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“We’re going to have to talk about it eventually,” says Otabek, gently brushing a strand of hair out of Yuri’s eyes.
“Not now,” says Yuri, dismissive. Blanketed over Otabek as he is, Otabek can feel the way every muscle in his body tenses, belying the casual tone with which he had spoken.
Otabek scratches gently at his scalp, feeling him relax slightly at the sensation. With Yuri’s head pillowed on Otabek’s chest, there's very little chance he can't feel the way Otabek’s heart has picked up in anticipation of conflict. But Otabek keeps playing with his hair anyway, hoping it will help keep at least one of them calmer. “Then when?”
“How about never?”
“It's going to happen, though, Yura. And I would really like to be able to have a conversation with you before it does.”
Yuri sits up, dislodging Otabek’s hand, and moves away as far as the twin bed will allow. “You're being stupid.”
“How?” Otabek asks, keeping his voice carefully level.
“Viktor didn't retire officially until he was pushing thirty.”
“I'm not Viktor.”
“Thank fuck.”
“Yuri. It's a miracle I've made it this far, and we both know it.”
Yuri’s eyes flick briefly to Otabek’s ace-bandaged ankle, and he returns to glaring a hole into the rumpled blankets. “Can't we just...finish the Olympics?”
“Zhanym, we have finished. Our part is already over.”
“Don't be condescending.”
“I'm not. I'm just making a statement.”
“I can't believe you're doing this.”
“Yuri.” He sighs. “Doesn't it make more sense for me to retire while I'm still able to have the choice? Would you rather I wait until my body can't handle it anymore?”
Yuri gets off the bed, stalking back over to his own, previously untouched one. He flops down, staring at the ceiling. “Fine,” he says, in the kind of hard voice he only uses when he's trying not to cry. “Fine. Then quit. Give up and bring your silvers and your bronzes back to Almaty. Maybe someone else can win gold at an actual important competition for Kazakhstan, because apparently it won't fucking be you.”
Otabek is silent for a long moment, battling back a swell of emotion. Finally, when he can trust himself to speak again, he says, “That isn't fair and you know it.” His voice still wavers, and he's too hurt to care.
“No,” Yuri bellows, “what isn't fucking fair is you fucking leaving me!”
Otabek blinks, breathing slow as the tearing pain of Yuri’s words resolves itself into a dull ache. “Is that what this is about?”
“No. It's about you being an asshole.”
“Yura, I'm not leaving you. Retiring doesn't mean I'm going to suddenly just vanish from your life. Not unless you want me to once there's no chance of me bringing home a gold.”
This has the desired effect of getting Yuri to sit up and look at him, although the look in his eyes is flat-out terrifying. “Don't be fucking petty. It doesn't suit you.”
“Then can we please have an adult conversation?”
Yuri stares at him, baleful. “Fine. Then tell me this: what exactly are you going to do, when you've left?”
“I don't know for sure,” Otabek admits. “Music, maybe. Traveling, or something. We never really get to see the places we visit for competitions.”
Yuri shrugs one shoulder, mouth pulling down in the corners, and tugs at a loose thread in his blanket. “Sounds like you'll have a great time,” he says hollowly, and Otabek sighs through his nose.
“You're acting like this has been an easy decision.”
“Stop telling me how I'm supposed to react to things!”
“Then stop biting my head off every time I say something you don't want to hear.”
Yuri’s jaw clenches. He's quiet for a long moment, and then, finally, he says, “...I'm sorry. I'm just...going to miss you.”
Otabek, despite himself, softens. “I’ll miss you too, kotyenok.” The Russian nickname, an inside joke from when they had first started dating, is a calculated risk now; but he can tell from the way Yuri makes a disgusted sound and hurls a pillow at him that it had been a worthwhile one.
“I fucking hate you, az ayu.”
“You love me.” Otabek is confident enough now to approach and sit next to him, still leaving a little space between them.
Yuri crosses his arms and turns away, but not before Otabek sees the way his lips quirking up at the corners. “No I don't. You're the worst.”
“Well, I love you. And I'm going to save up and come to all of your competitions, and I’ll find all the good places to visit ahead of time so that we don't waste any time figuring out where to go. And in the off season we’ll go on road trips for however long Lilia and Yakov can spare you, and I'll come back with you to Moscow or St. Petersburg or wherever you are by then after.”
“You're being cheesy,” Yuri grumbles, nestling against Otabek’s side and resting his head on his shoulder.
“And you and Sasha can come visit us in Almaty, and meet my nieces and nephews if you're up for it.”
“Only if they call me Dyadya Yura,” Yuri says, automatic, and then flushes bright red and presses his face into Otabek’s shoulder. “What the fuck, never mind.”
Otabek, heart warming, pressing a kiss to the top of his head. “They'll do it in Kazakh, probably, but I wouldn't be surprised.”
“Oh my God.” Grimacing, Yuri glances up at him. “Beka...you should be so mad at me.”
“What're you talking about?”
“I've been so shitty,” he says, frowning. “I said awful things to you, and instead of getting mad you just tried to make me feel better.”
“Because I get where you're coming from.” He shrugs his free shoulder. “And I love you, and I want to be sure you understand that.”
He nuzzles against Otabek’s neck. “I love you too,” he says, soft. “Ya tebya lyublyu. Men seni jaqsı köremin. I love you.”
“Now who's being cheesy?” asks Otabek, and kisses him.