took eight years, but he had finally managed to have a family again. That had taken immense amounts of adjustment on its own -- what would it be like to meet Otabek’s family? He had a lot of siblings too, and Yuri didn’t have the most fabulous track record with children. Viktor and Yuuri liked him just fine, but what if Otabek’s family didn’t? Yuri’s world hadn’t expanded so much yet that he was sure he was ready to step into someone else’s home where he might not even belong.

One of Otabek’s hands lifted from the steering wheel, and it reached over the tulips sitting between them to gently hold Yuri’s chin, urging him to face him. Otabek met his gaze, and for a second, Yuri got a thrill thinking of Otabek stealing a kiss in the middle of the road.

“I’ve been writing about you for months, you know. I’ve been filling up that scrapbook you gave me with pictures of the farm and of us. They know all about you, Yurochka. Trust me, they’ll love you.” Otabek’s thumb ran over Yuri’s bottom lip. “Just like I do.”

Yuri could feel that reassurance down to the marrow of his bones, as if that same love had been planted inside him all along.

“Don’t make that face, Beka,” Yuri couldn’t help but tease. They reached a stop, and Yuri plucked the sunglasses from Otabek’s face, so that their gazes could meet head-on. “Hey, I’ve already decided. And I’m not going anywhere, got it?”

Not today. Not tomorrow.

“Yeah,” Otabek agreed. “I’ve already decided, too. That’s why no matter where I am, I choose you, Yuri Plisetsky.”

“Is that a promise?”

Instead of answering with words, Otabek closed the distance between them and caught Yuri’s lips in a kiss, and it was honestly all the answer that Yuri needed. Deep down, he might’ve been a romantic all along, but he’d still rather jump into the Neva before actually giving Otabek a rose. Maybe the rosy shade of his cheeks as he lost his breath in the kiss was enough of a bouquet to give.

The sound of cars picked up again, and there were frustrated honks behind them. Without breaking the kiss, and in fact pressing his lips more firmly to Otabek’s, Yuri flipped off whatever audience they had. Otabek must have seen; his low laugh was magic on Yuri’s lips. He laughed too.

Maybe some days I really will need to take a step back, and maybe some days I’ll be so scared we won’t understand each other that I purposefully prick you with my thorns.

But I hope you know, Beka, that I’m always going to return to my home, which is sometimes a flower shop, sometimes a forgotten garden in Moscow, and sometimes a weird tulip vendor from Kazakhstan.

This, Yuri was sure, was the right answer. This was the love he was going to nurture, and no matter how many days he had to wait until he finally did get things right, he’d make sure the frozen flower that bloomed on his earth would be one that he loved unconditionally.