Archive of Our Own ^beta

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When the world ends
You’re gonna come with me
We’re going to be crazy
Like a river bends

- When the World Ends (Oakenfold Remix)

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After four years as an apprentice and another two as a junior stylist, Otabek had gotten pretty good at reading the people who stepped into Giacometti’s Hair and Styling. There were their regulars, of course, but also the first-timers and walk-ins, the people who had just grown bored with their current hair and were looking for change, and those who had been through a bad break-up and were looking to start afresh.

The newcomer, however, did not belong in any of those categories.

Otabek traded a glance with Chris, before flicking the hair-dryer off and apologizing to Mrs Fedorova. He returned the hair-dryer to its holder. Then, he wiped his hands on his apron and headed for the front counter. “Can I help you?”

The newcomer turned. Now that Otabek was closer, he could tell that the newcomer was a he, not a she, even though his long, blond hair would have been a subject of envy for many of Otabek’s female customers. He looked around Otabek’s age, and he wore a light scowl.  

Blond-and-scowling was looking over Otabek’s shoulder, his eyes scanning the shop.

Mentally, Otabek filed him under miscellaneous husbands and boyfriends.

“I’m looking for someone,” blond-and-scowling said, confirming Otabek’s assessment.

Inwardly, Otabek sighed. It was always the cute ones who were taken. “Knock yourself out,” was what he said aloud, stepping to the side and gesturing at the rest of the shop with a broad sweep of his hand. “If you have a name, I could take you to him or her.”

Blond-and-scowling opened his mouth. He was saved from having to answer, however, when one of Chris’ customers exclaimed, “Yuri!”

Yuri’s head jerked in her direction, and he marched over to her seat, Otabek trailing after him. “Are you done yet? We’re all ready to head back. Yakov is chasing.”

Chris’ customer – Mila, Otabek thought her name was, dye job at eleven in the morning – glanced at him in an unspoken question. She was only three-quarters through the allotted time for the dye to set, and they still had to wash the excess dye out and to blow-dry her hair after that. “At least another thirty minutes,” Otabek estimated, his tone apologetic.

Yuri harrumphed, crossing his arms. Mila looked amused. “Why don’t you get a wash and a trim or something, while I text Yakov and the rest,” she suggested to him. “Come on,” she urged, when Yuri continued to glower at her, “I know you haven’t had your hair trimmed for ages. I’ll even pay for it, since you have to wait for me.”

Yuri’s arms remained crossed, but his glare looked less certain.

“You’ll do it for him, wouldn’t you?” Mila turned towards Otabek, smiling sweetly at him. “Please. Before he starts to nag at me.”

Standing over a customer two stations away, Chris chuckled. “Go ahead,” he said, nodding. “I’ve just finished here. I’ll take over Mrs Fedorova.” He had a sly smirk in his voice. Otabek shot him a suspicious look, but Chris only widened his eyes in mock-innocence, and waved his hand in a shooing motion.

Fighting the urge to frown, Otabek pasted a cheery smile on his face and ushered Yuri towards the wash area. He helped Yuri into a clean smock and draped a towel over his shoulders, then busied himself with the taps.

It was probably unusual in his line work, but Otabek genuinely liked washing his customers’ hair. He liked watching their faces, how they gradually relaxed, tension bleeding away from their features as Otabek massaged their scalps.  

Yuri was no exception. He gave a tiny whimper as Otabek kneaded out a particularly tight knot near the base of his skull. Otabek watched the lines on Yuri’s face ease as he dug his forefinger and thumb down the length of Yuri’s nape. Yuri shivered, and Otabek allowed himself a small smile.

Yuri, he decided, was even cuter when he wasn’t scowling. Although his scowl was pretty adorable too.

“There,” he said finally. He drained the sink, and guided Yuri towards one of the unoccupied styling stations. “Just a trim?”

Yuri nodded.

“Alright, then,” Otabek said easily. He combed out Yuri’s hair, then took out his scissors from his apron pocket. “When was the last time you got your hair trimmed?” he asked conversationally, as he divided a section of hair and went to work.

Yuri remained quiet for long enough that Otabek thought he might not respond. Then, “Not since February, I think.”

Otabek hummed, scrutinizing the tips of Yuri’s hair before snipping them off. “That’s a long time.”

“I was growing it out.”

“Even if you’re growing it out, you should get it trimmed every three months. Keeps the hair healthy, gives it a bit of shape.”

Yuri did not reply.

Otabek took the hint, and continued to the rest of his work in silence. Every now and then, he thought he saw Yuri sneak a glance at him in the mirror. Still, neither of them spoke, until Otabek stepped away at last. “There,” he declared. “And just in time, too.” He nodded towards Mila’s station, where she was now standing up.

“Beka,” Chris called. “See to her payment first, will you?”

Otabek flashed him a thumbs up, and led Mila and Yuri to the front counter. “Still paying for him?” he asked her, jerking his thumb at Yuri who, apart from telling Otabek that the trim looked “okay”, still had not deigned to speak much with him, if at all.

“Yep,” she said. “Thanks for taking care him.” Her eyes darted between Yuri and Otabek, before settling again on Yuri. Her lips curved, as though she had observed something amusing.

“It was my pleasure,” Otabek replied pleasantly, accepting her credit card and ringing her up.

He was waiting while Mila signed the receipt, when he felt a hand touch his arm.

Yuri cleared his throat. “Hey. So… Thanks.” His eyes met Otabek’s squarely.

Startled, Otabek flashed him a genuine smile. “It’s nothing.”

“No, really,” Mila interjected. “His hair looks better now. He should go to you more often.”

“Baba!” Yuri hissed, elbowing her. Otabek’s brows rose. Mila only smiled again.

“Here,” she said blithely, handing the signed slip back.

“Thanks.” On impulse, he grabbed one of his business cards from the counter. “Here, my card” he said, turning to Yuri and holding the card out. Yuri accepted it, turning it over in his hands and reading it. “We’re open every day except Tuesday,”Otabek added helpfully. He resisted the urge to do a fist pump when Yuri slid the card into his wallet.

There was a round of goodbyes. Otabek watched them leave the shop.

“He’s cute,” Chris drawled, finally joining him at the counter.

Otabek ignored Chris in favour of clipping the duplicate copy of Mila’s receipt together with the other receipts, before slipping the neat bundle into the drawer once more.

“Looks exactly your type, too,” Chris added.

Otabek rolled his eyes.

“And my spidey senses tell me that he’s into you.” Chris waggled his eyebrows suggestively. He elbowed Otabek lightly. “No harm dating around again. What’s-his-face was weeks ago.”

Otabek snorted. “He’s probably straight, and probably dating that Mila chick.” He pushed the cashier drawer shut with slightly more force than strictly needed.  

Chris, wisely, did not raise the matter again that day. He had plenty to say, however, when Yuri returned a month later. 

=-=-=

It had been a quiet morning so far, certainly quiet enough for Chris to decide to take an early lunch, leaving Otabek to hold the fort. Otabek was in the backroom doing a stock-take of their dyes, when the bell on the shop door jingled.

“Hang on!” he called. He made a note of where he was, before sticking both notebook and pen onto the shelf as a place-marker. Then, he climbed to his feet a sigh, dusting his knees. There were still four more shelves to go, and his body was cramping from having stayed hunched for so long. Chris was right, Otabek reflected grumpily. He should probably start going out again, find someone else, a quick fuck, a date, to take his mind off things.

He had pulled his hair into a bun that morning before he left his apartment, but several strands had managed to escape in the hours since. He could feel them now, tickling the sides of his face and his neck uncomfortably. For a moment, he contemplated redoing his hair, before discarding that notion almost as quickly.

There was little chance of him meeting anyone else he’d like to date in the shop today, after all.

“Can I – ” he began as he strode out of the backroom, professional smile pasted firmly on his face… only for the rest of the words to catch at his throat. “Hey,” he finished lamely, resigned to the fact that he was probably gaping like an idiot. He just hoped, and hoped hard, that the tips of his ears had not gone red.

At least Yuri looked almost as awkward as he felt.

“Hey,” Yuri said as he stuck his hands into the pockets of his jacket, shifting his weight slightly from one foot to the other. “I’m not sure if you remember me.” He sounded hesitant, his voice rising at the end of the sentence, making it sound almost like a question. “I was here last month.”

Otabek forced his mouth shut, swallowing. “Yeah,” he managed eventually. “Yeah, I do.” He urged his feet to step around to the other side of the counter, next to Yuri. “You came here looking for Mila, didn’t you? She talked you into a trim while you waited for her to be done.”

Yuri smiled. “I’m surprised you remember.”

“I try my best to remember all my customers,” Otabek said. It was a lie, but still a far sight better than admitting that he only remembered Yuri because he looked like Otabek’s type. Chris was right, damn his observant eye.

Yuri raised a brow.

“Any customer who might become a regular,” Otabek added defensively.

Yuri still looked unconvinced, but he chuckled. “If you say so.”

“I do,” Otabek shot back unthinkingly, before he kicked himself mentally. He tried not to wince. “It’s good to see you again in our shop…?”

“Yuri.”

“Yuri. Of course,” Otabek grinned. As far as he was concerned, Yuri didn’t need to know that Otabek had memorised his name, too. Like some kind of creepy stalker, Otabek thought ruefully. “How can I help you today, Yuri?”

“I’d like a haircut.”

“Another trim?” Otabek studied him curiously. “The last one I gave you hasn’t grown out yet, you know.”

“No, not a trim.” Yuri scowled. “I want,” he said, a hand coming up to tug on the ends of his hair, “a new look.”

Otabek blinked. “Oh,” he said, quirking his lips as he started back into the main part of the shop, pausing only long enough to check that Yuri was following. “In which case…” He gestured awkwardly at the chairs. “Pick any seat you like. I’ll be right back.”

He bustled to the backroom again, not quite daring to look back.  There, within the safety of its cluttered shelves, he finally let his smile drop and his shoulders sag. His cheeks still felt oddly heated.

So much for playing it cool, he thought, grinning ruefully as he snatched a clean smock from the shelves. Stepping out once more into the shop proper, he paused just long enough in front of a mirror to brush ineffectively at the loose strands of hair around his face. Then, he squared his shoulders and strode briskly towards where he had last left Yuri.

Yuri had already taken a seat and, in Otabek’s absence, begun flipping idly through one of the glossy-paged magazines which had been left on the counter of the styling station for customers to browse. He looked up with a small smile as Otabek approached.

“Found a style you like?” Otabek asked conversationally as he snapped the smock open.

Yuri returned the magazine to the counter as Otabek brought the smock around him, and obligingly gathered his hair in his fist, holding it out of the way while Otabek fastened the smock at his nape. “Not really,” he replied, his shoulders shrugging perceptibly beneath the smock.

“Alright, then,” Otabek said easily, stepping back again. He cocked his head slightly as he studied Yuri’s reflection in the mirror, and hummed contemplatively. “A new look, huh. Something short, maybe?"

“Hn.”

“Or we could dye it, if you have any colours in mind,” Otabek suggested.

Another shrug.

“Or maybe not,” Otabek smiled easily. “I could bring you more magazines, if you want,” he offered.

“Nah.” Quick shake of the head. Suddenly, Yuri sighed. “It’s stupid. You’ll laugh.”

“I promise I won’t.”

A pause. Slowly, Yuri looked up. His cheeks were pink, and his lips quirked in a half-smile as his eyes met Otabek’s in the mirror. “I was thinking of getting something like yours, actually.”

Otabek blinked. Self-consciously, he brought a hand up, rubbing his palm against the shorter hairs on the back of his head. “What, like an undercut?”

“Yeah.” In the mirror, Yuri dropped his gaze. “The last time I was here, I thought it looked pretty cool.”

“Oh.” There was no doubt about it – the tips of Otabek’s ears were definitely red.

“Told you it was silly.”

“It’s not,” Otabek protested. “I’m just not used to it.”

Yuri looked up again, arching a brow. “Not used to what?”

“I mean,” Otabek stammered, his tongue suddenly anything but cooperative, “I’m just not used to… it’s my first time that…”

“It’s your first time a customer told you that you looked cool?” Yuri asked, a note of challenge creeping into his voice.

The first time a crush told me that I looked cool, Otabek thought sheepishly. Aloud, he shot back with a “Hey!”, and threw in a playful shove to Yuri’s shoulder for good measure. “Don’t make your stylist sound so pathetic. Or have you never learnt not to mess around with a guy holding the scissors?”

Yuri snorted. “Fine, fine, no more.” He tipped his head back to catch Otabek properly in the eye, smirking, and Otabek found himself helplessly charmed. “I leave myself in your strong, capable hands.”

Sighing inwardly, Otabek resigned himself to having red ears for the rest of Yuri’s session. Yuri, he decided, was a menace. A menace who was exactly Otabek’s type.  

Daringly, Otabek reached out a hand to card his fingers through the length of Yuri’s hair. The pale, blond strands were as silky as he had remembered. “It’d be a shame to cut all of this away,” he mused, curling the ends around his forefinger and thumb before pulling away with a light tug.

“What do you suggest?” Yuri asked.

Otabek bit his lip contemplatively. “A sidecut,” he decided. At Yuri’s blank look, he elaborated, “It’s an undercut, but only to the side. The contrast in lengths would look striking, especially with a couple of accent braids and a bit of styling.” Unable to resist, he reached out again, and ran his fingertips lightly across Yuri’s hair. Yuri cocked his head, seemingly in thought. From Otabek’s angle, it looked almost as though Yuri was leaning into his touch, and it was with regret that Otabek let his hand fall away.

Yuri blinked. “Yeah,” he said, a slow smile spreading across his face. “Let’s do that.”

Otabek answered with a grin of his own as he began to part Yuri’s hair.

“Tip your head forward, just a little,” he said, when he was ready to begin. “No, that’s too much. Raise your head.” Obediently, Yuri did as he asked. “There.” With his left hand, he cupped the crown of Yuri’s head lightly, steadying him. “This might tickle,” he warned, and thumbed the switch on the electric clippers with his right.

Yuri shuddered as the clippers skimmed along the surface of his scalp.

Otabek clicked his tongue. “Hold still,” he admonished.

“Sorry,” Yuri muttered, the muscles in his neck and shoulders tensing visibly, his eyes screwing tightly shut.

Otabek immediately felt sorry for him. Still, he worked in silence for a while, until the set of Yuri’s shoulders began to soften, bit by bit, as Yuri gradually got used to the low buzz of the clippers. A quick glance at the mirror, however, told Otabek that Yuri’s eyes still remained firmly shut.

Otabek shifted his grip on the clippers as he guided the clipper around the delicate shell of Yuri’s ear. “So,” he started casually, “why the new look?”

Yuri raised his shoulder in a half-shrug, then seemed to think better of it. “You’re going to think that it’s stupid.”

“You’d be surprised,” Otabek laughed. “Lots of people come in with different reasons for wanting a new look. Yours can’t be the worst.”

Finally, Yuri opened his eyes, as he stared warily at Otabek in the mirror. “Somehow, I don’t believe you.”

“Haven’t you heard?” Otabek shot back teasingly. “Being at your hairstylist’s is the next best thing to being at a confessional.” He laughed. “Most of our customers seem to think so, at least. Besides,” he mused, “I once almost had to give a customer a buzz cut, because she had fallen asleep in the middle of bleaching her hair at home. Now that was a disaster. I was amazed that she even had any hair left at all, to be honest.” He shot Yuri a sly smirk. “Like I said: yours can’t be the worst.”

Yuri snorted. “Fine.” He paused, as though searching for the right words. “How much do you know about ice-skating?”

“Enough to know that I’ll never make a career of it,” Otabek replied cheerfully, with a wink. It seemed to do the trick. Yuri’s lips cracked into a broad, toothy grin, even as he tried to scowl.

“Idiot,” he sniped without heat. “I meant the sport.”

“Not a lot,” Otabek admitted. “Only what I see in the news, and I don’t really follow it all that much.” He lifted the clippers away, surveying his work. “I’m guessing you skate, since you were with Mila the last time, and Chris says that she does.”

“Yeah,” Yuri replied. “We’re both on the national team.”

“Sounds glamourous,” Otabek offered, nodding as he switched the clippers off. Without its steady buzz, the silence in the shop seemed almost deafening. “I’m not done yet, but what do you think?”

Yuri snorted. “The training’s brutal.” He leaned forward and peered intently into the mirror, turning his head this way and that as he scrutinized the sidecut. “I love it,” he pronounced. “Lilia would probably hate it, but I don’t care.”

“Lilia?”

“My coach. One of my coaches. She’s a classical ballerina by training. It shows in her tastes,” Yuri sighed, sinking back into his seat.

Otabek laughed. “How long have you been skating?”

“Since I was five.”

“That’s a long time.”

“Yeah, it has been.” He pursed his lips. “This season will be my first season now that I’ve turned eighteen. It just felt like a good time to shake things up. You know, different look, different style, and all that jazz. Rebirth. Challenge.” Yuri smiled wryly. “One of the senior skaters, Victor, he’s the best – but don’t you ever tell him that I’ve said that – and he’s always going on and on about surprising your audience. My first competition this season is four days away, and so I thought, you know, why not.”

Otabek nodded thoughtfully, still holding onto the electric clippers. “Definitely,” he agreed, just as inspiration struck. He switched the clippers to its shortest setting before turning it back on. His other hand cupped Yuri’s chin, tilting Yuri’s head gently at an angle. “Hold still again,” he warned, as he guided the clippers across Yuri’s sidecut in careful curves.

“There,” he said finally, stepping back once more as he turned the clippers off again, feeling more than a little pleased with himself as he studied the hair tattoo he had carved. “Now the sidecut’s properly done.”

Yuri was already studying his reflection in the mirror. “Tiger stripes?” he asked, a hand emerging from beneath the smock to stroke at the fresh pattern in his hair.

A corner of Otabek’s mouth quirked. “Yeah,” he confirmed. “Seemed fitting. And you’re wearing a shirt with a tiger on it.”

“No way. It looks amazing,” Yuri breathed, his fingers still stroking the tattoo, the touch almost reverential. Then, he twisted in his seat to look Otabek in the eye, and beamed.

For a brief, dumb moment, Otabek’s breath hitched.

Yuri fumbled for his bag, which he had left on top of the tiny dresser, and pulled out his cell phone. “I can’t wait to get a picture of this and to share it,” he declared. He brought his other hand out from beneath the smock too, and reached for Otabek’s arm. “Come on. I want you in the shot too.”

Laughingly, Otabek dodged Yuri’s grasp. “Not yet,” he protested. “I still need to give the rest of your hair a bit more shape!”

Eventually, he was persuaded to take a picture with Yuri after all, when he had trimmed the rest of Yuri’s hair and styled Yuri’s look to his satisfaction. Yuri uploaded the shot on Instagram and, after wheedling Otabek for his own username, tagged Otabek in the photograph and its accompanying caption.

In the mere minutes it took for Yuri to pay for his haircut, eighty-seven users liked the photograph. Ten of them proceeded to follow Otabek’s own account.

Otabek was flabbergasted.

Yuri just smirked at him. “Told you,” he said smugly. “Exposure.”

“It’s still ridiculous,” Otabek told him grumpily.

“Hah.” Yuri waved his hand dismissively. He collected his credit card from Otabek, and slipped it back into his wallet. Then, he rested his elbows on the front counter, and leaned his weight forward on his arms. “Thanks again for the amazing hair.”  

Impulsively, Otabek reached over to give the longer half of Yuri’s hair a playful tug. “Good luck with the competition,” he offered in turn. “Davai.”

Yuri flashed him a thumbs up. In the same moment, his cell phone buzzed with a new text.

Otabek turned away deliberately. He slotted the duplicate copy of Yuri’s receipt neatly into the cashier drawer, and watched from the corner of his eye as Yuri thumbed his reply to the sender of the text. There was a huff of laughter. Then, Yuri held out his phone over the counter to him.

“Hey, help me grab a close-up?” Yuri gestured at the hair tattoo with his free hand. “Mila says she saw it on Instagram, and wants a better view.”

Obediently, Otabek took the cell phone.

“Thanks,” Yuri said when Otabek handed the cell phone back, already sounding distracted. He was still typing his message to her as he left the shop.

Otabek watched him go. He waited until the door fell shut. Then, he sighed.

The bell jingled again as Chris came in. “Was that…?” he asked, jerking a thumb over his shoulder.

“Yeah, it was.”

“Did he…?”

Otabek glared at him. “He wanted a haircut.”

“Not a date?”

“Don’t you start.” Otabek picked up a pen and threw it at him. Chris, the bastard, dodged it. “Like I said, he’s probably straight.”

Chris shook his head. “Nah.”

“Yeah?”

“Trust the gay man’s gaydar.”

Against his will, Otabek snorted. “You’re so full of bullshit. I can’t believe you’re my boss sometimes.” He pulled off his apron, folding it neatly before placing it on the counter. “Besides, he didn’t make a follow-up appointment. He might not be back.”

Chris only smirked. “Hundred rubles say that he will.”

Otabek flipped him off. “I heading out for lunch now. See you in a bit.”

“If you run very fast, you might be able to catch up with him,” Chris called behind him.

On his way out, Otabek picked up another pen from the counter and threw it at Chris too.

=-=-=

Now that he had been tagged by Yuri on social media, Otabek felt justified in looking him up.

He was not expecting the sheer number of media articles, Youtube videos and tweets that came up when he hit “enter” on Google. There was even a fanclub.

Yuri, it seemed, was something of a celebrity within the world of figure-skating sport. 

That night, Otabek fell asleep to videos of Yuri skating, a graceful figure as he glided effortlessly across the ice. The next day, he alternated his time in the shop between attending to his share of the customers, and scrolling through everything he could find online about Yuri. When dinnertime rolled around the day after, he had progressed to Wikipedia entries on figure-skating terms, learning the differences between a short program and a free skate, and how to tell the difference in theory between a toe loop and a Salchow, even if all the jumps still looked the same to him in skating videos.

By the end of the week, Chris declared that he was obsessed. Otabek merely flipped him off, and continued to watch Yuri’s exhibition skate from last year’s World Championships while he ate his lunch.

Mostly, however, he found himself drawn, time and time again, to Yuri’s Instagram profile. Instagram appeared to Yuri’s primary social network of choice, and was certainly the one that he was the most active on. There were the expected pictures and clips of Yuri’s practice sessions at his home rink. But equally, there were almost as many glimpses of the life Yuri led off-rink: odd sights which had intrigued Yuri in passing, newly-acquired clothing and styled “looks” which Yuri was feeling particularly pleased with, the occasional food or dish which Yuri had particularly liked, and a surprisingly large number of photographs of Yuri’s cat.

Over the days, Otabek learnt that Yuri took his training seriously, that Yuri’s aesthetical tastes veered towards punk, and that Yuri really, really loved cats. He learnt that Yuri preferred to shy away from meeting his fans, but heaven forbid that anyone else insult the Yuri Angels.

He just didn’t know what he could do with his new-found knowledge.

Mila, Otabek also discovered, was Yuri’s rink mate. The gossip columns and fan boards speculated that they were dating. It was difficult to fault them. Otabek eyed the latest picture that was making its rounds around the internet sourly: Mila holding Yuri up in a pair-skate lift after the medal ceremony at Skate America.

Yeah, Otabek didn’t blame them at all. If anything, he was rather inclined to believe them.

He tossed his cell phone to the side, and sprawled back onto his bed with a sigh. Yuri was still exactly Otabek’s type. And he’d be even more of Otabek’s type if he weren’t straight.

With another sigh, Otabek groped for a pillow and buried his face in it. He clearly wasn’t the first to develop a hopeless crush on Yuri, and he wasn’t likely to be the last. It’d be better for him if he could just let go of his ridiculous crush.

He just wished that it was as easily done as said.

His cell phone buzzed. Otabek fumbled blindly for it, and raised his head from his pillow to squint at the screen. He had acquired another follower on Instagram, it seemed. That itself was unsurprising – he had been gaining followers steadily ever since Yuri had tagged him. In some ways, it was gratifying to know that a number of Yuri’s skating fans also appreciated the pictures he shared of his better hair-styling experiments, his beloved motorcycle, and the occasional road trips he took on the latter.

He thumbed the alert on the screen. Then, he blinked: yuri-plisetsky was now following him on Instagram.

Grinning, he flicked his screen to Yuri’s profile and followed him. Another flick, and he’d liked the most recent photograph on Yuri’s feed of Yuri holding up a Skate America gold medal. Beneath the photograph, he began to type a congratulatory message, but paused mid-message, hesitating. Eventually, he deleted it.

Still, he fell asleep with a smile. The next morning, he woke to the discovery that yuri-plisetsky had liked nine of his uploads on Instagram.

=-=-=

It was another week before Yuri visited the shop. He came by without a prior appointment, while Otabek had stepped out for lunch, and it was only when Chris greeted Otabek at the front counter after he returned, grabbing his arm and pulling him in with a lascivious grin, that Otabek first had an inkling that something was amiss.

Otabek blinked.

“You owe me a hundred rubles,” Chris whispered. He gave Otabek’s arm another squeeze before letting go, then shouldered past, clearly on his way out. He winked as he stepped through the shop entrance.

Otabek blinked again. He squared his shoulders and headed for the main area of the shop. He was pretty certain that he knew the cause of Chris’ odd little display. He just hoped that he wouldn’t fuck up by tripping over his own feet, or something equally embarrassing.  

Yuri, it turned out, was already seated at one of the styling stations. He had his phone out, but it was clear that he had been following Chris’ and Otabek’s reflections in the mirror. For a moment, he looked wary, his eyes wide and uncertain from where Otabek could see them in the glass. Then, his expression shuttered, and he looked bored, almost aloof.

Otabek snagged one of the clean smocks that had been left, folded, on the trolley, and snapped it open, bringing it over and around Yuri. Once more, Yuri obligingly held his hair out of the way while Otabek fastened the smock at his nape.

Otabek cleared his throat. “Maintenance?”

“Yeah, pretty much.” Yuri shrugged beneath the smock. “Grew out much faster than I thought.”

Otabek quirked a smile. “You’re only saying that because the rest of your hair is long. Short hair needs more maintenance.” He grabbed the clippers from the trolley. “You could do it yourself at home, you know,” he remarked as he crouched to plug the clippers into an electrical socket.

Yuri grunted. “I’d much rather you do it.”

Otabek was suddenly, profoundly glad that his face was hidden from Yuri’s view just then. “Should I take that as a compliment?” he asked, as teasingly as he could, as he rose from his crouch – just in time to catch Yuri looking away.

“Don’t be stupid,” Yuri muttered curtly.

Otabek bit his lip, but forced an easy smile. “Tilt your head this way,” he ordered as he started up the clippers, while Yuri wordlessly did as he was told. He worked in awkward silence for a while, the previous weeks’ flurry of Instagram-likes a distant memory, until he abruptly realized that Yuri was holding his breath. “I’ll be done soon,” he murmured encouragingly.

“Sorry,” Yuri breathed shakily. “Just especially ticklish today, I guess.”

Just then, the clippers skimmed across the sensitive patch of skin behind his ear. Yuri whimpered, and Otabek inhaled sharply.

 “Congrats, by the way,” Otabek managed, as he tried not to imagine the other possible scenarios under which Yuri might make a similar sound. Professional. He had to be professional. “You know, Skate America,” he elaborated, when Yuri lifted his gaze to meet Otabek’s quizzically in the mirror.

“Oh,” said Yuri, sounding startled. “Yeah, thanks.”

“I watched the performance on Youtube,” Otabek added, as he nudged Yuri’s head into position. “You looked amazing.”

“Yeah?” Yuri’s expression brightened, and the set of his shoulders eased a little. Suddenly, he seemed more like the Yuri who had asked for an undercut just two weeks ago, a mix of surprising warmth and boyish bluster, and less like the distant, sporting celebrity from mere minutes ago.

Stay professional, Otabek reminded himself again. That meant keeping your customers relaxed. And not hitting on them. Or sounding like you had been stalking them. “I mean, I don’t really know much about the judging, but what you did on the ice – you looked better than everybody else.”

Yuri’s resulting grin was bright and pleased, as sudden as it was striking and surprisingly shy. “Thanks,” he said again, softer now, warmer.

Otabek felt an answering grin spread across his face. “So, what next, after Skate America?”

“There’s the Trophée de France in a month or so, and more training from now until then.” A slight grimace told Otabek what Yuri felt about the prospect of more training.

“Sounds rough,” he offered, as he adjusted the clipper settings for touching up the hair tattoo. “Still the tiger stripes?”

“Definitely. Those were awesome.”

“Cool,” Otabek said, just as Yuri launched into the finer details of his everyday training regimen and how demanding his coaches were.

Later, as he handled Yuri’s payment at the front counter, Otabek suggested, “You know, you should give me your number.”

Yuri dropped his credit card.

Otabek felt the tips of his ears go hot. “I’m not hitting on you,” he clarified in a rush. “I mean, I’m not saying that you’re ugly, because you’re not, you’re actually kinda cute, and I’m sure anyone would want to hit on you, and I’ve dated guys before, but, uh…” He stammered to an abrupt halt while Yuri gaped at him. Sheepishly, Otabek rubbed the short hairs on the back of his head. “I mean,” he said, exhaling noisily, “it’ll make it easier for us to contact you about further appointments. That way, the next time you come around, I’ll be in, unlike today.”

Yuri’s mouth moved soundlessly. Then, he began to snigger. “Here,” he said, pulling his cell phone and handing to Otabek. “Your number.”

Otabek stared.

“I’ll need your number as well, to know who’s calling, won’t I?” Yuri pointed out reasonably, still smirking.

It took a couple of tries for Otabek to enter his number correctly. He handed the phone back to Yuri, who saved the number, then thumbed the call button. “There,” he said, sounding smug, as he picked his fallen credit card up from the counter top and made to hand it over to Otabek once more. “Now you have my number too.”

“Yeah,” Otabek smiled shakily as he handed the credit slip over. “Thanks.”

Yuri scrawled his signature over the slip, before passing it back with a smile that Otabek could only describe as cheeky.

Otabek tried to tell himself that he wasn’t charmed. He wasn’t quite as successful as he would have liked.

=-=-=

By unspoken agreement, they fell into a pattern of fortnightly appointments. Always, Yuri would text Otabek the day before to check on his availability, before showing up at the shop the next day just before lunchtime. In turn, Otabek took to having his lunch in the shop on those days, and rescheduled his day’s appointments on two separate occasions.

On both occasions, Chris had given him a look.

On both occasions, Otabek had ignored him. 

Yuri only came by without an appointment once. It was a few days after the Trophée de France, and on the pretext of giving Otabek a box of macarons, just something I saw in Paris, thought you might like them. He had hurried out of the shop shortly after, with barely enough time for Otabek to stammer out his bemused thanks. Otabek still didn’t quite know what to make of that incident.

(The macarons were delicious, however: rich ganaches and creams sandwiched between sugary crisp shells. Otabek had eaten each one with small, careful bites, and by careful rationing had made the box of seven macarons last a whole week.)

The first time that Yuri cancelled an appointment was in December, on a spitefully cold winter morning. The text came approximately an hour before Yuri was due, which meant that Otabek spent his lunch hour slouching behind the front counter, playing Candy Crush desultorily on his phone with one hand, and holding a half-eaten sandwich in the other.

Chris slid over a cup of hot coffee. “Want to talk about it?”

Otabek looked up with a scowl. “Not really.” There wasn’t much that he could talk about it, anyway. Yuri and him weren’t even in a relationship; it was just a one-sided crush, never mind that all he did know about his crush came from social media, Wikipedia, and their conversations in the hairdresser’s chair – which didn’t amount to much, really, when one thought about it.

He didn’t even know if Yuri liked him back.

Sullenly, Otabek took a sip of the coffee Chris had brought him, and winced when it scalded his tongue. Yuri was a sporting celebrity. He was also way out of Otabek’s league, probably straight, and likely also dating his rink-mate. (Otabek took a masochistic pleasure in reading those tabloid articles.) It was just a one-sided crush, and it was utterly hopeless. Chris always did say that he had shit taste in dates.

With a sigh, Otabek took another sip of the too-hot coffee, before setting the cup down with a sigh. “It’s nothing,” he insisted. “But thanks for the coffee.”

He resumed his sandwich and his game, hoping that Chris would take the hint. When it became clear that Chris wouldn’t, however, he paused his game and rolled his eyes. “Can I help you?”

Chris’ eyes were kind as they studied him. Still, Otabek glared, and was opening his mouth to tell Chris what he could do with his pity, when suddenly, Chris’ expression brightened. Chris beamed, and slapped Otabek on the back, jostling him and almost sending his arm jerking into the coffee cup. Otabek yelped.

Chris, the bastard, only smiled wider. “Come spin for us tonight,” Chris offered. “The regular DJ at Chaika called in sick, so Ivan needs someone to cover for him.”

Ivan was Chris’ boyfriend. Otabek really didn’t know much about him, beyond the fact that he tended to wear suits, owned a number of bars and clubs around St. Petersburg, and possibly worked for the Russian Mob. As a matter of general good sense, Otabek usually did his best not to dwell on the last point.

“I’ll think about it,” he said, and Chris nodded, finally pushing away from the front counter and heading back to the main part of the shop with a pleased saunter. They both knew that Otabek’s reply was as good as a yes.

=-=-=

By the middle of his set at Chaika, Otabek was forced to concede that it had been a good decision to agree to Chris’ request. Alone in his booth, it was easy enough to lose himself in the steady spin of the turntables, the easy glide of the sliders on the cross-fader.

Somewhere in the peak-hour bar crowd, a group of ladies climbed on top of the bar-top and began to dance. Otabek grinned as he cued up the next track, playing up the heady, bass notes as he counted them in. Weeks of his pathetic, one-sided crush, and the morning’s latest disappointment, all seemed insignificant against the thrill of pounding out his own beats, of blending rhythms together and creating something that was new and just his.

He ended his set on a high. Still grinning, he brought up one of his pre-mixed lists, and set it to play before making his way to the bar counter. He caught the eye of the bartender, who nodded. Humming under his breath, Otabek turned to survey the remaining other patrons at the bar, leaning his back against the countertop as he waited for his drink. His attention drifted lazily from one table to the next, never quite focusing, never quite lingering, until a distinctive, blond sidecut caught his eye.

Otabek froze.

From the corner of the bar, it appeared that Yuri had spotted him too. Otabek watched dumbly as Yuri left his table and began to pick his way through the crowd, the night’s euphoria evaporating in a flash.

Yuri, Otabek observed, was dressed in a suit. It was his first time seeing Yuri dressed in a suit, in person. He concluded that it made Yuri look more attractive than any person ever had a right to be.

Otabek really, really wished that the bartender would hurry up with his drink.

“Hey,” Yuri greeted him when he reached Otabek’s side. “Didn’t expect to see you here.”

Otabek cleared his throat, his mouth suddenly bone-dry. “Hey yourself,” he managed, on his second try. “Could say the same about you.”

“A bunch of us thought we might celebrate the end of the Grand Prix.” He jerked his chin in the direction of his table. “Last get-together before some of us go home for the New Year. You know how it is.”

Otabek nodded obediently. “Oh, yeah, congratulations,” he added automatically.

Yuri scowled. “Silver,” he snorted. “Fucking Victor. One day, I’m going to beat him.”

Otabek laughed. “Still looked pretty damned impressive to me.” Yuri had left the top couple of buttons on his shirt undone. This close, Otabek could see where pale skin dipped into the hollows of Yuri’s collarbone. He wondered absently how Yuri’s skin would feel like to touch, if it would be as smooth and cool as it looked.

The bartender returned, sliding a bottle of beer across the counter. Otabek grabbed his drink gratefully, raising the mouth of the bottle to his lips for long swallow. When he lowered the bottle again, he found Yuri watching him silently, a tiny smile toying with the corners of Yuri’s lips. Otabek raised a brow enquiringly.

 “Sorry about this morning, by the way,” Yuri offered. His smile turned sheepish. “A press conference overran. I didn’t want to cancel.”

“Nah, it’s fine,” Otabek replied. He shrugged, took another sip of his beer. It was tragic, he reflected ruefully, just how much better the explanation had made him feel. “It happens with many customers. I don’t mind.”

Yuri’s smile broadened. “Yeah?” he said, still sounding hesitant.

Otabek grinned in reply. “Yeah.”

“Anyway,” he said, brightening as he placed a hand on the small of Otabek’s back. “Come meet the others. They’re asking about you.”

Yuri’s hand remained where it was, a warm, comfortable weight. Mutely, Otabek allowed himself to be steered through the crowds, the remainder of his drink still clutched in one hand.

There were four people at Yuri’s table. They looked up as expectantly as Yuri and Otabek approached, their various conversations trailing to a halt. Otabek eyed them apprehensively. Half a step ahead, Yuri straightened his back and squared his shoulders ever so slightly.

“Yurio!” one of the party called when Otabek and Yuri finally drew within hearing distance.

Otabek darted a swift, sideways glance in Yuri’s direction. Yurio? he mouthed.

Yuri rolled his eyes at Otabek, then flipped the caller off.

Yuri dispensed with the introductions quickly, rattling off names in an almost-bored fashion. “Georgi,” he said, pointing at the dark-haired man on the left, “and Georgi’s girl – can’t remember her name,” this muttered sotto voice as Yuri leaned into Otabek, the corner of his shoulder brushing against Otabek’s chest.

“Mila, you already know –” he continued. Mila winked, and Otabek hastily plastered on a smile, “ – and that’s Victor, you’ve probably heard of him.”

Victor turned out to be the man who had first called out to them. He waved now. Otabek, who had in recent weeks come across numerous online posts on Victor Nikiforov, Russia’s darling of figure skating, returned the wave awkwardly.

“And this is Otabek,” Yuri concluded with a flourish. “Be nice, or I’ll make you all regret it.”

Georgi snorted, throwing an arm around his girlfriend and whispering into her ear. She giggled. Beside them, Victor leaned forward in his seat, resting his elbows on his thighs. He tilted his head, his eyes unexpectedly sharp, his expression thoughtful. “So you’re the guy who’s been doing Yurio’s hair?” he asked.

Otabek eyed him warily. “Um, yeah.”

A mischievous smile played on Victor’s lips. “Yurio has a lot of good things to say about his hair.”

“I like it,” Yuri interjected, glaring. “It’s way cooler than all the boring shit which the other skaters have.”

“Nearly gave Coach Yakov and Lilia heart attacks, though,” Mila chortled. “I thought Lilia was going to faint, the first time she saw it. Yakov scolded him for days.”

Otabek turned towards Yuri, quirking a brow. “You didn’t tell me that,” he said mildly.

Yuri glared. “Only because it’s not relevant,” he retorted.

“If you say so,” Otabek teased.

“Shut up,” Yuri groused. He redirected his glare towards the rest of the table. “Shut up, all of you.”

“Yurio, that’s mean,” Mila drawled. She pushed herself out of her seat, sauntering over. She plucking the beer bottle from Otabek’s fingers and set it down on the table, before wrapping both her arms around one of Otabek’s, leaning in close. “We’re just being nice, like you told us to.”

Yuri scowled. “Let go of him, baba.” He took a half-step forward, bringing a hand up to pull Mila away. She danced easily out of his reach.

“Did you know?” she said conspiratorially, propping her chin on Otabek’s shoulder, “Our Yurio kept asking me all about you before he went back to your shop. I almost thought he had a crush.”

“No, I didn’t know that,” Otabek said faintly.

“He kept whining this morning too, when he had to miss his appointment with you,” she confided.

Immediately, Yuri leapt towards her, and wrestled her away from Otabek. “Mila!”

A brief scuffle broke out. It ended with Yuri being held down by Mila in a temporary headlock.

“Bitch, let me go,” Yuri hissed.

Mila grinned unrepentantly. “You love me.” She pressed a quick kiss to Yuri’s temple, before letting him break away.

“Are Mila and Yurio fighting again?” a new voice asked. Otabek turned his head towards the direction of the voice, just as an Asian man joined the table. The newcomer was carrying two bottles of beer; he passed one to Victor, then sat in Victor’s lap.

“Yuuri, this is Otabek,” Victor said mildly. “Otabek, this is Yuuri.” From his seat, the newcomer ducked his head in a half bow.

“The other Yuuri,” Yuri muttered. “Victor is going out the katsudon there, as you can probably tell.”

“He’s why we call your Yuri, Yurio,” Mila chimed.

“Keeps things from getting too confusing,” Georgi added, before resuming his conversation with his date.

“Sure,” Otabek said, entirely bemused.

“Wait,” the other Yuuri said, “aren’t you the hairdresser guy?”

“Everyone keeps calling him that,” Yuri complained, even though no one had actually called Otabek that.

“So, Otabek,” Mila began, crowing in close beside him, “Why are you here? Yurio wasn’t expecting you.” Her tone held a curl of mischief.

On his other side, Yuri huffed.

Otabek jerked his thumb in the direction of the DJ’s booth. “Helping out with some music.”

“You’re a DJ too?” Yuri demanded, tugging on the sleeve of Otabek’s jacket.

“Sometimes. Yeah.”

“That’s so cool,” Yuri breathed. He was almost bouncing on the balls of his feet. “You have to show me how it’s done one day.”

Otabek smiled. He was only just discovering that an excited Yuri was a whole new level of irresistible. “Sure,” he said.

“Are you done for tonight?” the other Yuuri asked. “We’re moving to another bar soon. You should join us, if you can.”

Otabek gave a rueful smile. Before he could decline the offer, however, a pair of arms wrapped around him from behind.

“Beka,” Chris purred. “Lovely work tonight.”

“Chris!” Mila exclaimed, sounding delighted.

“Mila,” Chris said, releasing Otabek and drawing her into an embrace instead. “You look lovely tonight.”

“That’s my boss,” Otabek told the rest sheepishly. He retrieved his half-forgotten drink from the table. “Gotta head back to work now.” As though to accentuate Otabek’s point, Chris slung a casual arm over Otabek’s shoulders again, even as he continued chatting with Mila.

“Some other time, then,” Victor said graciously.

Yuri had fallen silent. Curious, Otabek regarded him. Yuri was frowning, his forehead creased, his mouth pressed in a hard line. Then, he seemed to realize that Otabek had turned and looked at him, and the furrow in his brow smoothed. “Some other time,” he echoed, a weak smile on his face.

“Sure,” Otabek acknowledged. “Anyway, I should really be going now…” he trailed off vaguely, bobbing his head as he excused himself. He let Chris steer him back to the booth, while a chorus of bye’s and nice-meeting-you’s echoed in his wake.

“So, still him, huh?” Chris eyed him knowingly as he leaned against one of the half-walls in the booth, watching with absent-minded interest as Otabek replaced the disks on the turntables.

“It’s nothing,” Otabek said curtly. He slipped on his headphones, and proceeded to ignore Chris for the rest of his shift.

At some point in the night, Yuri’s party left. Otabek did not see them go.

=-=-=

The next night found Otabek closing up the shop alone, when the bell on the door jingled.

“We’re closed for today,” he called out cheerfully, wheeling the last of the trolleys into the backroom. “But hang around, and I’ll set you up for an appointment tomo – Oh, hey,” he broke off with a genuine smile when he recognized the figure standing by the front counter.

“Hey,” Yuri returned. He sounded oddly hesitant.

“How can I help you?” Otabek asked, moving to join him by the front counter.

“Thought I’d try to squeeze in one more touch-up before I fly home tomorrow for the New Year, what with missing yesterday’s appointment and all.” Yuri shrugged, his smile self-deprecating. “Guess I left it too late today. Sorry.”

Otabek waved him off. “Don’t worry about it.” Unthinkingly, he grabbed Yuri’s arm, and tugged him towards the main area of the shop. “Come on.”

Yuri blinked, even as his feet followed Otabek obediently. “Aren’t you closed?”

“I think we can always make an exception for one of our loyal regulars,” Otabek declared with a wink. “’sides, I’m the only one in right now, and Chris would hardly mind.” They came to a stop at what Otabek had privately begun to think of as Yuri’s chair, and Otabek gestured with a flourish for Yuri to take his seat.

“If you’re sure…” Yuri trailed off.

“Sit,” Otabek insisted, pushing Yuri firmly into the chair by his shoulders, before returning to the backroom to grab what he needed.

A while later, Yuri insisted that he hang around while Otabek finished closing up the shop.

“You really didn’t have to,” Otabek said, when he was done.

Yuri shrugged. “I wanted to,” he said simply.

“I’ll try not to let it get to my head,” Otabek joked, locking the metal shutters behind him. It was now past the time he usually had his dinner, and he was hungry. He considered his options. Then, impulsively, “Join me for dinner?”

Yuri blinked owlishly. “Now?”

“Yeah, now. I’m thinking about getting something to eat.” He fiddled with the strap of his messenger bag, shifting its weight higher on his shoulder. “Unless you’ve already eaten.”

In the dimness of the streetlights, Otabek thought he saw Yuri’s cheeks go pink. Then again, he reflected prosaically, it could just as easily been the cold of the winter night.

“No pressure,” Otabek added hurriedly.

Yuri bit his lip. The silence held. Then, “No,” he said in a rush. Then he paused, as though belatedly realizing what he had said. “I mean, no, I’ve not eaten.” He smiled shyly, studying his fingernails with apparent interest. “Dinner would be great.”

Yuri still wouldn’t meet Otabek’s eyes, but Otabek couldn’t keep himself from grinning.

They went to a Korean barbeque joint, partly because it seemed the sort of thing that would be perfect for the weather, but mostly because, as Otabek confided after they took their seats, it reminded him in a little of home in Almaty.

“I didn’t know that you were from Almaty,” Yuri said, peering at Otabek with renewed interest.

“It’s not something I make a point of advertising.” Otabek shrugged, deftly arranging the slices of seasoned meat on the grill. “But food places like this are pretty common there.”

Yuri had picked up a pair of chopsticks, examining them and testing them out tentatively. He put them down now and gave a short laugh.

Otabek looked at him curiously. “What?”

Yuri shook his head. “I’ve just realised that I don’t really know much about you. We usually talk about me when you cut my hair.”

“And I don’t have my own Wikipedia entry,” Otabek quipped.

“And that,” Yuri agreed.

“Are you suggesting that I could be a serial killer, luring you out as my next victim, and you wouldn’t even know?

Yuri squinted at him. “Are you a serial killer?”

Otabek grinned. “Fortunately for you, no.”

Yuri stuck out his tongue. “So tell me about you,” he urged.

“Hn.” With his chopsticks, Otabek poked at the meat cooking on the grill. It looked done. “Here,” he said, picking a couple of slices up and transferring them to Yuri’s plate. “Eat up.”

Yuri eyed him shrewdly. “Well?”

Otabek busied himself with picking another slice of meat off the grill. He blew on it to cool it, then dipped it into gochujang sauce and popped it in his mouth, chewing slowly.

“Come on,” Yuri urged, the barest hint of a pout creeping into his voice.

Otabek took his time to swallow the bite. “Oh, fine. But I’m not very interesting, you know.”

“I’ll be the judge of that.”

Over the meal, Otabek let Yuri quiz him about what it was like moving from Almaty to St. Petersburg when he was nine, and shuttling between Russia and Kazakhstan from thirteen to sixteen after his parents’ divorce, before finally returning to St. Petersburg for good. In exchange, Yuri shared with Otabek his earliest memories of growing up in Moscow, of his grandfather who had cared for him then and whom Yuri still made it a point to visit every time he reasonably could.

After that, it only felt right for Otabek to recount his first meeting with Chris, and how Chris had taken Otabek on as an apprentice entirely on a dare. (“Thank god it worked out well for the both of us,” Otabek said wryly.) By the time they had moved on to dessert, Yuri was responding with stories about the first time he had moved to St. Petersburg to focus on his training, with comedic moments on the training rink, with juicy gossip about the lives of his fellow skaters. It was far more than anything Otabek had ever hoped for.

At one point, he even found himself confiding in Yuri about his abandoned childhood dreams of becoming a figure-skater.

Yuri, who had been in the midst of helping himself to their shared order of bingsu, dropped his spoon back into the bowl of sweet, shaved ice with a clatter. “What?”

Otabek laughed sheepishly. “It’s true.”

“Why?” Yuri sounded strangled.

“Well, this and that,” Otabek said vaguely. He paused to spoon another small bite of dessert, then chased it down with a sip of beer. The bingsu was almost too sweet for his tastes. Yuri seemed to like it, however, and that was what mattered. “Mostly because I sucked at ballet.”

Yuri’s eyes bugged.

“Started too late, lacked natural aptitude, take your pick.” Otabek shrugged. “I went for a boot camp, once. I suppose the skating bits were fun, but the ballet classes were hell. Almost made me want to swear off skating entirely.” His mouth twisted. “Of course, my parents’ marriage started to break down shortly after that, and skating was no longer a priority. So I just… stopped.”

“Oh,” said Yuri, his voice suddenly small. He picked up his barley tea, raising the chilled glass to his lips. “Sorry,” he muttered into his drink.

“Hey, it’s fine. It happened a long time ago.” Otabek leaned forward in his seat, resting his elbows on the table. “Besides, it all worked out for the better.”

“Yeah?”

“I mean, I was just angry with the world for a while, you know? I wasn’t sure what I wanted, and I fell into some bad company. But I also met Chris because of it, and here I am now.” He quirked a smile. “I owe Chris a lot, really.”

“So, um, I’ve been meaning to ask you about this.” Yuri set his glass back on the table. The condensation on the glass had left wet rings on the pitted wooden surface, and he drew a finger through the water idly, tracing abstract patterns that vanished almost as soon as they were drawn.

“Yeah?” Otabek prompted.

Yuri’s eyes screwed shut. “Are you going out with your boss?” he blurted in a rush.

“Huh?”

“Well?”

“Why on earth would you even think – ”

“Well, are you?” Yuri demanded, his eyes snapping open again. He scowled, his cheeks flushing pink.

Yuri, Otabek decided then, looked adorable.

“Answer the question,” Yuri grumbled.

“No,” Otabek said, leaning back and crossing his arms. He tilted his head, and eyed Yuri curiously. “Why do you even ask?” Well, he could always hope –

“Nothing,” Yuri stammered, subsiding now that Otabek had answered his question, and quashing any fanciful notion which Otabek had entertained, if only for an instant. “It’s nothing. I was just… wondering.”

Still, Otabek raised a brow meaningfully.

“It’s nothing, I swear,” Yuri protested, properly glaring at Otabek now. “It’s just… well, I thought… but Mila said…” he stuttered to a halt, looking away. By now, his face was noticeably red.

“Chris is like a big brother to me,” Otabek relented, feeling sorry for him. “An annoying big brother who is also my boss. I’m not dating him.” He raised his beer bottle to his lips. “Besides, Chris already has a boyfriend,” he offered as an afterthought, before he drank.

“But are you gay too?”

Otabek choked on his beer. “What?”

“Just, Mila and I…” Yuri trailed off. He picked up his spoon again, and resumed eating the bingsu, now half-melted, with rapid mouthfuls.

“I like who I like,” Otabek said defensively, setting his bottle down on the table once more. “Guy or girl, it doesn’t really matter. I’ve dated both.” He picked at the label of the beer bottle with a thumbnail. “Unless,” he added carefully, “it’s an issue…?”

“No, it’s not!” Yuri put his spoon down hastily. He grabbed at Otabek’s hand that was curled around the beer bottle, stilling it. “It’s really not. I mean…” He hesitated, pressing his lips together in a thin line, before taking a shuddering breath. “I’ve not really dated much at all, so I don’t really know, but… I don’t think I just like girls? Maybe?” He gave a tremulous smile.

Confused, Otabek returned a weak smile of his own. His mind raced. Yuri had said –

“It’s like... Have you ever had a crush before?” Yuri continued, cutting into Otabek’s reverie and forcing Otabek’s thoughts to a crashing halt.

“Of course,” he replied unthinkingly. And because that seemed inadequate, he added, “Hell, I think I had my first crush at that skating boot camp I told you about.”

Yuri paused and titled his head, his curiosity apparently piqued. “Oh?”

“It wasn’t anything, really,” Otabek confessed. “There was this other kid in my ballet class. I don’t actually remember much of him anymore, except that he was better than everyone else there, and he had eyes like a soldier’s. I really admired him then.”

“What happened?” Yuri asked, picking up a paper napkin and wiping his mouth.

“Like I said, it wasn’t anything. I don’t think he even noticed me, and I didn’t dare to approach him. Then I stopped skating, and, well.” Otabek spread his hands and shrugged.

“Wow.” Yuri blinked. “That kid sounds kinda cool, actually. Maybe he’s still skating, and you might meet him some day?”

“Maybe,” Otabek said distractedly. “It’s all history now, anyway. I don’t think I’d recognize him now, even if he sat in front of me.” Yuri had missed a spot just now: a sticky smear of syrup on the corner of his mouth.

Unthinkingly, Otabek reached over, swiping at the spot with his thumb before popping his thumb into his mouth.

Yuri’s eyes widened, and he jerked back. “What did you – ”

Otabek felt his ears go read. “Sorry. Instinct.”

Yuri bit his lip, his eyes fixed firmly on his lap. Gradually, his shoulders relaxed, although he continued to look flushed. His fingers toyed absently with a corner of his paper napkin, crumpling it before smoothening it out again. Eventually, he looked up again, meeting Otabek’s eyes. “And what about now?”

“What about now?” Otabek asked, lost.

“Do you have a crush on anyone now?”

Otabek froze. “I – ” he started, his mouth gaping uselessly.

(What about you? He wanted to ask. Are you going out with Mila?)

Just then, a waiter stopped by their table: the restaurant would be closing in ten minutes, and could they settle their bill soon?

Gratefully, Otabek gathered his things, and trailed after Yuri to the cashier’s. There was a moment of disagreement at the counter when they both tried to pay for the other’s share too. In the end, Otabek won, but barely, and only because he had argued that the meal had been his suggestion anyway.

“Fine,” Yuri grumbled, shouldering his backpack. “But I’m getting the bill next time.”

Otabek bit the inside of his cheek, to keep from grinning too broadly at the possibility of a next time. He wasn’t very successful, but he didn’t quite care.

=-=-=

Outside, it had begun to snow heavily. Yuri frowned at the whirling flakes, then at the clock on the screen of his cell phone, before sighing. “It’s going to be hell trying to grab a taxi in this weather.”

Otabek grunted his sympathy. He tucked his gloved hands into his pockets and buried his nose deeper amidst the folds of his scarf, in a vain attempt to ward off some of the cold. “Or you could stay over at mine for the night,” he offered quickly, before he could overthink it.

Yuri’s brows climbed.

“I don’t live too far from here, and it was partly my fault that you stayed out so late.” He bumped his shoulder against Yuri’s. “Come on. I don’t want to stay out in this weather any longer than I have to.”

There was a pause as Yuri seemed to consider his offer. Then, he shrugged. “Yeah, what the hell.” He jerked his chin forward. “Lead the way.”

They walked in silence, Yuri seemingly deep in his thoughts, Otabek content with his own. Later, when asked, Otabek wouldn’t be able to pinpoint why exactly he had made the offer he did, only that it had felt right, and that he was fiercely glad that Yuri had taken him up on it.

A quick, sideways glance told him that Yuri cheeks were flushed in the cold. His eyes had a glazed, faraway look.

“We’re here,” Otabek announced, stopping outside the tired, old walk-up where his tiny apartment was housed. It wasn’t the fanciest of lodgings: the building had been a townhouse in its previous life, until it was divided post-Revolution for communal housing, but the rent was reasonable and the heating good, and it more than suited Otabek’s needs.

Still, it was with some trepidation that Otabek led Yuri up the stairs, before unlocking his front door and waving Yuri in. “Make yourself at home,” he said, closing the door behind him and flicking on the light switch, while Yuri very obviously took in his new surroundings. Not that there was much to take in. Otabek’s living room was tiny, with a kitchenette along one wall, a set of free weights in a corner, a second-hand television, a beat-up coffee table and an old couch taking up the rest of the space.

“Bedroom’s through that door, bathroom’s through the other,” he called as he hung up their coats and scarfs on the coat-hooks by the door. He sidled past Yuri, making for the bedroom. “You can have the first shower. I’ll get you a towel and some clothes.”

He re-entered the living room shortly thereafter, clutching the same. In his brief absence, Yuri had picked up Otabek’s motorcycle helmet from where Otabek usually left it on the coffee table, and was turning it this way and that in his hands. He looked up as Otabek approached. “You have a bike?”

“Yeah. I park it in the alley behind.”

Yuri set the helmet down gently, almost reverentially. “Do you ride often?”

“Whenever I can,” Otabek admitted. “But not so much in winter. Too much ice on the road. Here,” he said, offering Yuri the towel and clothes. “Found you a new toothbrush, too.”

He ushered Yuri towards the bathroom. Then, with nothing else to do and, too nervous to remain still, he retreated to his bedroom, where he proceeded to change the sheets on his bed. He stuffed the old sheets into the laundry hamper, before moving on to the kitchenette, where he filled his electric kettle in the sink and put it on to boil.

The water was just beginning to heat when the door to the bathroom swung open. Otabek took a deep breath, composing himself, before turning around slowly.

Yuri was standing in the middle of the living room, in the old t-shirt and cotton drawstring trousers which Otabek had loaned him, the towel draped around his shoulders. As Otabek watched, Yuri raised his arms above his head and stretched. The hem of Yuri’s tee rode up too, exposing the lean planes of Yuri’s belly and the smooth jut of a hipbone.

Otabek swallowed. He had not anticipated the effect which seeing Yuri in his clothes would have on him.

“Shower’s free,” Yuri said, lowering his arms again.

“Thanks,” Otabek replied, his voice hoarse to his ears. Yuri, fortunately, did not seem to notice anything amiss, merely bringing one of end of the towel up to dab at a trickle of water on the side of his face. “You can take the bed. Sheets are clean, don’t worry. I’ve put the kettle on too, in case you’d like some tea to drink before you sleep.”

Yuri tilted his head. “What about you?”

“I’ll take the couch.”

 “I can’t be taking your bed while you sleep on the couch!”

“Can too,” Otabek retorted, blithely ignoring Yuri’s glower. “My house, my rules. Besides,” he added philosophically, “what kind of host would I be if I let an invited guest sleep on the couch?”

With that, he left Yuri in the living room, and escaped for the sanctuary of the shower.

For a while, Otabek let the water run as cold as he could bear it, shivering beneath the icy spray – which, in the middle of a snowy winter’s night, was pretty damned icy indeed. It was only when he deemed it safe, that he readjusted the water temperature. This time, he lingered beneath the hot water. He was hiding, he knew. But hiding seemed like a perfectly good option as the heat seeped through his chilled skin and into his muscles, melting away the night’s tension and nerves. Sighing, he tipped his head back, letting his mind go blank.  

He stayed in the shower until the hot water ran out. Then, with another sigh, he turned the tap off regretfully, before stepping out of the shower stall and toweling himself off.  

He emerged from the bathroom to find Yuri seated on the couch. Yuri, it seemed, had a found a channel that was this still broadcasting despite the hour. He had a mug of tea cradled between his hands.

Yuri looked up as Otabek closed the bathroom door, turning his head away from the television screen and craning his neck to follow Otabek’s path. As Otabek drew nearer, he noticed belatedly that there was another mug on the coffee table.

“Made you a cup too,” Yuri said at the same time. “It should still be warm.”

“Thanks.” Otabek dropped into the seat beside Yuri, and picked up his mug. There was a slice of lemon in his tea, just the way he liked. His brows lifted in surprise.

“I found half a lemon in your fridge,” Yuri continued, seemingly following Otabek’s train of thought. “Figured that was how you liked your tea.”

Otabek sipped the tea experimentally, and smiled. “Yeah, you’re right. Thank you.”

There was a slice of lemon in Yuri’s tea too.

Now that he was paying attention to the program on the screen, he tell that it was some sort of documentary about the life of snow leopards in the Himalayas. He settled deeper into his seat, sipping his tea as he watched a snow leopard stalk and chase a bharal across the steep, rocky slopes.

Gradually, so gradually that Otabek hardly noticed it at all until it was too late, Yuri began to list sideways in his seat. By the time snow leopard had dragged the carcass of the bharal to her den to feed her cubs, Yuri’s head was a warm weight on Otabek’s shoulder, his hair soft as silk where it tickled Otabek’s jaw.

Carefully, keeping the rest of his body as still as he could, Otabek placed his now-empty mug on the coffee table, before reaching over to rescue Yuri’s mug too.

They remained like that until the credits rolled. Then, Otabek tucked his arm around Yuri and stood, taking most of Yuri’s weight. Yuri’s head lolled into the crook of Otabek’s neck.  

“Hey,” Otabek whispered, jostling Yuri lightly. “Hey.”

Yuri’s eyes cracked open. “Mm?”

“I’m taking you to bed now. Can you walk?”

“Mm. Yeah.”

“Here we go. Come on.” Half-shuffling, half-staggering, they made it to the bedroom, and to the side of Otabek’s bed. Otabek jostled Yuri again. “Hey, we’re here.” Gently, he began to lower Yuri on the mattress.

A hand touched his chest. Otabek looked down and Yuri kissed him, a sudden, swift press of lips. Then, while Otabek was still too surprised to even blink, Yuri drew away, curling up on the mattress and snuffling into one of Otabek’s pillows.

“You didn’t answer my question,” Yuri mumbled.

“What question?” Otabek asked automatically.

“Crush... Do you have a crush now…” Yuri slurred, before falling still. Otabek waited, hardly daring to breathe, but it seemed that Yuri had fallen back to sleep after all.

Exhaling, Otabek eased the bedcovers over Yuri. He snagged his other pillow, and the spare blanket he kept folded at the foot of his bed, and took them both with him to the living room.

Sleep was a long time coming, and it felt as though he had barely slept, when someone shook him awake.

Otabek groaned, and tried to bat whoever it was away. His tormentor was persistent, however, and eventually, his eyes shot open with a glare.

And immediately widened, as they focused on Yuri.

Otabek struggled to sit up. “Yuri,” he said, or tried to, while his jaw cracked on huge yawn.

“Good morning,” Yuri murmured. Apparently satisfied that Otabek was awake, he sat on the arm of the couch where Otabek’s head had rested.

As he gradually began to take in more of his surroundings, Otabek became aware of the fact that it was still dark outside his window. And that Yuri was fully dressed once more in his clothes from last night. “Yuri,” he tried again. “What time is it?”

“Around six.” Yuri’s tone was apologetic.

“So early?” Otabek croaked, before he was engulfed in another yawn.

“I need to go in earlier today, since my flight’s this evening. I just felt that it wouldn’t be right if I left without saying anything.”

Nodding, Otabek heaved himself to his feet. “Appreciate it.” He stretched, and swallowed another yawn. “Come on, I’ll see you out.”

“The clothes I borrowed…” Yuri began as he followed Otabek to the door.

Otabek grunted, waving a hand vaguely. “Don’t worry about it.” He handed Yuri his coat and scarf, and stood back while Yuri bent down to lace up his boots.

“So. I guess I’ll see you again in January for my next appointment,” Yuri said, standing up.

“Yeah.”

“Bye for now.”

“Nn. Bye.”

Otabek did not watch Yuri go. Instead, he stumbled to his bedroom, and collapsed face-first onto his bed. He had another two more hours before he would reasonably have to get up for work.

His pillow still held the faintest trace of Yuri’s scent.

=-=-=

The next time he awoke, Otabek discovered that Yuri had taken the clothes which Otabek had lent him after all.

=-=-=

“Bad night?” Chris asked, when Otabek slunk into the shop, a good forty minutes late and still yawning.

Otabek blinked blurrily. “Sorry. Just… didn’t sleep much.”

Chris’ expression changed, becoming almost sly. “Oh, is that what we’re calling it these days,” he drawled, smirking.

“Shut up,” Otabek grumbled. “It’s not like that.”

“That blond skater, huh?”

Otabek did not deign to answer. He marched to the backroom, where he deposited his coat and bag. He took his apron down from its hook and, after a couple of starts, managed to tie it on.

There was a cup of coffee waiting for him on the front counter when he emerged once more from the backroom. “Only because I’m an understanding boss,” Chris remarked dryly as he bustled by, wheeling one of the mini trolleys. “Drink up and look lively. Our next customer’s due in five minutes.”

Business was brisk that day, the inevitable, end-of-year swell of customers as everyone wanted to get their hair cut before the New Year.

Today, however, was one of the rare days when Otabek didn’t mind it too much. The rush of customers kept him on his feet, and mostly kept his mind from straying to other, more confusing things. Like the kiss. And it was a kiss. It had been a kiss. A deliberate kiss. Otabek was pretty certain that he had not imagined the kiss.

Chris elbowed him. “No daydreaming.”

Otabek flipped him off, then hurried to check on the progress of Lidiya Moskovskaya’s bleach job.

A number of Otabek’s regulars had made appointments for that day. As a result, Otabek worked through lunch. It was not until an hour to closing that he finally found himself with a sliver of time to spare, just enough to grab a few bites of the now-cold sandwich which Chris had bought back for him during lunch, and to skim through the various messages he had received on his cell phone over the day.

There was a message from Yuri, thanking Otabek for letting him stay over. According to the timestamp, it had been sent in the early afternoon.

Otabek hesitated. Anytime, he replied before he could over-think it.

Yuri’s reply was almost instantaneous. Long day?

Like you wouldn’t believe.

His cell phone buzzed again, this time with a sad-faced emoji. Otabek smiled.

When’s the flight? he typed.

Yuri responded in short order with a picture of the boarding gate. Soon, his next text read.

At that moment, the timer for Madam Sorokina’s perm beeped. Otabek sighed. Safe flight, he typed hastily, before slipping his cell phone back into his bag and leaving the sanctuary of the backroom once more.

It was the first time Yuri had texted him about something other than his next appointment. Otabek told himself that he would not read too much into that.

=-=-=

Back in Moscow, Yuri posted some five hours later on Instagram, with a picture of him posing in a grand jeté at the Red Square at night, St Basil’s Cathedral and the Kremlin lit up and gleaming, fairy tale-like, in the background against the deep indigo sky. Otabek, who had set his Instagram account to alert him every time Yuri had posted something – not that he’d admit it to anyone – liked it dutifully, before heading into the shower.

He emerged later to find that Yuri had sent him a picture in his absence: the same Red Square, but instead of a flying jump, Yuri was making a face at the camera.

Otabek chortled as he readied himself for bed.

=-=-=

Things… shifted.

From there, they exchanged messages thirteen, seventeen, nineteen-and-a-half, twenty-one times a day, sometimes with accompanying pictures, sometimes without.

Otabek received texts about the deliciousness of pirozhki (always made by Yuri’s grandfather, and always the best); about Yuri’s conditioning regime in Moscow (Yuri liked to run along the bank of the Moskva River, but hated having to share the public ice rinks); about how ridiculous the holiday crowds were along the Arbat (Christ, don’t these people have anywhere else to be).

He replied with observations about how the hordes on Nevsky Prospekt were not much better; with reports of how his latest DJ gigs went; with stories about some of the more outrageous customer requests he had received, both in Chris’ shop and at the various clubs and bars where he was spinning at.

Neither of them mentioned the kiss.

You should come skating with me, Yuri texted on New Year’s Day.

Otabek, who had just told Yuri about his next gig – a private party to be held at an ice-skating rink in two days’ time – winced. I haven’t skated in years, he sent back.

You’ll remember, came the implacable reply.

Otabek groaned as he stared at the screen of his phone. I don’t think so.

All at once, his phone began to vibrate, an incoming call. Too startled to think, Otabek accepted the call reflexively. “Yuri?”

“It’s like swimming,” Yuri said, a teasing note in his voice. “You can’t have forgotten.”

“You’d be surprised.”

“Come on, you coward. It’ll be fun.”

“For you, maybe,” Otabek retorted darkly. “Certainly not for me.”

Yuri snorted. Otabek could almost imagine him rolling his eyes. “I won’t take no for an answer.”

Otabek pinched the bridge of his nose. Yuri was relentless. “Fine,” he ground out.

“Awesome. You’re off every Tuesday, aren’t you?”

“Yeah.”

“Next Tuesday it is,” Yuri declared, the satisfaction in his voice audible even through the receiver of Otabek’s phone. “I’ll be back in St. Petersburg on Sunday.”

“You’re relentless,” Otabek informed him tartly.  

“I know.” Yuri sounded gleeful over the line. “I’ll send you the details after we hang up.”

“Tch.”

“Don’t sulk.”

“I’m not,” Otabek replied shortly.

A huff of laughter. “If you say so.” Cloth rustled; Yuri stretching out on his bed in Moscow, no doubt. “So, what was it you were telling me yesterday, about someone at a bar trying to persuade you to join up as an escort?”

Otabek lowered his phone to check the time. He had another forty minutes before he would have to leave his apartment for his gig tonight. Raising his phone to his ear again, Otabek kicked his feet up on the coffee table, and settled in to the sound of Yuri’s laughter, washing over him like a warm tide.

=-=-=

In the end, they agreed to meet at the corner of Tuchkov Bridge.

Yuri, it turned out, was twenty minutes late. Otabek spent most of those twenty minutes looking out over the river instead, counting the ships that drifted along the horizon, bulky and brooding against the storm-grey waters and the leaden sky. It helped take Otabek’s mind off the fluttery feeling in his stomach, but only barely.

Footsteps pounded on the pavement in a hard jog. Otabek turned, his hard-worn calm fleeing in an instant.

Yuri slowed as he neared. “Sorry I’m late,” he gasped, before slumping against the side of the bridge to catch his breath. “Yakov wouldn’t let me leave until I finished my sets.” Still panting, he tipped his head back. He had tied his hair in a ponytail, but the ponytail had come loose at some point. The freed strands of hair whipped about his face in the brisk river breeze, glinting gold where the weak winter sunlight caught on them just so.

It struck Otabek then, in that moment, that Yuri was gorgeous.

He also thought, rather feelingly, fuck.

“You didn’t have to run,” was he said out loud.

“Didn’t want to keep you waiting.”

“I don’t mind.”

Yuri slanted a sideways glance at him. “Is something wrong?”

“Huh?”

“You’re staring.”

“No, I’m not,” Otabek responded automatically.

“Is it the hair?” Yuri raised a hand, rubbing his palm self-consciously along where the sidecut had grown out in the three weeks since his last appointment. He grimaced. “I should probably come by later this week.”

“Sure,” Otabek said dumbly. Then, “I keep telling you that you could probably maintain yourself.”

“And I keep telling you that it’s not the same if you don’t do it,” Yuri shot back, sticking his tongue out mockingly. “Come on,” he said, straightening.

Obediently, Otabek fell into step beside him. “I thought the Grand Prix was over,” he said conversationally while they waited for the traffic light to turn.

“European Championships,” Yuri replied shortly, as though that explained everything.

“When’s that?”

“End of the month.” Yuri heaved a sigh. “Then Worlds in April, if I don’t it screw up.”

“Is this what people mean when they say that there’s no rest for the wicked?” Otabek asked teasingly.

“Shut up,” Yuri grumbled good-naturedly, knocking his shoulder against Otabek’s. “Anyway, we’re here.”  

Here turned out to be complex where most of Russia’s national skaters trained. Otabek had passed by it before a number of times, but, “Can I even go in?”

Yuri crooked a half-grin. “Of course you can if I’m around.” He wrapped his fingers around Otabek’s arm and tugged. “Come on.”

They passed a bored-looking guard at the security counter, Yuri waving the both of them through, and down a bewildering maze of corridors into a locker room.

“Wait,” Yuri said, stepping away. He swung one of the lockers open, and reached into it. “Here,” he said, turning around again and holding a pair of skates out. “I had to borrow them, but these should be in your size.”

Otabek took them, turning them over in his hands. “How did you…?”

Yuri looked away, his cheeks pinking. “I checked your shoe size while you were in the shower.”

Otabek blinked. That meant – “Oh.”

“Sit down,” Yuri said irritably. He gave Otabek a light shove towards the benches in the center of the room. Mutely, Otabek complied. He pulled off his shoes and stuffed his feet into the skates. His fingers felt thick and clumsy as they fumbled with the laces. “Let me,” Yuri snapped, when Otabek’s fingers slipped on a knot. He got down on a knee, and deftly did up the laces on the other skate.

Otabek watched Yuri’s bowed, golden head, and found himself lost for words.

“How’s that?” Yuri asked softly, sitting back. “Fit okay?”

Otabek wriggled his toes. “Yeah,” he said hoarsely. “Thank you.”

The skates fit perfectly.

“It’s nothing,” Yuri muttered. He cleared his throat and stood up, dusting off his knees.  “Come on,” he said briskly, “Can you balance?” he added, eying the way Otabek wobbled as he got onto his feet.

“I’ll manage,” Otabek grunted. It had been a while. Years.

Yuri made an impatient noise. “Give me your hand.”

They made their way to the rink in that fashion, Yuri leading, Otabek’s hand on his arm for balance.

Suddenly, Yuri scowled. “Baba, why are you still here?”

Mila waved from the ice. At the same time, a cheerful voice behind them said, “We were curious. Can you blame us?”

Yuri whipped his head around. “Victor, you too? I suppose the katsudon is around as well.”

Victor jerked his thumb towards the other end of the rink, where the Asian man who had joined them at Chaika – the other Yuuri, Otabek recalled after a moment – was now skating towards them. He was joined mid-way by Mila.  

Abruptly self-conscious, Otabek dropped his hand from Yuri’s arm, unconsciously rubbing his palm against his thigh.

Yuri was still glowering, his expression stormier by the second. “Didn’t I tell you to clear off?” He paused. “Does that mean that Yakov and Lilia are still around? Or did you at least listen to me about that?”

Mila pouted as she stepped off the ice, keeping balance with a slim hand on the rink wall while she fitted her skate guards on with the other. “Calm down,” she huffed. “Of course we got rid of them for you. We just wanted to meet your date too.”

At once, heat flooded into his cheeks, and Otabek gaped.

Beside him, Yuri snapped, “It’s not a date!” Yuri’s face was red. Otabek wondered if they looked a matched pair.

“Anyway,” Yuri continued as he crossed his arms, “you’ve met him before, and you’ve met him now, so get lost.”

“Yes, yes,” Victor said, ruffling Yuri’s hair as he turned to go.

“Davai, Yurio,” the other Yuuri added as he slipped past them, falling into step besides Victor.

Mila only winked at Otabek, giving him a thumbs up. Otabek didn’t quite know what to make of that.

It was only when they were alone again, that Otabek dared to risk another glance in Yuri’s direction. Yuri, it seemed, was still frowning. “Assholes,” he muttered. Then, noticing Otabek gaze on him, he turned and gestured for Otabek to follow him onto the rink. “Ignore those jerks.”

Otabek cocked his head. “What they said…”

Yuri grunted. “They’re just messing around.” He took off his skate guards in a swift, easy gesture, then pushed out onto the ice, skating a lazy loop before coming to a halt. “Are you coming, or what?”

With a helpless laugh, Otabek pried the skate guards off his blades with a lot less grace. He stepped onto the ice gingerly, his hands reaching automatically for the rink wall.

“I pretty much bribed everyone to stay away this afternoon,” Yuri admitted, looking slightly sheepish as he skated up beside him, “so we should have the whole rink to ourselves.”

It was probably just as well, Otabek reflected ruefully.

Memory was slow in returning at first, and it was a while before Otabek willingly relinquished his white-knuckled grip on the rink wall. Eventually, however, he did, his legs moving just so, chasing a long-ago echo.

“Told you so,” Yuri told him smugly as he circled around Otabek.

“Shut up,” Otabek grumbled good-naturedly. Experimentally, he extended his free leg behind him in an arabesque, before leaning his forward and transitioning into a basic camel spin.

“Impressive,” said Yuri, smirking. “What else can you remember?”

In response, Otabek shifted his weight to the outside edge of his blade and pushed off, throwing himself into the air in a single toe loop. He landed cleanly, and bowed as he glided to a stop.

Yuri applauded.

“That’s about all I remember now,” Otabek confessed.

“It’s still pretty impressive for someone who was claiming this morning that he couldn’t remember how to skate,” Yuri grinned. 

Otabek flipped him off. Yuri mock-punched his arm. What followed next was a brief scuffle, Otabek trying to pin Yuri’s arms to his sides, Yuri trying to kick Otabek in the shins.

“Race you,” Yuri gasped, breaking away and making for the other end of the rink. Immediately, Otabek gave pursuit. The rink wall loomed. Yuri braked abruptly. Unable to check himself, Otabek collided into him. They fell onto the ice in a flurry of limbs.

“Fuck,” Yuri swore.

“Sorry,” Otabek said, not sorry at all.

Yuri’s face was mere inches away from his.

“Tell me if I’m reading this wrong,” Yuri whispered. It was the only warning Otabek had before Yuri tipped his head and kissed him.

Yuri’s lips were dry and slightly chapped. They moved hesitantly against Otabek’s, as though unsure of their welcome. The tip of his tongue darted out, tracing the seam of Otabek’s lips, asking for permission. Otabek gasped involuntarily, and Yuri’s tongue slipped in, a sweet and tender and all-too-brief exploration before it withdrew.

They stared at each other, wide-eyed, as they parted.

“Well?” Yuri asked, his voice husky.

Thank God, Otabek thought. But – “You’re not dating Mila?” he blurted, before he could think the better of it.

Yuri blinked. “Why would I be dating Mila?” He sounded cross.

“No reason,” Otabek replied, before cupping a hand around the back of Yuri’s head and hauling him in for another kiss. Yuri made a surprised, hitched noise, his eyelids fluttering shut, as Otabek nibbled on his lower lip, tugging it gently between his teeth before chasing the sting away with his tongue. A hand fisted in the fabric of the front of Otabek’s shirt, and Otabek licked in, sucking on Yuri’s tongue as Yuri moaned.

This time, they were both slightly breathless when they broke apart.

“So,” Otabek said, when he reasonably could without panting, quirking a brow, “what was it you said earlier, about this not being a date?”

Yuri’s smile was all kinds of wicked. “I may have lied.”

=-=-=

A NEW ERA IN FIGURE SKATING?

GOTHENBURG, SWEDEN – It was a Russian victory at this year’s World Figure Skating Championships, where the gold and silver medals were won by Russian favorites Yuri Plisetsky and Victor Nikiforov respectively.

This competition is notable as being the first time that Plisetsky, the enfant terrible of Russian figure skating, beat Nikiforov on the same ice since Plisetsky joined the senior category three years ago. In his free skate, Plisetsky also became the first man in skating history to land six quad jumps, finishing with a comfortable three-point lead over Nikiforov, the former reigning champion.

When asked about having made history, Plisetsky shrugged. “I know that the last two jumps wouldn’t give me any points, but I wanted to challenge myself.”

News of Plisetsky’s achievements, however, has been somewhat overshadowed this competition by the mystery of the identity of the man who was seated beside Plisetsky in the stands, and who was also pictured with Plisetsky at the kiss and cry. Sources have identified the man as Otabek Altin, a hairstylist and DJ currently residing in St. Petersburg, Russia. There has been growing speculation that Plisetsky and Altin are dating, fueled mainly by the fact that Altin has featured regularly on Plisetsky’s social media accounts in recent months. When asked about it, however, Plisetsky declined to comment.

Meanwhile, Japan’s Yuuri Katsuki took home the bronze…

=-=-=

The banquet was a stiff, formal affair. Or rather, it was, until the sponsors and some of the older coaches finally left the ballroom.

Otabek watched with interest as a pair of skaters – siblings from Italy, he thought; he had lost track of the people he was being introduced to, some twenty minutes into the gala – attempted to out-dance each other in the center of the room. Beside him, the other Yuuri broke off in the middle of their conversation, just as a third skater – Edmund? Emil? – moon-walked his way into the middle of the dance-off.

“Does this always happen” Otabek wondered aloud.

 “Sometimes,” Yuuri mumbled. “Especially if there’s enough alcohol.” Oddly enough, his cheeks had gone pink.

“It could be worse,” said a voice behind them. Otabek turned, and wrapping his arm around his Yuri’s waist, while Yuri smirked. “There was a lot of stripping at one of the galas some years ago,” Yuri added as he leaned into Otabek’s side. His smirk widened, and he raised a brow pointedly.

The other Yuuri was now beet-red. “I think I see Victor waving at me,” he stammered, before excusing himself and making his way towards the corner of the room where Victor was talking to a skater whom Otabek recalled vaguely as being from Thailand.

Bemused, Otabek watched Yuuri go. He flicked a suspicious glance at his boyfriend. “I’m missing something, aren’t I?”

“I’ll tell you later,” Yuri murmured, lifting up on tiptoes and stealing a kiss. “Hey,” he whispered as he drew back, burying his face in the crook of Otabek’s neck.

“Hey yourself, Otabek replied, pulling Yuri in even closer. “Haven’t seen you all night.”

Yuri made a soft, wordless noise and began nuzzling at Otabek’s throat. His hips moved, a sinuous roll that brought the fronts together, their dicks flush against each other through the fabric of their trousers. Yuri was already half-hard.

 Otabek blinked. “Are you drunk?” he asked, a note of incredulity slipping into his voice.

“Am not drunk,” Yuri protested, drawing back just far enough to level a glare. “I’m Russian.” He even sounded genuinely affronted. Then, he rested his cheek on Otabek’s shoulder and giggled.

Champagne-drunk, Otabek amended mentally, rolling his eyes. As though reading his thoughts, Yuri nipped the underside of his jaw. Otabek yelped.

“Mm. Sorry,” Yuri murmured, not sounding sorry at all. He resumed nuzzling at Otabek’s throat, nosing his way down to the dip between Otabek’s collar bones. “Stupid sponsors and stupid small talk,” Yuri grumbled, his breath tickling Otabek’s skin. “And stupid Yakov and his stupid rule.” He ground his hips against Otabek again.

Otabek shivered. Reflexively, he brought his other arm around Yuri too, both hands slipping lower to cup his ass.

“Let’s go,” Yuri purred, grinding in earnest now.

Otabek opened his mouth to point out that they still in public.

“Bekaaa.” A whine had crept into Yuri’s voice, needy and desperate, as he tugged at the hem of Otabek’s suit jacket. “It’s been more than a week.”

Otabek couldn’t refute that.

When Yuri tugged at his jacket again, Otabek went. 

=-=-=

By the time they stumbled into their shared room, Otabek had sucked a mark on Yuri’s throat, right over the flutter of Yuri’s pulse.

He broke away from their kiss just long enough to admire it, taking a proprietorial pleasure in the way the reddish bruise stood stark against the pale white of Yuri’s skin. Unable to resist, he lowered one of his hands to stroke the delicate skin behind the hinge of Yuri’s jaw, his fingers dipping lower, tracing the outline of the mouth-shaped bruise before massaging it. His other hand remained where it was, cupped against the side of Yuri’s face. 

Yuri leaned into Otabek’s touch, turning his head to rub his check against Otabek’s palm before catching Otabek’s thumb between his teeth. He wrapped his lips around Otabek’s thumb and began to suck on it, tongue laving at the inner crease of the joint before releasing the digit with a wet, lewd pop.

They moaned.

Otabek pushed Yuri up against the door and dived right in again, kissing and sucking a wet trail down the line of Yuri’s throat. Satisfaction shivered down his spine when Yuri turned his head, reflexively giving Otabek better access. He lapped at his mark on Yuri’s neck, then reattached his lips to the mouth-shaped bruise, sucking on it and scraping his teeth against the tender flesh. Yuri mewled, his hands flying up immediately to the back of Otabek’s skull, his fingers fisting in Otabek’s hair. 

“Wait,” Yuri gasped, “wait-wait-wait-wait – ”

With a burst of willpower which he hadn’t known he’d possessed until then, Otabek lifted his head from Otabek’s neck.

“Before I forget,” Yuri panted, “before, I mean…” He trailed off, chewing his lip nervously.

Otabek waited impassively. Yuri, the bastard, was still grinding their hips together. It was not helping Otabek’s resolve at all.

“When…” Yuri continued, “When we do it later, I want…” He inhaled sharply. “I-want-you-to-do-it!”

Otabek blinked.

“I want you to do it,” Yuri repeated more slowly, although his voice still wavered with a hint of nerves. He was blushing furiously, certainly harder than he’d blushed the entire night so far. Otabek hadn’t known that Yuri could flush this red.

 “You mean…?” he croaked, his mouth going dry, because it seemed as though Yuri was asking –

“The last time we did it, you let me put it in you, and you seemed to enjoy it. So I thought…” He took another deep, shuddering breath. “I thought… I want you to put it in me, the next time we do it. Which is now… right?”

He sounded so hopeful that Otabek couldn’t resist kissing him again. “You damn well know it is,” he said laughingly between kisses.

“Good,” Yuri breathed, chasing after Otabek’s lips each time he drew back.

“It’s gonna be your first time. You’re sure about this?” Another kiss. “I don’t mind waiting until you’re more ready.”

Yuri huffed and tried to glare, until Otabek kissed away the tiny furrow between his brows. “I prepared, alright? I, um, watched porn, and I used my fingers, um, you know…”

Otabek jerked back, his eyes wide. Yuri made a noise of protest, and tilted his head up to try to get Otabek to kiss him again, but Otabek only stared. “We,” he announced hoarsely, “are getting you cleaned up right now.”

Yuri yelped when Otabek scooped him into his arms. “Fuck. Let me down, you ass.”

Otabek ignored him as he carried him to the bathroom.

=-=-=

Yuri was beautiful beneath the shower spray, rosy skin and dark gold hair and lashes dripping crystal. At some point, he had given up trying to muffle his cries. His moans echoed in the shower stall, while his hands hung uselessly by his side. His legs were spread on either side of Otabek’s shoulders, his thighs trembling from when Otabek had teased his cock mercilessly, bringing him to the edge before drawing away again and causing him to swear. Yuri barely noticed when Otabek slid a finger into Yuri’s ass.

Said finger was now moving gently in and out of the snug channel, coaxing the tight muscle to relax. Every now and then, the finger would brush against the spot which Otabek knew, from experience, made Yuri see stars, and Yuri would keen, the sound high-pitched and needy and going straight to Otabek’s cock.

Yuri was beautiful, and Otabek was going to unmake him.

Otabek swallowed Yuri’s cock as far as he could go, and watched as Yuri’s back arched against the tiled wall. He began bobbing his head up and down Yuri’s length steadily. He wrapped a hand around the base of Yuri’s cock, where his mouth couldn’t reach, and began jacking Yuri off in tandem with the slide of his lips. His other hand, the one which had a finger nestled in Yuri’s ass, now angled deliberately for Yuri’s prostate, the finger crooking just so and massaging the spot ruthlessly.

Yuri yelled, his hips thrusting up. The head of his cock hit the back of Otabek’s throat, making Otabek gag. He pulled off, just in time for Yuri’s come to spurt across his face in hot streaks.

Otabek finished washing up while Yuri leaned against the tiled wall, breathing heavily. “Let’s move to bed,” he said simply.

=-=-=

They fell onto the mattress in a tumble of limbs. The next few minutes was a confusion of movement, neither of them willing to stop kissing the other, even just for a moment. Eventually, Otabek settled between Yuri’s thighs, with Yuri’s legs wrapped loosely around his hips. Yuri reached for Otabek’s cock, and Otabek batted Yuri’s hand away.

“Not yet,” he scolded, nibbling on sensitive shell of Yuri’s ear and making him squirm.

“You’re still – fuck – still hard.”

“Not yet,” Otabek repeated, kissing his way down Yuri’s body. He paused at Yuri’s nipples, tweaking and rolling one of them between his fingers while he licked and sucked at the other, until both nipples were raised, hard nubs. Otabek lifted his head to study his handiwork, and grinned his satisfaction before he bent down again to close his teeth around the nipple that was closer to him, biting it lightly.

Yuri jerked, his breath punching out in a sharp gasp. “Bastard.”

Still grinning, Otabek soothed the sting away with the flat of his tongue, before moving further down Yuri’s torso, licking and nibbling a trail of kisses down smooth skin and hard muscle. He paid particular attention when he reached the crease between Yuri’s hip and his thigh, biting and sucking a new mark into the sensitive skin while Yuri shivered beneath him.

Yuri was half-hard again by the time Otabek reached his cock. Otabek wrapped his lips around the head of Yuri’s cock and swallowed him down to the base. He suckled on Yuri’s length, taking pleasure in its weight on his tongue, in the way it hardened and grew in his mouth. Finally, Yuri’s cock grew too big to fit entirely in his mouth, and Otabek pulled back again to kiss the silky skin on the head of Yuri’s cock instead. His tongue lapped at the bead of pre-come forming at the tip, savoring its salty tang.

Yuri’s breathing was harsh and ragged in the silence of the hotel room.

Smirking, Otabek rose onto his knees. He grabbed the backs of Yuri’s thighs with his hands and lifted, folding Yuri almost into half and exposing the tiny pucker between Yuri’s ass-cheeks. Without missing a beat, Otabek leaned in and tongued the dusky pink hole.

This close, Yuri smelled of freshly-showered skin, of a woodsy musk, of every wet dream Otabek ever had. Yuri’s hole was still lightly stretched from when Otabek had fingered him in the shower, and it fluttered beneath Otabek’s tongue when Otabek licked in. Above him, Yuri whimpered, the palms of his hands running mindlessly along the back of Otabek’s head, his shoulders, anywhere he could reach. When Otabek began to tongue-fuck him in earnest, Yuri’s hands spasmed, his fingernails digging crescent moons into the meat of Otabek’s shoulders.

By the time Otabek drew back, his chin was covered in spit, and Yuri’s lips were red and bitten.

“Hey, look at me,” he said softly, and rewarded Yuri with a kiss when Yuri did. “Still okay?”

Yuri nodded dumbly. His eyes were hooded, their gaze soft and unfocussed. His lashes were wet.

Smiling, Otabek reached up and swiped the teardrop that had beaded at the corner of Yuri’s right eye away with the pad of his thumb. “Yeah, okay.”

The lubricant spilled cool and slippery against Otabek’s palm. Otabek slicked his fingers with it, before scooping up the remaining dollop and smearing it across Yuri’s entrance. Yuri flinched, hissing. “Sorry,” Otabek whispered, massaging the smooth liquid into Yuri’s feverish skin. “Shh.”

Carefully, Otabek slid two fingers in. He pumped them experimentally, spreading them within the snug heat. “Shh,” he hushed again, watching Yuri’s face carefully. His two fingers had sunk in easily, but it was still one finger more than Yuri’s used to since they started sleeping together. Yuri was frowning, his forehead scrunched at the unfamiliar sensation.

Leaning forward, Otabek planted a kiss on the dip between Yuri brows, another on Yuri’s mouth, coaxing Yuri’s lips apart and slipping his tongue in. He kept up the scissoring motion, careful to brush against Yuri’s sweet spot more often than not, until Yuri was moaning into the kiss and grinding down into Otabek’s hand unconsciously.

Smiling, Otabek dropped another kiss on the corner of Yuri’s mouth and eased a third finger in.

Beneath him, Yuri gasped. His eyes screwed shut, and his head thrashed from side to side on the pillow as he whimpered at the slow, relentless stretch.

“You’re doing good,” Otabek murmured. With his free hand, he pushed Yuri’s hair off his sweaty forehead, combing the strands tenderly. “So good for me.” He began to trail kisses down Yuri’s body, eventually reaching his cock, which was still hard despite it all. “So good,” he whispered again, before taking Yuri into his mouth and crooking his fingers just so.

Yuri jerked, a cry wrenching from his throat. Otabek pinned Yuri’s hips down with his free arm and suckled on Yuri’s length, his tongue tracing the thick vein on the underside of Yuri’s cock. His other hand continued to finger Yuri open, until the velvet clench of muscle around his fingers was no longer quite as tight as it was before.

Belatedly, he realized that Yuri was trying to push him off, Yuri’s hands scrabbling weakly against Otabek’s shoulders. He pulled off Yuri’s cock, and slid his fingers out, while Yuri’s harsh breaths filled the room. “You’re alright?”

“Yeah. Just, just gonna come, if you… if you…” Yuri’s voice sounded wrecked. His eyes were glassy, and his face was a mess of tears.

Otabek swallowed. “Turn around. On your knees.”

It took him two tries before he managed to roll the condom on. He fumbled with the bottle of lubricant, spilling more on his cock. Then, he knelt between Yuri’s knees, and aligned their bodies.

“I’m putting it in,” he said huskily. 

Tight heat enveloped the head of his cock. Otabek stilled, while Yuri made a strangled noise, his body going tense.

Otabek stroked Yuri’s trembling flank, and scattered butterfly kisses across the taut bow of Yuri’s back, along the delicate knobs of Yuri’s spine. Yuri made another choked sound, and Otabek nuzzled his cheek. “Sorry,” he whispered. “I’ll go slow, I promise.”

Yuri whimpered, but eventually, the set of his shoulders grew less tense, although they did not stop trembling. He gave a sharp nod.

Tentatively, Otabek pushed in another inch. Tight, almost too tight, pain and pleasure comingling in a breathy groan. Beneath him, Yuri gave a pitched, punched-out cry.

Otabek kissed his nape. “Should I stop?”

Sharp jerk of a head.

Otabek waited, nuzzling Yuri’s cheek, his jaw, anywhere he could reach. He stroked the small of Yuri’s back, smoothed his hands over the soft curve of Yuri’s thighs, rubbed his fingertips in circles where Yuri’s skin was stretched taut over the sharp jut of his hipbones.

Gradually, the trembling stilled, and Yuri craned his neck, lips bumping against Otabek’s in a clumsy kiss. “You can continue,” he whispered, the words bitten-off, raw.

Otabek buried his face in the crook of Yuri’s neck as he rocked his hips. He sank in slowly, the velvet heat clinging to his length as he bottomed out.

They both moaned. Otabek stilled once more, and waited while Yuri panted beneath him. Eventually, Yuri raised his head again and nodded.

The first few thrusts were erratic. Soon, however, Otabek found a rhythm and settled into it, fast and regular, while Yuri rocked his hips up to meet him. For a while, there was only the sound of flesh slapping, of Yuri’s breathy gasps and his own ragged moans. Then, Otabek’s hips shifted, came in at a slightly different angle, and Yuri wailed in response.

Grinning fiercely, Otabek slid out fully, before pushing in again and hitting the same spot. Yuri tossed his head back and let out with another cry.

“Got you,” Otabek whispered, his teeth still bared. He reached around their joined hips, fumbling for Yuri’s cock. Yuri had gone half-soft during Otabek’s entrance, but he filled rapidly again in Otabek’s hand as Otabek stroked him off in time with his thrusts. Otabek’s hips picked up speed, sometimes striking the Yuri’s sweet spot, sometimes missing it deliberately, while Yuri shuddered and mewled and begged beneath him, please-please-please.

“Please,” Yuri choked out, whimpered, screamed, and the building heat in Otabek’s belly finally exploded.

“Come,” he ordered, and Yuri came with a stuttered cry.

Groaning, Otabek gave a final thrust, and tensed.

White-out.

=-=-=

Sensation came back slowly.

Otabek opened his eyes. He braced his hands against the mattress and pushed himself up. Beneath him, Yuri turned languidly, and blinked up at him.

“Hey,” he whispered, tilting his head and dropping a kiss on the tip of Yuri’s nose.

Yuri smiled muzzily.

“Had fun?” Otabek asked, unable to keep the fond smile from spreading across his face. He probably looked like an idiot. He didn’t care.

“Mm.”

“Hang on.” With herculean effort – because a post-coital Yuri was warm and loose-limbed and simply irresistible – Otabek heaved himself off the bed. He ignored Yuri’s grumble of protest as he made his way to the bathroom, where he cleaned himself up. Then, he ran a washcloth under the tap. He returned to the bed with the wet towel, using it to wipe Yuri down.

Yuri stirred lazily beneath his ministrations. He reached out and caught Otabek’s arm, turning it around to press a soft kiss to the inside of Otabek’s wrist. “Come back to bed,” he whispered against Otabek’s skin.

Still smiling, Otabek tossed the used towel onto the floor, and let himself be tugged back beneath the sheets. “I’m not going anywhere.”