Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/11960997.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Yuri!!!_on_Ice_(Anime)
  Relationship:
      Otabek_Altin/Yuri_Plisetsky, Yuri_Plisetsky_&_the_St._Petersburg_crew
  Character:
      Yuri_Plisetsky, Potya_|_Puma_Tiger_Scorpion, Otabek_Altin, Katsuki_Yuuri,
      Nikolai_Plisetsky, Mila_Babicheva, Lilia_Baranovskaya
  Additional Tags:
      background_Victor/Yuuri_-_Freeform, Post-Canon, Hurt/Comfort, Injury
      Recovery, Future_Fic, Friendship, First_Time
  Collections:
      Yuri!!!_On_Ice_Shit_Bang_2017
  Stats:
      Published: 2017-09-01 Words: 9242
****** And I'm Just Gettin' Warm ******
by Lady_Ganesh
Summary
     "I've never been hurt," he said. "I mean, not really. I've never had
     a serious sprain, any of that. And instead I break my fucking leg in
     the middle of the street."
     An accident leaves Yuri Plisetksy finished for the season and mad as
     hell. Recovering in St. Petersburg, he learns more about agape...and
     eros.
Notes
     Yurio is 17 when this story begins, so of age in Russia but underage
     for AO3 labeling purposes.
See the end of the work for more notes
It wasn’t like he didn’t know how to fall. Yuri started learning to fall the
first time his six-year-old ass toddled onto the ice.
But he hadn’t expected the sharp elbow at his back, the contact with concrete,
not ice.
It didn't hurt that much, and Yuri thought it was a good sign until he realized
that Otabek had almost immediately stopped yelling at the man who ran into him
and was instead on the ground next to him, on his knees, saying something low
and concerned in Kazakh that Yuri didn't understand. "Don't move," he said,
switching to Russian. "You need an ambulance."
"I don't--" Yuri looked down, saw blood. "Motherfucker," he said. His hand had
curled into the leather of Otabek's jacket. What the fuck is happening to me?
"Just hold still," Otabek said, and started talking in English to the crowd
that was starting to gather.
"What if I can't skate?" Yuri said, and then realized from Otabek's face that
he wasn’t going to skate, not this time. No. No.
"It's okay," Otabek said, and Yuri believed in the lie, because he couldn’t
bring himself to believe anything else.
 
Doubts Remain for Russian Skater’s Return to the Ice
Bejing--Representatives of Russian gold medalist Yuri Plisetsky (17) say it is
far too soon to make predictions about when the young athlete might return to
the ice. Coach Yakov Feltsman (72) has asked for patience in the following
week, as a team of specialists--
 
The hospital sucked.
On the second day his mother stopped by his room for a hot minute for a photo,
playing concerned before her next gig, and rushed out as quickly as she’d
rushed in.
Lilia showed him videos and talks about prima ballerinas who had suffered
horrible injuries and danced again. It sounded like pretty lies but it helped,
a little. Yakov--no stranger to injured skaters--stayed relentlessly,
reassuringly practical about the injury. First the swelling had to go down
enough for the X-rays, then the next steps. Just stay calm. Like that was easy.
The doctors kept calling what happened a freak accident. He just fell in the
wrong way at the wrong time onto the wrong curb. It wasn’t anything wrong with
him, with his bones, with his balance. It didn't help.
Grandfather came, looking pale and older than Yuri had ever thought he could
be.
“How long did you travel for? You shouldn’t have."
"It's fine." Grandfather squeezed his hand. "I wasn't sleeping well, knowing
you were hurt. I'll do much better now I'm here. Yakov has to go back to St.
Petersburg soon, and he said I could use his hotel room until you're well
enough to come back home."
The thought of recovering in Moscow turned Yuri's spine to ice.
"We can set up a rotation in St. Petersburg to look after him," Yakov said.
"That way we can always have a fresh set of hands. And his physical therapist
is already there, his school. It will be easier than trying to move him later."
Yuri looked steadily at the window. The painkillers were dulling everything
out, and it saved him having to think too hard. Having to choose between Moscow
and St. Petersburg, having to risk hurting Grandpa's feelings with the truth.
He wanted home. He wanted his cat.
He wanted Grandpa, too, but he'd had to choose between them a long time ago.
And Yakov was right; if they went to Moscow, it would be just the two of them,
maybe a nurse or two hired with what money he could spare from his savings. In
St. Petersburg he'd have Dr. Petrova and Mosin, Yakov and Lilia and the Russian
team.
"Grandpa," he said, and his voice sounded like it was coming from far away.
"I'll be all right. I know you can't visit as much as you want to. But I'll
call you, I promise. We can talk every day."
Grandpa squeezed his hand. "I want to be there for you, Yuratchka, always."
"You are," he said. "Don't you remember how I skated for you in my senior
debut? That was because I knew--I knew you were with me. Always. Even when I
was little, you always came to see me."
"Yuratchka, I would do more than that if--why don't you rest? Your coach and I
can argue later."
"I'm fine," he said.
"Rest for my sake, then," Grandpa said, and Yuri closed his eyes.
Eventually, everyone agreed it would be best for him to recuperate at home in
St. Petersburg, but Grandpa spent time with him at the hospital until then. He
held Yuri's hand when it was just the two of them and listened to Yuri complain
about the food, the crappy wi-fi, about missing the rinkmates and friends who
had gone home and being tired of the ones who were still in Bejing and insisted
on visiting him.
Grandpa went home the week Yuri went back to St. Petersburg.
 
Yuri spent most of his first week home wanting to murder something.
Victor landed at the top of the list. He wanted to be helpful, and kept telling
stories about strains and stress fractures that were not fucking relevant,
thank you.
Katsudon, of all people, was better. Mostly he tagged Yuri into pictures of
cats on Instagram, and Yuri blamed the massive amounts of painkillers pumped
into his system for the fact that it took a better part of a week before he
remembered that Yuuri was a dog person. But long after that he still looked at
the funny pictures, at the webcam links to the lions at the zoo in Nagano.
Sometimes he even liked the pictures of Makkachin. She was all right, for a
dog.
Otabek texted every day and usually remembered to check in after Yuri’s
appointments. Yuri hadn't realized that was the kind of attention you got when
you had a friend. Even the other skaters he’d gotten to know sent him pictures
and tagged him in posts. Phichit Chulanont was so encouraging Yuri realized the
man seemed to actually like him. It was weird.
His rinkmates set up the food rotation. Mila and Lilia both objected to cooking
on principle and usually brought something from the market. Yakov was a
creditable cook, and Yuuri had gotten good at customizing what he usually
cooked to fit St. Petersburg ingredients. Georgi told ridiculous stories that
Yuri would never admit he enjoyed, and cooked things from all around the world.
Victor could make borscht and not much else, but it was good borscht, so Yuri
didn't complain, much.
After all, there was so much else to be pissed about. His leg ached almost
constantly, he could hardly even shift his weight, and that was leaving out
what a nightmare it was when he had to take a shit. The pain pills made him
foggy and stupidly sentimental, and he couldn't even have Potya with him all
the time because she might jump on his leg when he was half-asleep.
And then there was the uncertainty. The doctor's appointments that ended with
more questions than they began. If he closed his eyes, he could picture his x-
ray, showing the two hairline fractures on his right tibia, under where the
skin had split. Fractures that should heal correctly.
He'd probably skate again.
He had to hope his growth spurt--if he was even going to get one--would hold
off until the bone healed, because a growth spurt would make everything more
complicated. No one could tell him if it would happen. No one could tell him
how many competitions missed, how many seasons.
All he could do was watch everyone else compete without him.
Time passed, and the blur started lifting, especially when the doctors let him
switch mostly off heavy-duty opiates to over-the-counter shit. It stopped him
from going fuzzy so much and put welcome edges back on his life. His dreams got
weird as he eased off the pills, and he started getting random boners again--he
never thought he'd miss that--but his body felt more normal, even with the pain
that came with fewer pills.
Otabek started sending longer emails, and it took Yuri a little while to
realize it was because he could understand more of what Otabek was writing.
Never again, he thought, and tried to cut down on the pills even more.
"Don't make yourself exhausted," Lilia warned. "You won't heal, and you'll have
to take them for a longer period of time. I don't think that's what you want."
"I want to fucking think again," Yuri said. "It's--how do people stand this
shit?"
"They endure it," Lilia said archly. "What should I pick up for you from the
market?"
"Something without beets," Yuri said. "I'm tired of beets."
"If you promise to take your pills properly tonight," she said. "Otherwise,
it's Victor's borsht for the rest of the week."
"Fine," he said.
He did sleep better that night, and Lilia deemed him well enough to start
catching up on his schoolwork the next morning.
Grandpa Skyped him every day. Yuuko sent him a massive box of candy and tiger-
printed shit from Japan, which he spent a good afternoon unwrapping. He saved
the Almond Crush Pocky for Worlds.
"Don't forget to thank her," Yuuri said, after translating the Japanese that
Yuri had needed help with. "She's been worried about you."
"Of course I'll thank her, asshole." He’d already thanked Mari for the hot wrap
and bath salts she’d sent when he first landed in St. Petersburg. Otabek’s
older half-brother was some kind of hotshot lawyer in Hong Kong, and he’d sent
a bunch of Chinese stuff the week before. Leo di Iglesia had sent him music--
Otabek’s fault, he’d assumed. It was weird.
Potya leapt into the box and started digging at a corner.
Yuuri looked over. "Oh," he said, smiling. "You missed something." He dug into
the box, doing his best to work around her, and pulled out a thin rod. "For
both of you, I guess." He handed Yuri the rod; it had a tiny pink octopus on a
string at the end. "The octopus got stuck under the flap. Must be catnip."
Potya was watching the octopus with bright, crazed eyes. "I guess both of us
are gonna be stoned today," Yuri said, and wiggled the octopus just above her
nose. She leapt at it, and he laughed. "Go ahead, tiger," he said. "Hunt it
down!"
 
Otabek came to help the week of Russian Nationals. Yuuri offered to stay, too,
but the thought of him pining away for Victor the whole time made Yuri kind of
sick to his stomach, and Otabek insisted that there wasn't anything at this
point he couldn't handle except getting Yuri to and from his appointments. So
they hired a car and a nurse, and since the women's competition started later,
Mila stayed an extra day to walk Otabek through the endless, dull routine of
medication. She showed Otabek where all the extra towels and shit were, where
Yuri kept take-out menus. “He’s okay using the grabber thing, and he can walk a
little on his own now. But he’s still sleeping on the couch because that’s
easier...on everybody.”
Otabek was quiet and thoughtful and took a ton of notes on his phone. Mila sent
him out to be sure he knew where the trash pickup was and sat down on the couch
next to Yuri. "He's crazy about you," she said. "You realize that, right?"
"He's not crazy about me," Yuri said. "He's doing me a favor. He's my friend."
Mila hunched down, so her face was level with Yuri's. "Friends help each other
out. But not every friend would fly halfway around the world to put up with
your crap, Yuri-oh."
Yuri already knew Otabek was a better friend than he deserved. She didn't have
to point it out. He turned his eyes away. "Look, hag, just because he's a
better person than you are doesn't mean anything."
She sighed. "Fine, then. Be stubborn. Just don't pretend I didn't tell you. And
don't be surprised if he gets sick of waiting for you." She got up. "He's cute.
Someone else will see it, too. If they haven't already."
"Just shut up," Yuri said.
Otabek came back then, saving Yuri any further mortification. "Do you think
that’s everything I should know?"
"Probably," Mila said. "But you can always call Yakov. Yuri’s remembering
things pretty well too, now. Oh, and the cat gets fed twice a day, but she'll
let you know if Yuri's sleeping."
"I'm not sleeping that much any more," Yuri said. Potya hopped up on the couch
next to him, probably because she knew she was being talked about. She watched
Otabek, as if she was deciding if she’d approve of him.
"She'll still let you know," Mila said.
"She's prettier in person," Otabek said, extending his hand to her so she could
sniff it. "What's her name again?"
Mila snorted. Yuri glared at her. "Potya...you don’t remember?"
“That’s a nickname,” Otabek said. “Right? What’s her real name?”
"Tell him Potya's full name, Yuri."
He sharpened his glare. "Don't you have a fucking plane to get on?"
She laughed. "I'll do it if you don't want to."
It had been a really cool name when he was twelve. He still liked it.
Damn it, it was nothing to be ashamed of. She was tough. She had a tough name.
"Puma Tiger Scorpion."
Otabek scooped her up easily. "Hello, Puma Tiger Scorpion," he said to her,
very seriously, and Yuri felt his stomach flip. "You're very pretty."
She usually disliked being picked up, but she tolerated Otabek until he gently
put her back on the couch. Mila gave Yuri a thumbs up over Otabek’s shoulder.
Yuri glared at her.
She winked back. "Have fun. I'll see you guys after I win gold."
"Try not to fall, hag," Yuri said, as Otabek said something. Probably something
polite like 'thank you' or 'good luck.'
“I hadn’t realized how much she liked you,” Otabek said after she left. “She’s
as bad as my sister.”
“Whatever.”
 
Every other time they’d stayed together it had been easy. They’d go out or play
video games or just sit around on their phones. When people complained about
how quiet Otabek was, Yuri would think Well, he always talks tome.
But now...he wasn’t rude, he was never rude. He asked Yuri how he was feeling,
if he needed painkillers. He brought in food. But he didn’t talk. He wasn’t
even singing in the shower like he normally did.
Maybe it was the injury, or the fact that Otabek went running every morning and
to the rink every afternoon so they didn’t have as much time together. Maybe it
was just that they didn’t have as much to talk about, with Yuri’s season
hopelessly fucked. Or that without skating, Yuri was left trying to figure out
what they did have in common, or brooding on how Otabek was older, and cooler,
and interested in things Yuri barely even understood.
Maybe it had just been easier when Otabek didn’t have his fucking hands on Yuri
all the time, when they were too busy to be anything but friends. When he
hadn’t already spent way too many hours on the couch jerking off and pretending
Otabek was there.
When he didn’t have the time or attention to catch Otabek looking at him and to
wonder if Mila was right.
Grandpa caught him out on the morning of the second day, when Otabek was out
running. He looked better on the Skype screen. Yuri still felt bad he’d worried
him so much. “Your friend’s there now?”
“Otabek?” Yuri said. “Yeah.”
Grandpa had spent Yuri’s whole life reading his face. “What’s wrong? You’re
normally so happy when he visits.”
“I--I know,” he said. “I feel like...I don’t know. It’s like...I keep waiting
for him to leave, this time. Like he’s going to go back to skating, and I’m
just stuck here. And I don’t want--” He sighed.
“Does he know how you feel about him?”
If it had been anyone else, Yuri would’ve snapped back it’s not like that. But
it was like that, and it was his grandfather, and he didn’t know how to begin
to answer. “He--the first time I met him, he told me how long it took him to
get back home,” he said. “To train. We can’t--we can’t. Not while we’re both
competing. He’s the hero of Kazakhstan! He’s got sponsors, and...and
everything.”
“Have you asked him about that? Or have you decided for him?”
”Grandpa.”
“Most boys don’t come to Saint Petersburg in the middle of their season for
someone they just want to stay friends with, Yuratchka.”
He sighed. “That’s what Mila said.”
Grandpa’s eyes lit up.“Oh, so there’s two of us you don’t listen to?”
“You shouldn’t be mean to me when I’m hurt.”
“You were just telling me how much better you felt…”
”Grandpa.”
 
Otabek came back that night with takeout from Bryzna. They watched TV for a
while as they ate, Otabek flipping channels until they settled on something
brainless. At nine, he asked “Do you want to watch--”
They both knew what he meant. Yuri knew he should. He was rinkmates with the
best in Russia, but watching the routines live was different, and new skaters
came up every year. He’d been one of them, not that long ago. Otabek would be
competing against them at Worlds.
“I can’t,” he said. “I’m sorry--I just--I fucking can’t.”
“It’s okay,” Otabek said.
“It’s not. I’m still--weak.”
“Yuri,” Otabek said, fiercely. “There’s nothing weak about you.” He crossed his
arms over his chest. “We’d just have to sit through commercials anyway. And
puff pieces about Victor.”
Yuri groaned.
“We can watch the routines on Youtube whenever we want to,” Otabek said. “We’ll
watch something else tonight.”
Otabek went to bed early that night, and Yuri wondered if he was watching the
routines on his phone in Yuri’s room.
He worked on his homework--Dostoyevsky--and pretended he didn’t care.
 
Yuri managed to keep it together until dinner the next night, when Otabek swept
into the apartment without even looking at him and announced that he’d be in
the kitchen.
Yuri put his phone down. "Okay. You’re cooking?"
"Yeah."
Shit, they were both bored. If Yuri listened, he could hear Otabek chopping.
"What?"
"Just wait," Otabek said. "Be patient."
"I've been sitting on my ass all day. The biggest excitement I get is when I
limp to the toilet and back. I haven't been near an rink since--I've been
patient! I could win a damn gold medal in patience!"
Otabek came out of the kitchen holding a kitchen knife Yuri wasn't sure he'd
ever seen before. It was a big knife, and looked sharp. "Then you can wait a
little longer."
"Fine," he said, and picked his phone back up.
Otabek came back in twenty-five minutes later, not that Yuri had been keeping
track, and sat down on the chair next to Yuri's couch. "I'm sorry," he said. "I
know this sucks."
"I've never been hurt," he said. "I mean, not really. I've never had a serious
sprain, any of that. And instead I break my fucking leg in the middle of the
street."
"I had trouble with my right knee for...three years," he said. "It's one of the
reasons it took me so long to get into Seniors. But it wasn't--it was off and
on. I think that was easier. And you’re strong. It’s not easy to be so strong
and have to--not do anything."
"Thanks for cooking."
Otabek shrugged. "It's...calming, I guess. Gives me something to think about
when I’m having trouble keeping focus. And...my mom used to make this, when I
was sick.”
“I’m not sick,” Yuri said. “I’m broken.”
“You’re not,” Otabek said, tensely. “Don’t say that. It’s only bones, not...not
you.”
“Whatever,” Yuri said, and yanked out the ponytail he’d been trying to deal
with.
“You want me to do it?” Otabek asked.
"I can."
"I know you can," Otabek said. He grabbed the brush off of the tray table Yuri
kept most of his life on and wiggled it. "Sit up a little."
“You don’t have to--”
“I do it for my older sister all the time,” he said. “It’s fun.”
"You can't like braiding your sister's hair," he said, as he shifted. "I don't
like doing it, and it's my hair."
"It's different," Otabek said, as he brushed. "I don't have to put my hands
behind my back, for one thing." His touch was gentle, but not too gentle. Yuri
wanted to close his eyes, lose himself in it.
"You never had long hair."
"I used to have it longer, for a little while. Just, like, not quite the top of
my shoulders."
“Seriously? When?"
"I cut it just after I switched coaches," he said. "Um...I guess I was sixteen.
It wasn't that long. Nothing to braid."
Otabek's hand brushed Yuri's shoulder. Yuri didn't shudder. He didn't.
"All right?" Otabek asked.
"You're fine," he said.
He closed his eyes. It felt good. After all the time he'd spent sitting around
doing nothing, somehow this felt better.
Somehow. Who the fuck was he kidding? When Otabek touched him, it sent little
vibrations through him, electricity in his spine and shooting south. "Otabek,"
he said. "You--you didn't have to do any of this. We'd still be friends." My
best friend. More than that.
"I know," he said. His thumb brushed Yuri's ear. "I wanted to. I’ve missed
you."
Yuri clenched his fists. "Your mystery food smells good," he said. He tipped
his head to one side so Otabek could get to a stray strand of hair. Stop
fucking this up, he told himself, and then wondered how.
“Thanks.” Otabek slipped the elastic band around the braid. "Feel okay?"
"Good," Yuri said. "Really good." So good he wanted to punch something, because
now Otabek was done and he was going to stop touching him and how did he keep
fucking this up? Just say something, you fucking coward.
Something in the kitchen beeped. "I should check that," Otabek said, and then
the touching was gone and Yuri wanted to take everything on the little fucking
tray and throw it out the window, and maybe set it on fire, too.
Instead, he settled for sweeping everything off with the back of his hand,
sending it all flying; his phone, his water bottle, his grabber, his homework,
an insanely complicated puzzle that had been in the package from Hong Kong, the
day’s mail, one of Potya’s catnip mice, a shameful number of candy wrappers. It
all scattered nicely, but the half-second of satisfaction he got from it was
engulfed with his embarrassment; for being such a child, for making Otabek
clean up after him even more than he had been doing. Otabek would’ve been right
to leave him in his own pile of crap.
He leaned over to try to clean up, but the only thing he could even reach was
the tray itself.
Otabek walked back in, holding a bowl and spoon. The food smelled even better
up close. "You okay?"
"Yeah," Yuri said. He felt like an asshole. He was an asshole. "Just--" He
gestured at the tray, the shit that had scattered in a way that made it
perfectly obvious he'd thrown the thing in a fit rather than dropped it by
mistake. "Shit. Get me the grabber and I'll pick it up later. You shouldn't
have to--"
"It's fine," Otabek said, with his maddening patience. He got the tray settled,
put the stew and spoon on the tray, and started on the papers and Pocky
wrappers and trash.
"No," Yuri said. "Please. You--eat with me. Please, while it’s hot. It'll
wait." At least he could eat Otabek's food like a fucking adult.
Otabek's eyes met his for half a second, and it felt like Otabek was looking
completely through him. "All right," he said. He went back into the kitchen and
came back with his own bowl and spoon, and a bottle of Elbrus water.
Yuri pushed his bowl over on the tray as far to the left as he could, so Otabek
could sit on his right. Otabek hesitated for a moment, then put his bowl down
by Yuri's.
Yuri ate. It was a simple stew, beef and vegetables, but it tasted good.
"All right?" Otabek asked.
He nodded. "It's good," he said. "It's really good. It's gotten so fucking
boring, eating the same food all the time. And everything had been kind of
blurring together." The days, his doctor's appointments. Having Otabek here was
better, even with...whatever the fuck it was between them.
"Good," Otabek said. His leg bumped Yuri's.
Yuri bit the inside of his cheek before he said anything stupid. He ate
instead.
Otabek's leg stayed where it was.
"I'm sorry I've been a dick," he said, halfway through the bowl.
"You're hurt," Otabek said. "I'd be a dick too."
"Not like me," Yuri said, putting his spoon down.
Otabek pressed his weight against him, gently. "Only you're like you. That's
why I like you."
Yuri put the bowl down on the tray, hard enough that the spoon jumped.
"Yuri?"
Yuri looked straight ahead, his fists in little balls at his sides, his right
arm not on Otabek's thigh but close enough, close enough that it was easy to
think about putting his hand there. Think about what he wanted. "You--would you
just fucking kiss me? Before I do anything else stupid?"
"We both have hot soup," he said. "Now?"
"You asshole," he said, and he started laughing.
Otabek sat up enough to pick up the tray, lift it away from their legs. "I'm
already going to clean up one mess--"
"I told you I'd clean it up!"
Otabek shook his head. But he kissed Yuri.
Otabek’s mouth was hot and wet and Yuri knew he was a shit kisser but Otabek
wasn't. Otabek didn't hesitate for a fucking second. Otabek kissed hard and
sure and he had a hand on the back of Yuri's hair, over that braid he'd done,
and fuck, maybe he was an idiot and maybe he didn't care.
Otabek kissed his cheeks, his temples, his eyelids, tipped Yuri's face up to
kiss his neck. Yuri grabbed at Otabek's shirt, fisting the fabric in his hands,
not sure if he wanted to pull it off or just hold on. "Good?" Otabek whispered
into his ear, and all he could do was whimper.
Otabek found his lips again, and Yuri was getting better at this, he was, and
he heard Otabek moan this time. He moaned again, harder, when Yuri pulled his
shirt up and his hands finally touched bare skin.
Fuck yes.
Otabek broke the kiss first, pressing his forehead against Yuri's, stroking the
back of Yuri's neck. He was out of breath; they both were. Yuri's hands on
Otabek's back under his shirt, his fingers spread wide to touch as much skin as
he could. Otabek's knee was pressing gently into Yuri's thigh. Yuri could feel
every inch of contact. He hadn't been this hard since before the accident.
"Can I suck you off?" Otabek asked, and Yuri made a noise that would've been
completely humiliating if he hadn't been so turned on.
"Okay," Otabek said, and he looked less stoic than usual. His eyes were bright
and intense. Yuri reached over with his thumb and wiped at the side of Otabek's
mouth. Otabek's tongue darted out and licked at his--
Fuck. Fuck.
"Please," Yuri said, and Otabek nodded. He was very, very careful shifting his
weight, getting down on the couch, pushing Yuri’s sweatpants down to get to his
dick. Yuri talked but it didn’t make sense even to his own ears; just a babble
of want.
Otabek mouthed at him, and he put a hand in Otabek’s hair. Fuck, fuck, fuck. He
wasn’t going to last. How the fuck did people--
Otabek slid Yuri’s dick into his mouth, and Yuri let his head drop back against
the couch, closed his eyes. Maybe he said something. Maybe he groaned.
Later, what he remembered was Otabek’s hair under his fingers. How Otabek had
looked when he wiped Yuri’s come from his mouth. That he’d offered, “Do you
want me to--?”
Otabek had just shaken his head. “Came in my shorts, you asshole.”
Yuri pulled him up, somehow, kissed him, tasted his come in Otabek’s mouth. His
braid was loose.
He felt fantastic.
They both sat there for a minute, breathing, trying to find words, anything.
Yuri was the one to notice that Potya was face-deep in his stew bowl.
Otabek chased the cat off and handed Yuri his grabber stick. Yuri made good on
his promise to fix some of the shit he’d thrown off the couch while Otabek
changed his pants and fussed in the kitchen. “Do you want more?” he called.
“Yeah,” he said. “It’s good.”
Otabek brought in one fresh bowl and two spoons, and settled back next to Yuri.
“No throwing,” he warned.
Yuri rolled his eyes and ate.
They were silent until the bowl was empty. “Did you really?” he asked Otabek.
Otabek frowned. “Really what?”
“You know,” he said, his face heating up. “In your shorts.”
“No,” Otabek said. “I lied about it and changed my shorts because--why the fuck
would I lie about that?”
“I don’t know--it’s just. I just--I never got a guy to come like that before.”
“That they told you,” Otabek said. He kissed the back of Yuri’s neck. Yuri
could smell his aftershave. “You want any more?”
Oh, food. Right. “No,” he said. “Thanks.” He shifted his weight, trying to
wiggle closer. “Can we--”
“Yeah,” Otabek said, and after a few seconds of awkward adjustment, he’d slid
Yuri mostly into his lap, his hand on Yuri’s thigh.
Yuri leaned back into him, the hard muscle of his chest. “I’m sorry,” he said.
“I’ve been a dick.”
“At least you had an excuse,” Otabek said. “I’ve just been hiding.”
“You came back,” he said. “You took care of me.”
Otabek kissed the back of his neck again. “You know what I mean.”
“I didn’t say anything either,” he said.
"You're here,” Otabek said. “Your coach is here. Your life is here. I want to
stay in Almaty. It didn't seem--" He sighed. "Even if we did, we’d hardly see
each other until one of us retires. Maybe even after that. I didn't want to
fuck things up."
"I don't either," he said, putting his hand on Otabek’s. "Why...what made you
change your mind?"
"You asked," Otabek said.
"Oh."
Otabek kissed his hair. "It's not like I didn't want to," he said. "You weren’t
the only one being a dick. If you hadn’t said something I don’t know what I
would’ve done.”
Yuri smiled. "Yeah?"
"Yeah," he said, and Yuri could feel Otabek’s smile at the back of his neck.
"So were you, like, desperate for me?"
”Yuri.”
"Come on," Yuri said. He did his best to wiggle in Otabek’s lap, and shit, he
was half hard just talking about this. "You jerk off?"
"Of course I fucking jerked off."
"You know what I mean. You thought about me?"
Otabek groaned.
"Tell me."
"Yuri--"
"Tell me," and he tried to make it sound sultry but it maybe came out kind of
growly, but Otabek didn't seem to mind.
"I jerked off in your bed, is that what you wanted to know?"
Okay, forget half hard. "The shower too?"
"The shower at first," Otabek said. "It felt weird, in your bed. And then I
woke up and all I could smell was you--"
Yuri leaned further back into Otabek. "I wanna ride you," he said. "When I can.
When the cast comes off."
"Yeah," Otabek said, low and intense, and slid his hand into Yuri's boxers.
"Do it like you did," Yuri said. "When you thought about me. In my bed."
Otabek groaned and slid Yuri more into his lap. Fuck, Otabek was hard too. He
gripped Yuri more tightly than he had before, stroked hard, fast. "I didn't
want--fuck--didn't want to last too long. It was bad enough--fuck. Fuck, Yura--
"
“You think about me at home, too?”
Otabek’s hand didn’t slow. “I think about you all the time.”
Oh. He spilled in Otabek’s hand, and fuck, all he’d done for like two months
was sit on the couch and feel sorry for himself, when the fuck had this hair
trigger shit happened?
Otabek was still hard, his mouth sucking a bruise into Yuri’s shoulder.
“Bed,” he panted out. “Let me--”
Otabek swept him up like the hero in a goddamn fairy tale and carried him to
bed.
 
After that, it was easier. They started learning each other again, different
things. Otabek was cut, and Yuri’d never been with a circumcised guy before.
“It doesn’t feel weird?”
“It’s my dick,” Otabek said. “It feels like my dick.”
Otabek could spend a half hour with an arm around Yuri’s waist watching tv, or
playing with Yuri’s hair, though he didn’t like staying in bed too long. Otabek
liked kissing more than any guy Yuri had ever been with. Otabek, the guy
everyone said was notoriously stone-faced, would actually blush if Yuri said
something filthy enough to him.
Otabek maybe really was crazy about him, but that was okay, because Yuri was
kind of crazy about him, too. It was like they'd ripped a band-aid off and
instead of the pain they'd both expected, it had just come off without any
trouble, and everything had healed underneath. He still dreaded the thought of
Otabek going back to Almaty, but the tension had drained out. Otabek sang in
the shower again, usually in Kazakh, songs Yuri rarely recognized but were nice
to listen to.
And the having sex was good. Yuri was all for having sex, as much as possible,
before Otabek left again.
The worst part was when Otabek went to practice and he was stuck at the
apartment. It was tedious, and the waiting was worse when he knew he could be
curled up next to Otabek, kissing him, finding new ways to make him shiver.
When he knew that Otabek would be back in Almaty soon, and there'd be no
kissing at all.
Alone, he felt useless and idle, and it was harder to ignore the reality that
being friends over thousands of miles and two continents was a hell of a lot
easier than being boyfriends over thousands of miles and two continents. He
played with Potya with the octopus toy and tossed her balls and catnip mice
around and watched the warmups when he could find a working stream. Mila looked
really good this season. Sometimes he even forgot that most people broke up
with their teenage boyfriends and never talked to them again.
On Thursday Otabek had his rest day, and they watched routines on YouTube for a
while in bed. Yuri shared the email from Sovetsky Sport with him. "They want to
do, like a photo shoot."
Otabek raised his eyebrows. "A photo shoot." He settled next to Yuri on the
couch, their arms touching. It felt good
Yuri shrugged. "You know. How I'm recovering, all that crap. I told them you
were here, because I figured they'd throw in more money. It’s a good story. Two
skaters, friendship despite the odds, both loyal to their nations but--you
know. So if you want, they'll come."
"How much?"
Yuri told him. " It's, like, fifty-fifty, so--"
Otabek looked skeptical. "A Russian magazine is giving me half?"
"I told them I wouldn't do it otherwise. They promised no more than two hours,
but if you don't want to do it--"
"You should be resting. But I don't mind, as long as they don't make me look
like...I don't know, your servant or something."
"We'll make Victor come in and wait on me, schedule it the day after they come
back. You'll be the supportive friend or whatever."
It was good to have an excuse to watch Otabek's face, so Yuri could see the
smile spreading across it. "How much are you giving Victor?"
Yuri grinned back. "Not a fucking dime."
Otabek leaned over and kissed him, easy, slow. He needed a shave; the stubble
felt good, rough against Yuri's cheek. "You're not afraid it's going to make
you look weak or anything."
"I don't want anyone forgetting me," he said.
"No one's forgetting you," he said, and slid his hands under Yuri's shirt.
"That's impossible."
"Come here," Yuri said, and Otabek straddled him on the mattress, leaned down
to kiss him again. "Let's stay in bed," he said, between kisses.
"Mmm," Otabek said, which wasn't a no.
They stayed in bed until lunchtime, when Otabek finally got him up to eat.
"Potya will worry about you," he said, and Yuri felt guilty, so he let Otabek
guide him back to the couch.
After lunch he pretended to do homework and mostly watched over Otabek’s
shoulder as Otabek worked on his laptop.
He liked watching Otabek work, though it felt like something close to magic as
he pulled tracks apart and created something basically unrecognizable. "It's
like what your short program was that year," he explained once. "Variations.
Making something different."
Yuri sort of understood it, sort of. But it was still something he could barely
wrap his head around. Don't get angry about it, he thought to himself. He's
seen you be an asshole enough times. "I still don't get it," he said.
"I know," Otabek said, easily.
Yuri punched him in the arm.
Otabek barked out a laugh. "Now you know how I felt every year I took ballet."
He slid his arm around Yuri's waist, and Yuri leaned into him. "Do you want me
to do it?"
"Do what?"
"Your music," he said, nuzzling gently at Yuri's neck. "For your exhibition,
when you come back."
Yuri remembered Otabek had promised, through Yuri's haze of painkillers and
despair. "Of course," he said. "I wouldn't want anyone else to, right?"
"You better not," he said. "But do you have any clue what you want?"
"Something that sounds like me," he said. "Who knows me better than you do?"
Otabek bit at his neck. "You, maybe."
"But you know music better."
"Give me something," Otabek said. "Don't ask me to read your mind."
"Okay," Yuri said, and leaned back, closing his eyes. "I want it to be badass."
"Obviously." Otabek’s hands slid under his shirt.
"Driving beat," he said.
"You think I'm an amateur?"
"Shut up, you wanted me to talk. I'm talking."
Otabek bit at his neck again. "Come on, give me a mood. Anything."
"I told you badass," he said, tipping his head back so Otabek could have more
access. "Sexy. Badass...you know, like me."
"Every skater wants to be sexy and badass, Plisetsky."
"But nobody does it like me," Yuri said, and tipped his face toward Otabek's to
kiss him. "I'll think, okay? I promise."
"You'd better."
"Come here," Yuri said. "I can Skype you about music. I can't--"
Otabek kissed him, pulled him closer.
 
The nurse took him to the specialist the next day, while Otabek was on the ice.
They switched out his cast and told him it would be all right if Potya jumped
on him. "Of course, your physical therapist will be weighing in too, but it's
healing very well. I think the timing's been good. The hardest part will be not
pushing too far, too quickly. I've seen your performances. You're very driven."
"Thank you," he mumbled.
He called Grandpa on Skype as soon as he got back in the apartment. He hadn't
fucked anything up permanently. He'd be able to skate again, compete again.
Grandpa told Yuri he was proud of him, which was stupid, all he'd done this
whole time was sit on his ass and stare at the walls, but it was still nice to
see him. Grandpa asked how his friends were, and he knew he shouldn't just talk
about Otabek, but he mostly talked about Otabek. In his defense, almost
everyone else was in Kazan. If Grandpa had figured out they’d worked things
out, he didn’t say. Yuri would tell him, later. Right now Otabek was a secret
he could keep to himself, something special.
"Be sure to say hello to the Katsukis when you talk with them," Grandpa said,
because they'd all gotten along like old friends at Hatsetsu and now he traded
recipes with them through Pinterest or something. It was weird.
"I will," he said.
I knew that nothing would stop you, Otabek texted from the rink. How are you
feeling?
OK. Physical therapy again tomorrow. There was a lot more he wanted to say but
none of it would come out right in a text or a string of emoji.
Should I bring home dinner?
Yeah. Get it at the Thai place, I'll pay you back.
Otabek brought chocolate-covered halvah too, and admired the new cast with
appropriate enthusiasm. The doctor had even found a leopard print wrap for it.
"I can do more," he said. "A lot more, as long as I'm not feeling any pain.
Physical therapy tomorrow, and it'll probably kick my ass."
"That's what you wanted, right?" Otabek stuffed another forkful of pad thai in
his mouth.
"Yeah," Yuri said. "Though that part's gonna hurt." Potya jumped up next to him
on the couch, and he turned her around, sent her back the way she came. "I hope
retirement's not like this."
"I suggest you don't wait to retire until you can't walk," Otabek suggested,
deadpan.
Yuri threw a napkin at him, and Otabek laughed.
"Look, after--after we're done, I can--do more stuff."
Otabek looked at him in confusion. "You said you could do a lot more."
"Yeah, but--more." He'd ended up having a long, humiliating talk after
stuttering out 'I have a boyfriend' to Dr. Petrova and getting handed a thick
pack of condoms and a tube of lubricant that seemed impossibly large. She'd
written down exactly how and where he could put weight on his leg, including
stick figures that made him blush even to think about.
"You're not allowed to re-injure yourself," Otabek said.
Yuri snorted. "The doctor said it was all right. I want to. Aren't you the one
who's always telling me how determined I am?"
Otabek hesitated for a second, his jaw set, choosing between responsibility and
loyalty. Yuri should probably think, at some point, about how hot that got him.
Later.
Yuri licked his lips.
"Fine," Otabek sighed, and then they both had to pretend to give a shit about
the food, when all Yuri could think of was Otabek’s cock in his mouth. About
waking up next to Otabek, about the way Otabek’s hand rested on his hip when
they fell asleep.
He wouldn't get anything like this for a while.
Someday he'd stop skating. Someday--
This is why the fucking pig and Victor follow each other around like goddamn
ducklings.
I don't want you to leave, he thought, and Otabek glanced at him over his
noodles, and Yuri wondered if they were both thinking the same thing.
  
The next afternoon, they were curled up on the couch watching Lyuba, Deti i
Zavod when their phones buzzed almost simultaneously. Yuri grabbed his first.
Katsudon. Took early flight. Victor incoming. Trying to delay him.
“Shit,” he hissed at the phone.
Otabek was looking at his screen. “Is Victor--is he going to have a problem--?”
“He’ll want to talk about young love,” Yuri said, not bothering to keep the
loathing out of his voice. “Is--should we hide anything?”
Otabek got up. “I’ll check,” he said. Otabek would probably be fine talking
with Victor about young love. He might even enjoy it, Yuri realized to his
horror.
“You’re the best fucking boyfriend,” Yuri said, as Otabek went into the
bathroom.
“I know,” he said. “I’ve been using your shampoo--”
“You always do that when you visit.” There weren’t any condoms out, Yuri was
reasonably sure. Possibly a suspicious number of sticky washcloths and tissues.
“Hamper?”
“I’m going to throw everything in the wash.”
“Good plan. You should probably take out the trash.”
“Already on it.”
“I could marry you,” Yuri sighed.
“You’d definitely have to sit through a lecture on Young Love then.”
“Fuck that, then, let’s never get married.”
By the time Victor and Katsudon showed up, the apartment was the cleanest it’d
been since Yuri had been hurt. Maybe the cleanest it had ever been. Victor
showed off his gold medal, asked a thousand questions, and seemed generally
oblivious to any change between Yuri and Otabek.
Katsudon took in the state of the apartment and said as little as possible.
Yuri got a text twenty minutes after they left. Sorry if I overreacted, it’s
just--Victor.
No. Thanks.
You’re good?
That was Katsudon’s idea of a personal question. Good, he texted back.
(He was later busted by, of all people, the Katsukis, who asked Victor and
Yuuri during one of their interminable Skype calls if ‘Yuri’s nice young man’
was as trustworthy as he had always seemed. According to Mari, Victor had
looked wounded, while Yuuri claimed, wide-eyed, “I thought you knew.”)
 
The Power of Friendship! Russian Skating Champion Yuri Plisetsky Recovers, With
Help from Rinkmates, Friends
St. Petersburg--Healing is difficult work, but Russian gold medalist Yuri
Plisetsky (17) has set himself to the task with the champion’s will that
allowed him to triumph as a gold medalist in multiple Grand Prix Final and
Russian national events…
 
The day after the video went up showing Yuri taking his first tottering, pained
steps without a cast, Otabek sent two dozen black roses to the apartment.
Yuri spent twenty minutes stripping the thorns off and then spread them over
the bed, pulled his shirt and jeans off, held the phone out and took a picture.
After a little thought, he grabbed the selfie stick Phichit had sent and tried
that.
That was better. More skin.
He took two photos: one for Instagram, with his boxers low on his hips, and one
for Otabek, with his free hand pushing the boxers down just enough that no one
would get arrested, but no one would get the wrong idea, either.
The day had been long, and everything was aching. He closed his eyes and rested
until the phone vibrated in his hand. Otabek.
Do you know what time it is
I'm at practice
Do you know how hard it is to practice right now
Yuri grinned. Hard?
Shut up.
I'll send you a better one on March 1.
Are you trying to sabotage me?
No. Get back to work. I expect gold in any competition I’m out of.
Don't push yourself too fast. I expect to beat the best next season.
Yuri couldn't stop smiling the rest of the night, even when Mila came by with
dinner and asked what the fuck he'd done with those perfectly good roses.
"They're not real, anyway," Yuri said. "Someone dyed them."
"Someone put even more work into it, then," she said. "Are you gonna sleep on
them?"
"I just took a picture!" Okay, so he hadn't cleaned them up yet. It wasn't a
big deal. They were just flowers. They would die anyway.
"Did he like it?"
"Yeah," Yuri said. "He did."
 
Coming back hurt all the time, and his body hadn’t ever felt so heavy and
clumsy. Lilia complained that the hours on the couch had ruined his posture.
Yakov yelled.
Yuri loved every second.
After his first jumps, unsteady, miserable, awful rotation--he got another
flurry of gifts.
Yuuko sent him a box of Kit-Kats and string of paper fish. It didn't make a lot
of sense, but the fish were kind of cute over his kitchen sink. Mari sent him a
little gold statue of one of those shachihoko fish that drove Victor so crazy
back in Hatsetsu.
He did like Mari's sense of humor. He put the fish on top of the microwave,
right at Victor's eye level, and smiled at it.
Otabek sent him a list of beats. Pick one for your comeback skate.
Is this a present?
If you want it to be.
If you ever get hurt I'm fucked.
Why?
There's no way I'll be able to pay you back.
Otabek took a while to reply. It's not about that.
Don't get hurt, anyway.
I'll try.
 
He picked a beat and thought of a few more songs he liked, more emotions he
wanted to invoke, and then sent it all with a link to Music Sounds Better with
You, trying not to think about how fucking sappy that was.
I like that one too, Otabek said, and Yuri blushed at the screen like an idiot.
Otabek took silver at 4CC, thanks to Phichit Chulanont faltering on his new
quad. Katsudon won gold, which was fine, because that meant fucking JJ hadn’t.
Mission accomplished, Yuuri sent, along with a picture of Otabek holding the
bear with kitty ears Yuri had sent with his rinkmates. I think he smiled?
You should be here, Otabek texted an hour later. Thank you.
 
When he fucked up a landing and ended up on the couch again for three days,
Otabek sent him a picture of a cat hanging onto a branch.
Are you fucking kidding me?
You like cats.
Yuri rolled his eyes.
 
On his birthday, they turned on Skype and Yuri locked himself in his room for
three hours.
That was a good day.
 
Minako and Mari came to see him graduate, though Yuri suspected it was mostly
so they could hang out at rinkside and watch everyone practice. Victor cried.
Yuuri and Georgi fought genially over what university he should attend, "when
you're ready," Yuuri added. Yakov and Lilia had their own ideas, but were smart
enough not to suggest unless asked.
He went back to Moscow with Grandpa for a week afterward.
Otabek was waiting for him when he got back. It was only three days, but he
didn't have homework any more, and he got to work further down his list. It was
kind of nice to be sore for a reason that didn't have anything to do with his
leg. To have someone to be sore with.
 
Plisetksy’s Return to Competitive Skating Now Assured, Says Coach
St. Petersburg--Representatives of Russian figure skating star Yuri Plisetsky
(18) have announced that the skater has made a full recovery from his injury in
Beijing and is expected to return to the ice in an exhibition this summer.
Coach Yakov Feltsman (72) promises that the rising star has "all the strength
and power he brought to the ice in his first two years as a senior," and
promises that his injury and recovery has added a new depth to the young
skater's performances...
 
It took a maddening amount of negotiation--Phichit Chulanont was far more savvy
than Yuri or Yakov had ever given him credit for--but the Bangkok Ice
Exhibition was finally settled on as Yuri's re-introduction. The biggest
arguments were about the theme; they finally settled on 'rebirth,' as a
compromise between the saccharine suggestions from Chulanont and Yuri's better
but less-marketable suggestions.
Otabek had flown in first and was already in his room when Yuri reached
Bangkok; Yuri pounded on the door until he came out, fresh from the shower, a
towel around his waist.
Yuri opened his mouth and tried to make sounds. No luck.
"The guy next to me on the plane was drunk, and I ended up wearing most of a
glass of Scotch," Otabek said.
Yuri kind of wanted to write the asshole a thank-you note. "Can I--"
Otabek stepped back and let Yuri tackle him. His skin was warm and soft from
the shower, and Yuri wanted to lick every damn inch of it. "...get me so hard,"
Otabek mumbled, and had to struggle to flip over the deadbolt before Yuri
wrestled him onto the bed.
"Fucking missed you," Yuri said. "Drive me fucking crazy--" He grabbed the edge
of the towel with one hand and pulled it free. Fuck. He wasn't going to last.
Not even close. "You want--"
Otabek shook his head. "What you--I don't care. Just--"
Yuri was wearing his leather jacket, a t-shirt with a scorpion on it, a studded
leather belt, a pair of jeans, his boxers. Sneakers and socks. Why the fuck was
he wearing all that clothing? It was Thailand. He got the sneakers off before
Otabek had pulled his fly down, but then he stopped, Otabek on the mattress
underneath him, Otabek's hand--
“Wanna ride you,” he said. “Please.”
Otabek let Yuri hold him down, slick his cock, settle on him. “Don’t hurt
yourself before--”
“Trust me,” Yuri said, and Otabek did, and that was the best thing of all.
 
Phichit had been the first of the stars to skate solo, a solid, joyful routine
to a Thai pop piece Yuri had never heard before and that Otabek had judged
unoriginal but solid. Mila did a Diana Ross number where she switched outfits
three times, which won the crowd over completely. Then Otabek, with a classical
piece that he claimed was a complicated metaphor for Kazakh independence. Then
a group piece with a half-a-dozen promising Thai skaters.
Katsudon's piece began with a projection of his old ballet teacher, Minako.
Yuri had met her a dozen times before, but he'd never seen her dance. When Yuri
watched, he could see where Yuuri had gotten some of his grace, some of the
little quirks of his movements.
Then the projection faded, and Yuuri stood alone at center ice, mimicking
Minako's movements, her grace. It was almost, but not quite, a duet.
It was breathtaking.
Katsudon winked at him as he skated off. "Davai!" he called. Yuri rolled his
eyes.
Like he hadn't been waiting for this for months. Like there was any doubt what
he could do.
He waited at the boards, forcing his breathing steady, listening to the rumble
of the crowd. They were excited. That was good. He wanted the energy, needed
it. They were ready for him. Waiting. Eager.
Shit, so was he.
The music started, Otabek's beats slamming through the rink. Don't call it--
Don't call it--
Don't call it a comeback!
Otabek had transformed the bits and snatches into something completely
different, a new song completely, though Yuri could still hear some of the
bones: Bjork, Babymetal, a drum break Otabek had explained was over fifty years
old and one of the most sampled in history. Yuri still didn’t understand it.
But it worked out here, back on the ice, the music throbbing through him. He'd
worn a variation of the outfit he'd worn at his first GPF exhibition skate,
pants, shredded tank top, leather jacket--tiger stripes this time. No
sunglasses. He didn't need them this time. He looked cool enough already.
I'm ready, he thought. I'm back.
The crowd screamed, and Yuri was home again.
End Notes
     Songs mentioned: Mama_Said_Knock_You_Out (which I also stole the
     title from) and Army_of_Me are in Yuri's return mix. I just like
     Music_Sounds_Better_With_You.
     The opening of this fic owes its existence to a prompt on F_FA, so
     thanks, whoever asked for "100 words of falling."
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