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“Yuri…”
The voice is low, and even, reaching in to pull him out of the warm depths of sleep, into the land of harsh light and wakefulness.
Yuri isn't sure what time it is, but it's too early.
“Fuck off,” he groans into the pillow.
There's an arm reaching under the blankets, a hand sliding up his back to rest on his shoulder as Otabek leans over him to whisper in his ear.
“Yura, we've got training today.”
Yuri scowls.
“Fuck training.”
“There's breakfast…”
“Fuck your instant oatmeal, too.”
Otabek huffs a laugh, getting up to pull on his shirt.
“Well, join me when you decide to get out of bed.”
“Not gonna happen,” Yuri shoots back, though he's already kicking away the sheets and rolling over onto his back.
Otabek shakes his head and exits the room.
Yuri sits up, rubbing his eyes, and fights a yawn. He grabs the nearest shirt - Otabek's, maybe - and pulls it over his head.
He steps onto the carpet and digs through the small piles of clothing littering the room until he finds a clean-enough pair of leggings, tugging them on and walking out into the hallway.
Sure enough, two steaming bowls of oatmeal sit on the kitchen table, one of them already being dug into by Otabek.
He scrutinizes the contents of the table. Milk pitcher, day-old blueberries, napkin holder…
Yuri rolls his eyes.
Otabek forgot to get out the orange juice again.
He passes the table to get to the fridge, pulling open the door and grabbing the brightly decorated carton. He closes the door and spins around to lean back on it in one smooth, practiced motion, uncapping the juice and taking several large gulps directly from the carton. He keeps direct eye contact with Otabek the entire time.
Otabek swallows his mouthful and lowers his spoon back into the bowl for another.
“We have glasses, you know,” he says calmly.
Yuri wipes his mouth on his wrist, and pointedly sets the carton on the counter for Otabek to put away later.
“I bought it, I can drink it how I like,” he replies, equally cool.
Otabek sighs and looks down, but he's apparently decided not to argue this time.
Yuri smirks, sitting in the chair across from him and setting into his oatmeal.
…
“Beka, have you seen my…”
Yuri trails off when he sees the state the living room is in.
Dirty dishes cover the coffee table in the center of the room. There's opened mail scattered over every surface, and various tchotchkes clutter up any remaining space - scented candles, bottle caps, etcetera.
And Otabek, sitting on the couch in the middle of it all, reading.
Yuri drops his face into his hands.
“Didn't I ask you to tidy up earlier?”
Nothing but silence.
Yuri looks up to see Otabek staring at him.
“… did you say something?”
He curls his fingers into fists and lowers them to his side.
“I said,” he repeats with forced patience, “didn't I ask you to clean up earlier?”
Otabek looks around the room, then back at Yuri.
He sighs.
“Probably,” he admits.
“Well, then. Why didn't you?”
“… I was reading?”
Yuri groans.
“Are you kidding me? The apartment is a fucking mess. No, don't say anything, just… go read in the bedroom, and stay there while I clean up this dump.”
Otabek sighs, but stands up.
Yuri looks down when he passes him, and when Otabek is behind him, he sets to work.
…
Victor and Yuuri exit their side of the booth, smiling apologetically.
“Sorry, we've got to get home early,” Yuuri says, “but enjoy the rest of your coffee, on us!”
“On me, you mean,” Victor teases. He takes Yuuri by the hand and leads them towards the door. “See you tomorrow for dinner!”
… dinner?
Otabek freezes beside him.
Yuri closes his eyes and takes a deep breath.
“Beka.”
“Yes?”
His voice is too innocent to be believed.
“Did you make dinner plans for tomorrow without asking me?”
Otabek nervously clears his throat.
“I must have… forgotten to tell you.”
Is he serious? Yuri can't tell if he's being serious or not. He opens his eyes and takes a sip of coffee. When he sets it back down on the table, it's with forced calmness. He pointedly doesn't look at Otabek.
“I thought we were staying in tomorrow.”
He sees Otabek drop his head into his hands out of the corner of his eye, then run his fingers through his hair.
“You know. Just the two of us.”
“I'm sorry, Yura, I thought I told you.”
Yuri turns sharply.
He does look sorry, eyes big and brows drawn together. It probably had been a mistake. But Yuri is feeling petty.
“It's been a long fucking week, Beka,” he snaps. “All I want is to stay home, and order takeout, and watch shitty movies, and you go and sign us up for a social visit?”
“Yura - ”
He takes a final sip and stands to leave, throwing his cup out on the way to the door.
Otabek is left behind.
…
Yuri refuses to look when the bedroom door creaks open.
He refuses to look when a familiar weight falls on the mattress beside him.
He refuses to look when an arm snakes its way around his waist, and a forehead touches the back of his neck.
He knows he's acting like a child. Otabek doesn't deserve the silent treatment, not really. Yeah, he fucked up, kind of. But Yuri's the one overreacting.
A sigh comes from behind him.
“I'm sorry,” Otabek says. “I can cancel the dinner plans. We can stay home tomorrow.”
Yuri squeezes his eyes shut.
“No,” he whispers.
Otabek shifts uncertainly.
“No?”
“Don't be sorry. I'm the asshole, here.”
Otabek draws him into his chest, and presses a kiss to the nape of his neck.
“I should've told you,” he says. “About the dinner.”
“It's not about the fucking dinner plans!”
Yuri sighs heavily.
“It's not about the dinner plans,” he whispers. “It's about how I keep… overreacting, to shit. How I get angry at you for no fucking reason. The living room, and the…the fucking orange juice...”
Otabek chuckles humorlessly.
“We're not in the honeymoon phase anymore, Yura.”
“Yeah. Guess we skipped straight to the ‘old bickering married couple’ phase.”
Otabek exhales.
“We're going to fight, a lot,” he says. “That's just… what happens, when you're in such close proximity to one person, for so long.”
Yuri thinks about that for a minute before responding.
“I don't like fighting with you,” he says in a smaller voice than he had intended.
Otabek pulls him closer still.
“I don't like it, either,” he says. “But it's inevitable. And… ”
“What?”
“If it makes any difference, I love making up with you.”
“Ugh, you're so embarrassing.”
“You love it…”
Yuri isn't sure whether to respond with the usual “fuck off,” or the cheesy “I love you.”
(He goes with the latter.)