Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/11000508.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Graphic_Depictions_Of_Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
  Category:
      F/M, M/M
  Fandom:
      Yuri!!!_on_Ice_(Anime)
  Relationship:
      Otabek_Altin_&_Jean-Jacques_Leroy, Jean-Jacques_Leroy/Isabella_Yang
  Additional Tags:
      no_jjbek_here, just_their_relationship_on_this_verse, explicit_rape_but
      with_warnings, Homophobic_Language, Non_Explicit_Violence, but_most
      definitely_there
  Series:
      Part 7 of Hardbacked_and_Leatherbound
  Stats:
      Published: 2017-05-25 Completed: 2017-06-06 Chapters: 8/8 Words: 25632
****** Raising from the ashes ******
by Muspell
Summary
     Otabek moves from the states, where he's been living with his roomate
     for two years to a city he knows nothing about and no one from. It's
     hard not to relapse when he feels every approach, every touch,
     burning through his skin, unbearable.
     Specially when falling into a new rink with such a gold star skater
     like Jean-Jacques Leroy.
     But Otabek is anything but a coward. He won't be intimidated. He
     won't be bullied down. It'll take more than a hostile neighbourhood
     to crack him.
     That he hopes.
Notes
     special thanks to my beta Nahiara and my editor and overall smut
     goddess BlackMountainBones for their support on this piece that took
     a stupid long time to finish. i just don't feel comfortable writing
     JJ, I hope this works. so, enjoy.
***** Chapter 1 *****
He feels a shiver crawling down his spine when he sees the guy he’s about to
train with. Six days a week, a good nine hours a day.
He wants to turn around and run off.
Otabek has heard a lot about his new rink’s star, Jean-Jacques Leroy: he’s
daring, talented, unique…
No one has ever told him he’d be this  loud.
“So, new guy, what was your name again?” Leroy pretty much yells in his ear,
one foot up on the bench Otabek’s sitting on, untying his skates. It was too
long a practice to be putting up with such a guy. He feels the weight of a hand
falling down on his shoulder with a thud; makes use of all of his willpower not
to bite it off. “You’re not much of a talker, are you?” Leroy dismisses him
with a wave of his hand since Otabek doesn’t make even one tiny gesture in
reply, and moves away to bother some other rinkmate. At least that one seems
actually happy to see him. Good, it’ll buy Otabek some time away from him.
He promptly walks to the locker rooms, avoiding any form of eye contact that
might set him into another unwanted and completely one sided conversation, and
undresses quickly to jump into the showers  He winces at the first touch of
scalding water against his skin, tiny dots of red blossoming around fresh blue
and purple. The welcome gifts of a new life, once more away from what had
finally became a second home to him, the sharp slap back into the reality of
the ice imprinted on him.
A necessary evil, still. As obnoxious as he is, Leroy is one of the promises of
the skating world, having blown everyone’s minds at his last season as a Junior
skater, more than ready to move up; Otabek might just learn a thing or two from
him.
In total honesty, it’s not even the new place, the unknown country, the French
he can’t quite understand,  loud as fuck  rinkmates… No, what hurts the most
it’s not the new: it’s all of the old. The sickly yellow bruises that refuse to
fade away, the red spots under his jaw, appearing now that the makeup washes
off. Funny, his former coach used to get so horrified at the clear marks on
street fights on him that she taught him how to conceal pretty much every
bruise. She knew too well he wouldn’t stop picking up fights no matter how hard
she tried to make him; and that she did, tried everything from extra workout
hours to long speeches to just  pleading.  She just never understood why he
does it.
Well, half the times he doesn’t get it either. There’s something utterly
attractive about it all: the physical pain numbs every other sense like a veil
shielding him from the outside, his survival instincts kick in and all he can
think off is that he’s still standing, kicked bloody, but so very much alive.
Despite the everyday scolding, the humiliation of not being as good; despite
every bad turn and clash against the hard ice, he still  is.
His coach never really knew about all the rest though, all the other marks he
used her talent to cover up; he’s made sure of it. The prints on his skin not-
from-fighting that burned much deeper, the true battle wounds. The stinging of
scratched knuckles have nothing against the fingerprints snaking from his
thighs to his hipbones,the bitemarks splattered from collarbones up and down
his neck, as if he were a canvas painted in hurt and violence and an
unstoppable thirst to feel himself undone under some stranger’s lips.
It’s the only way his mind stays quiet for a moment, lulled and locked away.
Well, that and his music, but mixing only helps so much when he needs to jump
off the real world, to lose himself. It’s almost narcotic: the way everything
blends and swirls in a mist of warm breath against his mouth, stale of cheap
whisky and strong cigarettes. All the voices constantly repeating inside of his
brain  you’re not strong enough, you never will be   fall silent to the
drumming of his own heartbeat echoing in his ears, to the moaning muffled
against his skin, yet still so present.
But it’s the withdrawals, the mornings after, that drain him out. The words
resonate much louder then, impossible to shut off, and every new bruise and
nibble and ache feels like a slap in the face.
You’re not talented enough.
You don’t belong.
You’re not worthy.
You’re not good enough  and he hides for them into other people’s pleasure, to
feel something other than defeat. No, not quite right. He deserves it: he’s not
good enough for praise, for tenderness, for love… He deserves the hurt, the
manhandling; to be degraded and slapped and fucked raw. It’s the one thing he’s
always been good at, to be gagged and pinned down by someone else’s will, no
matter how much he tries to break loose.
He turns the shower off after what feels like a lifetime, shuddering at the
sudden chill. He dresses quickly to walk out to a supposedly empty hall:
everyone should have gone home by now, and he really needs them to. He doesn’t
feel fit to see anyone and not break down.
If only he could be so lucky.
“There you are! I thought you had gone home already!” Leroy steps in his way
with a grin that looks more smug than friendly. At least, there’s not touching
this time; he’s learnt that much. “We’re going for a bit, the whole gang and
I.” He points at the ten (maybe twelve?) people at his back, scattered on the
bleachers and chatting lightheartedly. Otabek’s most definitely not one of
them; he has to stop himself from running back inside the locker room and slam
the door shut behind him. He can’t stop the wincing, though, but the way too
overjoyed man must have read it as a scowl by the twist of his mouth. Good. “As
a sort of welcome, y’know? So we can learn a bit about you,” he insists, taking
a step forward, and Otabek stands still as if Leroy was a predator sniffing the
air to find, sensing every motion.
Otabek really hopes the guy works like that.
If he could only be so lucky.
Leroy moves a hand up and dangerously approaching Otabek… He pulls it back to
do this weird… Gesture thing with his hand, arms crossed over his chest. Ah,
that must the signature he’s so famous for.
“I know it must be intimidating to dine with  the King. ” Really, now? Is that
what he’s gonna have to put up with all season? Leo’s cheerful ways, constantly
counting him in on any plan he could think of without even asking and always
with a smile on his face, suddenly don’t seem so obnoxious anymore. At least he
doesn’t have a trademarked move as ridiculous as that. And doesn’t speak of
himself in third person.
Leroy comes back at it, and  winks  at him. He winked at him, there’s no way
Otabek could have imagined that. What the-
“So what’s gonna be, new guy? Ready to party with the greats?”
Otabek pushes down all the disgust, the smug smirk, the  do you even know what
party means, you airheaded naive idiot?  To stop himself from rolling his eyes
at him. Or straight up laughing to his face. The roughness of it still clings
onto his words, but the moron is way too into himself to notice. “Maybe some
other time.”
The man’s all over the place, standing on the bench to gather his rink mates
around him as he tells the tale of his last free skate like an epic legend.
Impressive as it was, he’s still irritating as fuck. Otabek slips out of the
rink and into the cold breeze of Vancouver sneaking around his scarf, cradling
him as he leans against the glass doors.
He’s a piece of work, that Leroy, and they’ve been together for barely a few
hours. Otabek can already feel the nervous breakdown about to happen. Closes
his eyes and watches himself chasing the idiot wielding one of his skates as a
sword.
And yet.
He was kinda nice, wasn’t he? Apart from the need to constantly stand out and
talk loud enough for all the neighbourhood to hear and. Maybe it won’t go as
bad as the last time.
Maybe he’ll breathe more easily this time around.
***** Chapter 2 *****
“ You’ve been hiding things from me!”
 
Otabek wakes up, sore all over from last night’s set he agreed on pulling on a
really short notice after the usual DJ got suddenly sick. Food poisoning, she
said. And he knew from a start what a terrible idea it was to take her shift:
there's a reason why he only does Saturdays. Specially mid-season, during the
hardest training sessions of the year. He should have known better. He
stretches, refusing to get off his bed and the pins and needles all across his
muscles become sharp pains trailing down from his shoulderblades to his calves.
He’s been hit and kicked and shoved into walls before; nothing felt as bad as a
hungover after a long day on the rink.
He groans as he folds back into himself, trying to stop the aching. And the
drumming on his head, holy fuck the  drumming.  It’s like his brain is kicking
him from the inside for accepting every free shot heading his way all night
long; and they were quite a few. The flickering light on his cellphone that
lets him know there’s a new text isn’t helping either: he unblocks it to make
it stop, squinting at the too bright screen when he sees it. A text from JJ.
What the fuck does  he  want?
JJ never really texts him; he’s learnt there’s no point to it soon enough,
after a long series of read yet unanswered messages. And some whining. And
maybe a bit too violent response from Otabek explaining he had absolutely no
intention of mingling with him, where he might or might not have called him an
‘obnoxious clingy bastard’. That may have been a bit much, Otabek reckons, but
in his defense it was almost midnight and the guy was  still texting him.
They only text each other about their careers now, and nothing else, so
Otabek’s truly confused when he reads it.
“ You’ve been hiding things from me!”  And he can’t quite decide whether JJ is
offended or amused. If amused, it could mean pretty much anything: he’s had
yelled at Otabek loud enough for the whole rink to hear he’s been screwing
around on a particularly quiet Monday morning. Just because the Kazakh
accidentally dropped a box of condoms out of his bag. Open. Empty.
It isn’t even that big of a deal, Otabek’s sixteen, not twelve. It’s been a few
weeks and he still doesn’t dare to confess how shocked he felt when JJ let out
the phrase ‘you sly little devil’ in the same not-so-secretive tone; torn in
between running off out of shame or challenge him with his own stories.  You
have no idea, Leroy.  Luckily, he opted for just shrug him off and get on the
ice to start the practice.
Otabek knows amused JJ is an idiot, but offended? JJ’s never been pissed at him
before. They’re not even close enough for Otabek to barge into his personal
affairs. Could it be because of something that happened last night? He’s pretty
sure he remembers all of it: he was way too exhausted to do anything remotely
risky. Or anyone, for that matter. He didn’t even get down from the DJ booth
but to go to the bathroom, and even then he ignored every club attendant in his
way. Except for Bella, but he knew her from the rink already, it would’ve been
impolite not to answer her.
Wait. Could it be  because  of Isabella? Otabek knows about the obvious special
treatment JJ gives her over his other flings, or fans, or whatever they are.
She’s the only one who’s actually allowed to see the practices, for fuck’s
sake; the guy’s pretty straight forward as he is. And Otabek’s positive he
hasn’t done anything to her that can be remotely considered as flirting. The
girl’s nice, and she tries hard to relate to him only because of JJ. It’s a
sweet gesture, but that’s about it.
Unless there’s something Otabek  doesn’t  remember. There was a lot of booze
involved, after all. It wouldn’t be the first time he’d do something completely
stupid while intoxicated; not hitting on an acquaintance's love interest, sure,
but there has been some other stupid shit for sure.
The effort he makes on deciphering the text makes the throbbing on his temple
come back with a vengeance; he groans loudly again, falling face first into his
pillow. He doesn’t have the strength to ask what the fuck JJ means with it;
he’s gonna have to meet him anyways. Otabek curses his bad habit of picking up
invitation out of guilt for rejecting too many of them before. And, in this
case, timing them poorly: now he has to pull himself together to meet all of
his rink mates for lunch without looking like a freshly reanimated corpse. At a
cafe twenty minutes away. In an  hour.  He gets up and runs to the shower,
leaving a trail of scattered clothes along the way. He ignores the painful way
his wobbly legs threaten to give in under his weight; he can deal with the
hangover and the exhaustion later. He’ll have to take care of a certain
loudmouthed moron first.
 
He arrives late to the cafe, of course he does: he had to spend a good time
under the hot shower for his limbs to come back to life, and a good time
afterwards scrubbing off every trace of black still circling his eyes and
trickling down his cheeks. He’s not in the mood or has the fucking patience to
be asked about the heavy coat of dark makeup he wears on weekend nights. Or
anything about his weekends, for that matter: more often than not they end up
badly and these are people he’s gonna have to see everyday for a long time
still. Fairly nice people, too; he wouldn’t like to find out otherwise. It’s
best to keep it all private, just in case.
It’s not hard to find the right table, even when it’s the one shoved at the far
back; JJ is already sitting at the couch against the wall, waving and yelling
at him to sit right by his side. It’s either that or next to ten other people
he barely remembers the name of; as much as he’d like to, he doesn’t really
have a choice.
“We’ve already ordered for you, since you’re  late. ” Leroy makes emphasis on
the last word of his sentence as if there was a secret shared only by them two.
Too bad Otabek has no idea what it’s about. He still shrinks into the seat out
of sheer survival instinct at the screeching loud tone. Or at least that’s what
he tells himself it is: he’s very much  not  intimidated by the guy’s
overwhelming need to be constantly in the spotlight, dragging whoever’s around
with him. Otabek feels an arm creeping across the back of his seat, yet not
coming down to his shoulder as he thought it would; at least JJ still remembers
that. “You’re drinking beer, right?”
His guts twist into a knot at the sound of the word; he has drank enough last
night to make him sick for a lifetime and for the life of him, he will  not
drink again. So soon. “I’ll just order some water.”
“What’s that? Tough guy Altin is backing up? It’s just a beer, man!” JJ jokes
and Otabek just glares at him silently; he can feel the wave of laughter around
them die progressively, the gazes set on him. The sound of chairs slightly
moving away. Still, JJ doesn’t even notice. “Or were you pregaming too hard
last night?”
Last night?
Was he even there? No, he’s too loud, Otabek would have noticed. Isabella must
have told him something then. The question is what?
Did Otabek really did something awful enough to shock JJ? And in front of her?
He has no interest on her, but she’s too sweet; it’d still pain him if she were
disgusted by him.
People pretty much always were. Eventually.
Otabek still plays dumb. He’s not that much of an idiot to give Leroy more
motive to talk about him. “What about last night?”
JJ snorts, turning to him as the waitress comes by holding a large pizza and a
jug of ale. “That you haven’t told me you were going out!”
Otabek politely asks the waitress for a bottle of water for him and replies as
she leaves, not even bothering to look at the guy who’s still making his face
of mock offense behind his back. “I went out. So?”
“So?” JJ repeats exasperatedly, earning the attention from the whole group. “I
didn’t even know you  knew  what a club looked like from the inside! And then
Isabella comes around and tells me you even know the employees form the place
by first name basis!” sure he does, but only because that’s how they introduced
themselves: he can’t really tell if the Friday night DJ is actually called
Amber or if it’s just a pseudonym.
JJ sinks into the excitement of his fresh new discovery and pats Otabek hardly
on his back, who glares daggers at the oblivious idiot, more offended than
relieved for some reason. He’s spent too much time hovering around bars and
club and shitty fucking basements to know it’s not something to be proud about.
And yet.
At least he knows now Leroy’s not pissed at him. At least he recoils in due
time, putting his hand away.
Why the hell does Otabek even care if the guy was offended, anyways?
The conversation moves quick enough to his mate’s night outs, studies, and
pretty much all of those thing he doesn’t really know about. That he doesn’t
really care to know, either. He finds it easy to zone out of the
conversation,even when he feel every wave of laughter like a parade of
sledgehammers colliding against his skull in perfect synch. He realizes JJ has
noticed the wincing, the teeth gritting at every joke; he wonders if the man
considers it a sign of actual pain or just some bad mood.
He doesn’t get a chance to think about it, as JJ’s hands find their way onto
his shoulders, jerking him awake with a squeeze. “Earth to Altin. Still with
us, mate?” He chuckles and Otabek just stares. If having to listen to him at
the rink all day long was bad already, having him  so damn close  during a
killing hangover and all touchy is a hundred times worse. “Answer the girl,
man, don’t be rude!”
Oh. He turns to the girl sitting right in front of him, smiling small and
fidgeting under the table. Clearly waiting for a response on a question he did
not hear. “Sorry, I got distracted.” He tries to sound as further away from ‘I
wasn’t really interested in what you have to say’ as possible. Successfully,
apparently, since she waves his concern away with a faint blush on her face.
He remembers her from the rink: green eyes bright under long lashes, piercing
through the curtain of pitch black hair she uses to tie back tightly into a bun
on practice. Soft spoken, shy yet somehow cheerful: graceful as if she weighed
nothing, on and off the ice. Beautiful, he has to admit. She tried a quad the
day before, early in the morning, and fell so hard on her side she was put off
the ice for the rest of the day; she was even limping, that much he remembers.
People were calling out her name, coming closer to check if she was alright…
Fuck, what was it? Last name is definitely foreign to him, sounded Indian to
his ears, but the first name’s French. More so, popular, common. Shit, the
girl’s always around him, skating the same hours as him, he should know it.
There’s a little chain with name tags on it linked on her bag’s zipper: it
rattles at her every step. Her name’s engraved there, he’s read it. He’s seen
it a million times. He’s heard it a million times. What the fuck did the tags
say?
“What was that question again,” Otabek speaks calmly to hide the almost
imperceptible hesitation in his words, “Emma?”
The girl’s smile falters and something sinks into his chest. He got it wrong,
didn’t he? He screwed up. This is why he doesn’t talk to people, it’s just so
much easier to-
She covers her face with her hand, blushing bright pink up to the tip of her
ears and folding into herself. There’s a snort and a nudge from the guy besides
her, that turns into general laughter. He doesn’t really get the joke, or the
reaction for that matter. He must have gotten something really wrong.
“You called me by my name.” She says, after a long pause, peeping through her
fingers. “You never call people by their names.”
Otabek opens his mouth to reply, yet closes it again. ‘I can’t remember your
last name’ seems too rude to say out loud. He goes for the next sentence that
pops up into his mind. “I can stop if it bothers you-”
“No!” She stand up suddenly, arms stretched in front of her and palms flat. Her
face goes from flushed pink to crimson red in a second; that doesn’t look like
anger. In fact, Otabek can think of only one thing that can cause someone to
act that way, which strikes him as straight up unlikely. Why would anyone check
on him when they skate with  the  JJ Leroy, as irritating as he is?
He is a great and talented skater. And kind of handsome, even.
Still incredibly irritating, Otabek repeats to himself just in case.
“Fine, Emma,” he tests his theory as he practically  purrs  the name, rolling
out of his lips smooth and sweet as dripping honey. The girl sits back down,
shoulders stiff and looking straight at her lap. “What was it you wanted to
know?”
“Um, you… Isabella said…” Emma stutters and mumbles, tripping over her own
words. He suppresses the smug smirk that threatens to surface on his face: it’s
amusing, really, to see squirm on her seat and hesitate. He’s too used to self-
absorbed vixens, calculating every move; too used to selfish dirty men looking
for a sloppy quick fuck and nothing more. This, on the other hand, is
different. This is fun.
“Bella was celebrating something, wasn’t she?”  Drunk , he means, but it sounds
too rough an accusation to make about her. She was cheerful last night, sure,
but that was about it. And he wouldn’t even dare be such a hypocrite when he
had to use all of his willpower to make his feet walk in a straight line by the
time he met her. He cringes at the thought: there’s a lot of flaws in his
personality, but that is one he will never allow, a family heirloom he’s not
taking for himself.
“Yes!” Emma chirps in, a bit too excited, and takes  moment, a few breaths
before keep on going, gaze fixed on her hands under the table. “She didn’t
imagine it, though.” She mumbles, focused on whatever she’s doing with her
hands on her lap. He bites down the thought of walking up to her to check what
the hell is so interesting. What could have Bella  not  imagine, anyways? “She
texted me at three in the morning.”
A chill runs down his spine when he takes the phone she offers to him, as if a
wave of electricity ran from the device to his fingertips and directly into his
bones, shaking him to the core.  Isabella had taken a picture.  When did that
even happen? The image is blurry, unsteady, but clear enough: there he is,
tight black shirt barely crawling up his hipbones, a strip of tanned skin
peeking from above the waistband of his skinny worn out jeans, glistening under
the black lights. One hand gripping the neck of a beer bottle in between two
fingers while still wrapped around his headphones; the other splayed out over
the buttons of the console. Otabek’s not even sure at what point in the night
he’s switched his water bottle for beer.
That would explained the rioting of his brain inside his skull, kicking him
awake and back into reality.
He doesn’t dare say anything, glaring at the bright screen as if he could make
the picture, the whole fucking encounter with Bella,  unhappen.
He doesn’t need to say a thing. “Is that for real?” JJ practically shouts, way
too close to his ear, slamming both hands against the table. Can he make a bit
more of a racket now? A not-quite murmur rises from the table, yet Otabek’s
sitting way too close to Leroy (and how he regrets that decision) for his ears
to focus in anything else; the guy could drown out anyone with that enthusiasm.
“They let you in the DJ booth? That’s so cool, man!”
Damn, the guy’s thick. Otabek tilts his head at him slightly; he still decides
to follow the lead. To not give any more information than he must. “Yes. The DJ
got sick and needed a replacement,”
“And they-? Wait...” JJ leans on his elbows, propped on the table, to stare
deeply into him while processing the information. It’s taking him a good while,
really.
It doesn’t take that much for  her . “Oh my God, is it true, then? You were
DJing the whole night last night?” Emma bursts out and promptly covers her
mouth with her hands, embarrassed. All wide eyes and cheeks flushed red: it’s
amusing. It’s endearing. It’s  cute,  Otabek thinks; his lips barely twitching
upwards.
He can hear JJ cackling by his side at the reaction; he needs to figure out a
way to shut the moron up before he really gives him and punches his teeth down
his throat. His mouth speaks before he can think of what to say. “My shifts are
one Saturday night, actually.” Otabek winces inwardly: that’s too much more
talking than he was planning on doing with his rink mates. And next to JJ, the
blabbermouth, no less.
This could all blow up in his face so easily the idea makes him shiver. He
still wears a confidence he knows he doesn’t own as he keeps on speaking
,trying to avoid any question that would force him on giving in even more
details he doesn’t wanna speak about. “That is,” he looks straight at Emma, who
seems to flinch at the sudden intense eye contact, “if you wanted to come.”
Emma’s hands shoot up from her mouth the shield her whole face, folding onto
herself until she’s practically under the table. The rest of the rink mates are
either shocked silent or whispering their astonishment in a colorful
vocabulary. Leroy only laughs harder, surprised, but it’s not until the guy
actually  at his back  that Otabek realizes how the phrase sounded like.
Damn this language.
Still, the idiot has to open his mouth and sink himself even further. “You sly
little devil, is that what you do off the ice?”
 Otabek could have reacted differently, softer. He could have just asked. Even
glaring at the guy might have been enough. Even standing up and leave. But the
connotation of JJ’s words pushed a switch on him that sent his façade stumbling
down in a blink of an eye. He dares assume he knows Otabek enough to guess any
aspect of his life at all. What he does on his free time. JJ can’t even  begin
to imagine  the things that he does when he’s not training. The thing that  are
done  to him. Things he’s far too ashamed to confess; things he’s not strong
enough to just make them disappear. Things he’s not strong enough to stop.
JJ can’t even think of them as a possibility, he doesn’t know shit.  He doesn’t
know , Otabek repeats to himself as he lets go of the death grip on JJ’s wrist,
already bruising a telltale pink mark on his skin. “I’m sorry. I-”
“I know, I know. No touching.” JJ lifts his hands as a sign of surrender to
pull them closer to himself and brush the stinging of his wrist a second after.
“My bad. You’ve got some fire in you, don’t you?”
Yes, he does, of course he does. He bears the burns of the embers of other
people’s bodies on his skin, the bitter taste of cum and the invading warmth of
their tongues in his mouth. He’s been lit up in between caresses and licks and
thrusts he did not ask for, his core turnt into coal, burnt out and pitch
black, demanding to be engulfed again in the flames of another. He can calm the
urges on the coolness of the ice, on the soothing tremor of music, on the
shameful hidden smoke of a cigarette. Yet he can do nothing but listen every
time the worlds comes crashing down on him, a weight too heavy for his
shoulders.
Otabek wants to defend himself, to make JJ understand he can’t help it, there’s
a rage inside of him that washes over at the playfulness of the guy’s voice. A
rage like scolding hot magma, licking his scars open, leaving behind a trail of
pain and ash and debris.
But JJ doesn’t know, he doesn’t have to. He mustn’t. Otabek can’t allow anyone
else to get closer, not again. He cringes at the thought of Leo putting up with
him, feeling responsible for him, and who knows, maybe even guilty. The boy was
charming and kind, barely ever said a word about any of it: the sudden nights
out on weekdays, the stale cigarette smoke on his clothes, the booze, the
bruises… He never complained, a perpetual smile on his face, throughout the bar
fights, the nights in jail. At least Otabek has never been so careless to put
Leo down with him, not that low.
He’s kissed Leo. Well, not quite, but he had gotten Leo drunk and pushed him
into a moshpit, so the blame’s still on Otabek. Who did let himself go, groping
and touching his friend as much as he could before noticing what he was doing.
Out of sheer force of habit, sure, but still; the guilt, the dirt is still
there even when Leo keeps joking about that night, shrugging it all off. The
ash of Otabek’s own filth clings onto his fingertips, corrupting everything he
touches; he’s sure he left a permanent mark on Leo, no matter how hard he tried
to push him away from the thought. No matter how much he assures Otabek he
loved having him as a roommate, spending time with him. Having their own song.
Fire breeds life and fuel strong wills. Fire can also consume and destroy and
leave nothing but ruins at it’s step. One can easily become the other; Otabek’s
still waiting for the shift to happen, for his flames to push him forward
instead of burning him to the ground. The phoenix is supposed to raise from the
ashes, but what is there’s just so much? What if he’s not the one who’s
supposed to?
What if he’s left on the fire pit for good?
It’s better to just let JJ think it’s all because of his own aversion to
physical contact. It’s funny: it’s the friendly gestures he can’t stand, he’s
too used to be touched in other many ways so frequently that someone actually
caring for him feels terrifying. As if he knows already he cannot correspond.
“Just don’t do that again.” Otabek chooses to go for the safest option. Stop
talking. Stop giving in. Get the hell out. The headache is numbing any warning
signs on his head; he can’t stay much longer. “I need to go back, anyways.”
“Oh, come on, man! You’ve barely even touched your food!” JJ protests, and he’s
right; but in between the memories of last night still pulling his guts into a
knot and the smell of burnt cheese and warm beer, he feels as if his stomach in
doing somersaults inside of him. “It’s Saturday, have a bit of fun for once!”
The headache, the gurgling on the back of his throat, bile threatening to come
up, the ringing in his ears… Otabek’s trying hard not to punch the idiot but
his whole body is already taking a toll on his patience: he can’t put up with
him for much longer. “I have  work to do  tonight, JJ.” He says bitterly as he
gets up, grabbing his helmet to pass by next to Emma on his wait out and
whisper “you already know where that is, don’t you?” in her ear. The guys at
the far side of the table lean onto it to not-so-subtly listen to the words
they can’t quite understand. Emma’s breath catches in her throat as she nods
for an answer, unable to say a thing.
He walks away, hiding the smile on his face from them.  Adorable.
He could get used to that.
***** Chapter 3 *****
Otabek’s done everything right so far: he’s carefully picked his meals and
drank lots of water. He even took a nap, and that’s something he never does,
before getting his music ready for the night.
Sure, he might have downed a shot of tequila as soon as he reached the bar to
bury the thought of his rink mates dropping off uninvited to the club; he
doesn’t know them enough to think they wouldn’t be capable of doing just that.
He still did everything right before to nurse himself back to the world of the
living, so he has the right to take a shot, doesn’t he?
He’s too busy, setting up his station as an automatic playlist buys him time to
settle, to notice the waitress calling at him. He notices her only when she
approaches him for behind to press an icy cold bottle against the back of his
neck, making him jump from where he was squatting under the console. His head
hits the table with a loud thud and he turns to scowl at her, who only giggles
and leaves the open bottle next to him on the floor, and a little something on
his console. He doesn’t stop her to ask, prepping his equipment as he sips on
his drink. He has no idea why it was brought to him, but just one more beer
after a pretty mild hangover can’t really do much to him, can it?
He notices it only when he stands up, carefully dodging the table edge, and
lets it unfold on his fingers. She’s left a note for him in a handwriting he
can’t recognize. Which isn’t really saying much: it could come from anyone who
doesn't work there. Specially since it isn’t even signed.
VIP table 4. Rock the place down. XXX
That’s all. It doesn’t quite sound like Emma, Otabek guesses, but then again,
it’s not like he’s spòken to her often or know the first thing about her. He
had trouble remembering her damn name, after all. Anyways, he can’t be bothered
with thinking about it right now: anything outside the DJ booth doesn’t matter
anymore. He gulps the last of his beer and puts it aside to start his shift.
Darkness slashed out by quick colorful strands of flickering light; an
enchanting tune flowing from his fingers. It feels like home, like an embrace
so subtle yet so tight all of the debris within him clutter and fall right back
into place, edges sharp and uneven but still holding on. It’s nothing like the
world out there of carefully crafted masks with double bladed silver tongues,
of boxes to fit into and fists ready to scrap the unwanting bits off and mold
you when you don’t. A world where nothing is never enough, no amount of blood
and sweat and tears will ever soothe the beast trampling down on Otabek’s
shoulders. But there’s none now, the tune gently caressing his hips, making him
dance along. He loves the ice but it has never loved him back; the dancefloor
is different. It asks for nothing and gives its all, a swirl of powerful bass
lines shaking him to the core. Brushing off the venom life has bitten into him
once too often.
The ice is a throne, a spot to earn, to be worthy of; it requires a sacrifice
and he gives all he has to it. The dancefloor is common, loud and sticky, and
always inviting, the real world discarded at the door.
Sometimes that’s exactly what he needs.
He lets the music wash him over, one hand clutching the headphone to his ear
and one working the console, yet the rest of his body responds to the beat as
if he was alone in the world. The waitress steps up with a shot for him and
another note he doesn’t even bother to read as he downs the glass and gives it
back. Nothing outside this booth matters, not right now.
It’s not the only one, either: he’s probably into three, maybe four more shots
and a couple of cocktails by the time the automatic playlists starts again. He
steps down to give room to the next DJ of the night, heading straight to the
restrooms, his body still following unconsciously the rhythm blasting through
the walls.
Otabek’s too focused on putting one foot after the other in a straight line,
the alcohol already wreaking havoc on his system. He’s told himself he’d stop
taking in every free shot coming his way and now he’s struggling not to crash
against a wall. Well, there goes his resolution. Too focused still to notice
the shadow moving towards him, a cocktail in one hand and a cellphone in the
other; a freshly made, icy cold cocktail, he notices, as he crashes against
them and half of it ends up on his shirt.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t-” he starts mumbling and curses himself for his thick
accent. Too much booze for one night. Fuck, too much booze for two nights in a
row.
“We need to stop meeting like this.” The girl (that’s definitely a girl’s
voice) cuts him short in a chuckle, more pouting about the drink than offended.
And that’s a tone he knows, a voice he knows but his clouded mind still needs a
second to bring together the face, the voice, the expressions…
“Bella.” He says a little too sweet for his taste: she’s lovely, beautiful,
yes, but that’s not his way. He doesn’t talk to his… Acquaintances’ love
interests like that. He never does.
“Are you flirting with me?” she quirks her brow at him and he chokes on his
words. Damn it.She giggles before he can excuse himself. “I’m messing with you,
relax! Although… JJ is worried about you.”
“Worried?” He slurs and curses himself. Has he been actually flirting without
realizing it? What the hell happen the other night?
“Well, jealous, more like. Because you call me Bella but call him Leroy,
mostly.” she shrugs the thought off only to lean in and whisper in his ear.
“Honestly? I can’t quite figure out if he’s jealous of you or me.” He cracks up
laughing, louder than he thought he would; it takes her by surprise as well, by
the way she steps back and looks at him. More like admires him, if that’s
possible, as if he was a painting on a wall or a sculpture she just crafted, a
smirk on her face. “You should do that more.”
“What? Getting him jealous?” He tries to sound serious but in between the grin
that won’t come off his face and the obvious accent on his words it all seems
suddenly so funny.JJ jealous because of him, and not Isabella? That’s a first.
“If that’s what it takes… I meant that,” she says, taking a step closer to
point straight at his face. “Laughing. You look cute when you laugh.”
Hasn’t he heard that one already? Looking cute is not his intention. Fuck, he’s
supposed to be one of the next big names in the ice skating world, even when
that doesn’t feel it’s even close to happen; a medalist, not a fucking teddy
bear. He’s not cute.“Your breath smells like raspberries.” Well, that didn’t
come out as he planned to. Why did he even say that? “Sorry, that’s weird.”
She only laughs it off, sipping on her glass. “I am drinking raspberry vodka,
you’re not wrong. Come with me, we’re waiting for you.” she practically pleas,
pouting her lips.
He won’t ever admit how weak he is to people pouting at him; luckily she’s not
close enough for him to be affected by it. The last time Leo pouted at him like
that, they ended up singing together on the bed: he won’t be tricked like that
again. “I’m here for a reason, I was going to-” he points right at the bright
signals on the restrooms’ doors.
“Oh! Right, right.” she gestures at the dancefloor, a thumb pointing behind her
back. “Well, you know where to find us, don’t you?”
“VIP table 4. I remember.”
“Good!. See you there.” She winks at him and with that, she fades into a sea of
people. She winked at him. Just like Leroy did.
Why do they keep doing that?
Anyways, he’s got more urgent matters to attend right now.
===============================================================================
****   ****
“And the guy said ‘You need to listen, JJ, you can’t possibly do that’, and you
know what?”
“You did it anyways?” Otabek cuts in, standing behind JJ and right in front of
Emma who blushes furiously in a second without taking her eyes off him,
practically hiding behind her bright colored drink. JJ doesn’t even flinch, and
Isabella waves calmly; at least it’s only them three and not the whole damn
rink.
“Look who finally decided to show up!” Even on a busy club as this, JJ still
finds the way to be loud enough to pierce through Otabek’s ears;  he pushes a
chair back to invite the newcomer to the table as he orders one more round.
He’s drinking nothing but beer, apparently, but by the way the bottle misses
his lips at the first try he must have had a few already. “You took your sweet
time, man.”
“I was working, Leroy.” Otabek won’t admit the guy’s right. He just might have
been approached as he was leaving the bathroom by some guy who tasted too much
like liquor and honey to refuse him. Some guy that actually asked before
pushing him against a wall and run needy fingers through his hair, tracing his
jawline, brushing his neck. Some guy who feasted on his mouth like Otabek was
the last piece of food on Earth, and left him a half empty pack of (what a
coincidence) his favourite brand of smokes for his troubles.
He might have been approached by some girl who straight up kissed him and took
his smoke dangling in between his fingers to take a long drag. He might have
tilted her head up, a thumb pushing her chin softly up, to gnaw at her lower
lip as if to ask for permission, and kissed her raw until they were both out of
breath, lips swollen red.
He might have seen, or thought he saw, something familiar out of the corner of
his eye at the exact same time she was inviting him to get out of there with
her. Someonefamiliar.
He might have just remembered then he wasn’t alone tonight, and left the girl
his smoke for her troubles.
“Interesting look you’ve got there, too. You always do that when you’re out?”
JJ point at Otabek as if he was talking about the fucking weather. The boy
fidgets under the table, pressing his lips in a thin line while trying to push
down his suddenly too short tank top without JJ noticing. The guy, however,
gets distracted by the waitress: she hands over two tequila sunrises for the
girls, a beer for the gentleman, and a plus; a skull shaped bottle of something
transparent, frosted white alongside a glass with ice. JJ just has to ask her.
That is vodka. No, JJ didn’t order it. No, he doesn’t have to pay for it:
workers drink on the house and she knows exactly what Altin likes. She winks at
Otabek as if to prove a point and leaves; he’s already gulping his first glass
by the time his companions’ shock fade enough to stop staring at where she
mingled into the crowd.
He feels the intense stare, now on him, as he pours himself another round. He
wants to say something before they can, to explain something he knows doesn’t
need explanation. He doesn’t mess with people at work, or the rink… He’s not
that much of an idiot: he never hooks up with people too close to him. But then
again, he’ll probably have to explain later who he doeshook up with, since
there’s clearly someone. Some people.
Isabella just shrugs it all off, apparently the only one on the table not
interested in his sex life at all. “Well, I think the look really suits you.
Not anyone can pull that off so nicely.” she says while absentmindedly playing
with her straw in between her fingers.
“I think Icould pull it off if I wanted to. Don’t you, Bella?” JJ purrs against
her ear and she giggles, clearly falling for the cheap trick.
Otabek could just shut up and let them have their moment, focus on Emma who’s
still seemingly shocked about the waitress’ words, but his imagination is
faster than his common sense. He pictures JJ dressed all in black, a tight top
with long mesh sleeves, his eyes caked in mascara and black eyeshadow, doing
his signature move. He takes a sip of his glass to hide the smirk on his face:
definitely notJJ style.
“Please,” he doesn’t quite laugh yet the amusement is still pretty obvious in
his tone, “you’re not that good looking.”
JJ laughs it off and the girls promptly follow; he pulls an arm around
Isabella’s shoulders to bring her closer to his chest and she giggles again.
“What’s that, boy? You’ve been looking?” Otabek scoffs and blushes deep red. He
hopes JJ dismisses it as the flush of alcohol already on his cheeks; he hopes
the dim lightning hides it enough. “People have, y’know,” JJ continues, not
quite slurring his words but still letting them flow a bit too long. He leans
in on the table and would almost fall face first if it wasn’t for Otabek
reacting quickly and holding back by his shoulders. JJ laughs and that is most
definitely not a sober laughter, uncoordinated and jagged. “People in the
bathroom, man, they check you out. But really,” he squints his eyes either to
get his point across or to stop feeling the world swirling around him. Otabek
can’t decide which one is more accurate. “Like, really really.”
“JJ,” Otabek says in a monotone that pretends to be friendly. He doesn’t do
friendly, not with him. “If someone tried to touch you or harass you in any
way, we can always-”
“No!” JJ slumps back into his chair and pulls Isabella closer, cutting her
conversation with Emma short with a little yelp from the girl. “No no no, no
need to kick someone out, or kick someone, no. They stayed far enough, it’s
fine. It’s just… Who does that?! Does it even work?”
Does it even work? Well… Otabek has seen the guy from before checking him out
before approaching, even following him into the bathroom. Waiting. And it did
work.
It wasn’t the first time the trick got the best of him either. He’s positive it
won’t even be the last.
He’s still not confessing such a thing to JJ. Not to the loudest blabbermouth
in the whole of Canada. “By the things I’ve seen in there, I’d say it works
just fine.” It works just fine with me, he stops himself from adding.
“It’s kind of sad, isn’t it? Having to beg for love like that, hitting on
strangers.” Emma comments as she quietly sips on her drink and something sinks
on Otabek’s chest. She’s right, he knows it; it still feels like a dagger
pushed through his ribs to hear it, loud and clear and so unmistakably real.
And from her, no less. If only she knew.
Otabek empties his glass and slams it back on the table, earning the group’s
attention all to himself. “Sorry, I…” I can’t put up with this charade for much
longer, “I’m just tired. I’ll head home I guess.”
He gets up and heads out to the alley the workers use as a parking spot without
even glancing back at the table, their voices calling out to him fading in the
background music. Leans his back on the back wall of the club, letting the cold
wash away the numbness on his limbs, a lighter sparking yet not catching flame
in his hand, a cigarette hanging dangerously on his lips.
He curses at the damn lighter, at his hands trembling too much to produce a
flame out of it. At the fucking world for putting him into such a situation.
Otabek was almost proud of provoking such an innocent crush on someone; he
didn’t even stop to think what someone like Emma would have to say about the
darker sides of him. The more real parts of him. He didn’t stop to consider to
horror she could feel, the disgust.
But it wasn’t that; Otabek can handle disgust. It wouldn’t be the first time he
has to. Yet this was different. Emma was sad for people like him. Disappointed,
even. And she didn’t even know who he was.
Good thing he never shared much with her, or any of them, for that matter. Good
thing no one really knows him, not enough. He doesn’t feel like he can handle
that kind of rejection again, not form the only people he feels at least a bit
close to. And damn him if he even remembers all of his rinkmates’ names, but he
still cares.
Otabek throws the useless lighter against the opposite wall of the alley in
frustration and curses loudly again, pulling the unlit cigarette from his lips.
He can’t even smoke without fucking failing.
He pulls his head back against the wall and winces at the sharp pain, pressing
his eyes shut. He thought it would be calmer tonight, that he could control his
impulses for once, yet there he is. Struggling in between the option of taking
the bike and go back home to hide in his bed until morning, or diving into the
first nightclub he can find.
Otabek expected it to be more like in the States: for better or for worse, Leo
would always stay besides him. Otabek took perverts and assholes off their
backs all the time, sure, but Leo knew how to protect Otabek from himself.
Otabek expected Leroy and his crew to do the same.
He hoped for too much. He knows that now.
Otabek has to fight the urge to actually call Leo, telling himself it’s over
four in the morning on a Sunday. There’s no point: Leo doesn’t need to be
bothered by his needy nonsense, much less so early.
Much less when he finally has gotten rid of such a nuisance as Otabek knew he
was.
He feels a presence next to him, and his face twists into a scowl, more honest
than he has been all night, He just wants out. Back home. Back somewhere less
hostile than here.
When he opens his eyes, there she is, holding a neon green lighter at the level
of his eyes. Isabella clutches her coat tight against her chest with one arm
while the other trembles slightly, fully extended to show her pace offering. He
sighs and gives in, allowing her to light his cigarette and taking a long drag.
“I didn’t know you smoked.” She puts the lighter away, leans on the wall next
to him. That’s one phrase Otabek has heard once too many times, but it was
always different than this: there’s no sharp edges in her words, just plain
curiosity.
He replies with the only thing he can think of, the sweet taste of his smoke
melting in his throat. “Coach doesn’t either.”
She lifts her hands in the air. “I won’t tell. Promise.” She giggles and he
can’t help but smile as he lets the smoke rise up from his lips. “I won’t tell
any of it.” She adds in a lower tone, almost as if she was expecting him not to
hear.
“Any of what?” Otabek thought it was a vision, an image in the corner of his
mind reminding him he was not alone tonight. A mirage and not actually Isabella
watching him fondle some strange girl in the dark.
“I can understand why you stormed off like that.” She speaks softly, as if any
sound too loud could startle him and send him running off. He’s not offended,
he means to say, just exhausted. Of him believing he’s actually moving forward.
Of Life proving him most of his choices are only steps sideways. He’s just
tired. “I do understand, but Emma means well, I promise. She just doesn’t know-
”
“She doesn’t have to.” Otabek cuts her short way too fast and way too roughly
for his taste. He hides behind the sweet smoke of his cigarette, looking away.
She doesn’t seem to notice his tone, anyways.
“Told you, I’m not telling. Not about that, nor about…” Isabella pauses,
hesitant. “I mean, by the way you looked… She wasn't the only one, was she?”
“Why do you care so much, Bella?” Otabek snaps at her. “How does that change
anything?” She flinches, but not out of fear. There’s still something soft in
her eyes, something he hasn’t seen in a while. It could be compassion. It could
be pity.
“Look, I don’t care who you are… with or not, or how many there are a week. I
just want you to be comfortable around us. Around me. And JJ cares so much too,
because you’re clearly not.” Isabella scolds him like a little child and he has
to refrain himself from pull his head down and echo a soft “Yes, ma’am” as a
reflex.
He pulls his shoulders back only to not letting her know how much he wants to
listen to her, to yield a battle he’s fighting alone. There's no enemy, not
really. “Why?” He repeats, honestly incredulous. She likes JJ, not him. Doesn’t
she?
“Because I care about you!” she practically yells, exasperated, and immediately
looks around as if someone could kick them away for screaming on the streets.
“Friends care about each other. And I want you to tell me whatever it’ll make
you feel more at ease around me.” He takes the cigarette back to his lips and
Isabella takes advantage of the moment to take his free hand in between hers.
He flinches but doesn’t quite pull away, staring deep at their joined hands.
“What if I don’t wanna tell you anything?”
Otabek feels a tidal wave wanting to break free, clashing inside his chest; a
desperate need to reach out, fed on alcohol and false expectations and way too
long a day. He wants to confess, to come clean. To feel clean.
He tried once tonight. What makes her any different from the rest?
Other than the fact that she’s the only one not backing up from him. “Well,”
Isabella starts, “I guess I can take that. But then again, you’re alreadynot
telling me anything and you don’t feel much better, do you?”
He pulls his hands away from hers and discards his cigarette, crushing it under
his foot. She doesn’t budge.
Maybe she’s different, after all.
Maybe he’s just lonely enough to take on any chance, any lifeline offered to
him-. Even when he knows it’ll snap under the weight on his shoulders.
“Look, I’m trying,” he replies, more exhausted than actually angry. “This is
what I get for trying to relate. I’m not meant to be around you. I’m not
anything like any of you.”
“You don’t have to be.” Isabella starts but cuts her sentence short with a
sigh. “You don’t have to beJJ to get along. He’s… special. Always so cheerful
and outgoing and positive-”
There’s something about the way her eyes glimmer when she talks about him that
makes him sick. Not quite jealousy, he knows that much: he has no interest in
her, after all. He wonders if anyone would ever talk about him like that.
“Loud. He’s incredibly, irritatingly loud. There’s a reason why I stay away,
Bella.”
“Fine.” She scoffs in mock offense but smiles soon after. “But I’m not like
that. And I like him just fine.” She leans her side on the wall to look
straight at Otabek, even though he keeps his gaze fixed ahead, at the opposite
wall. His face unreadable as ever, yet his eyes starting to close on their own.
“He’s not gonna judge you either, y’know.”
“He’ll talk. That’s bad enough.” He replies in a huff and turns to her; it’s
still there, pushing towards him, trying to reach him. He chooses to look away
and ignore the compassion in her eyes. “He’ll get scared, even. He’s that much
of an idiot.” He says in a bitter chuckle.
“No, why?” Isabella protests, pouting, and Otabek wants to reach out and hug
that frown off her face so bad. He doesn’t move. “He won’t get scared for you,
he wants to be your friend so bad!”
But Otabek knows JJ will. By his sole reaction at other people flirting with
him, other men flirting with him. He knows Leroy will either run off, or try to
convert him or hide him in some way. They always do, the well-intended people.
Otabek’s not so damaged anyways; he still likes women, there’s still a chance,
right?
But this is JJ. He can’t just punch the moron’s teeth in; he’s a rinkmate, a
colleague, a competitor. He could lose it all for starting a fight he can’t
even explain without proclaiming to the world something he can’t even mention
to himself.
No, he can’t know. It will only end up in disaster. Otabek smiles, gritting his
teeth , and Isabella doesn’t seem to notice the rage on his gesture. “Yes. Of
the person he thinks I am, not of this.” And he pretty much spits out the last
words as if it was bile climbing up his throat, becoming acrid on his mouth.
“There’s nothing wrong with you, Otabek-”
“There is to his standards.” There is so much wrong with him, so much wrong
inhim. He’s rotten, filthy, fed of vices and lust and the challenge that is to
get away with it. And the need to reach his Yuri one day. But that is probably
the last unsoiled piece of him: his memory of little Yuri Plisetsky, and the
fire within him, a brutal force that could swipe off all the debris in the bat
of an eye. The kid’s got magic on those eyes for sure.
Otabek won’t tell her that, of course. He’s pissed off drunk enough to swaddle
if he dares move off the wall, enough to be in the verge of falling asleep on
his feet, but he’s still not that stupid. “He got scared when he found out I
work at a gay friendly club, how do you think he’s gonna feel when he realizes
how I even got here? You think he’d be happy for me?” She tries to chime in but
she’s not fast enough or not daring enough; he can hear the venomous tone on
his voice. He can’t quite blame her. “You think he wouldn’t run as he did from
some random dude that didn’t even get close to him?”
“Wait, do you mean?.. I mean, you can’t possibly…” Isabella frowns, trying to
think of the possibilities, but she’s been drinking quite her share as well,
and almost slumps backwards. She clutches on the wall for support. “You were
making out with a girl, weren’t you?”
Otabek rolls his eyes and sighs loudly. She was supposed to be different. She
was supposed to be the one that understands him. He needs someone around,
someone close he can hold on to, but maybe this time they’ll be no one. Maybe
he’ll finally have to deal with being alone.
He stands up and his body feels heavier than he thought, knees bending under
his weight; he takes a step forward and stays completely still, the world
spinning around him so fast he feels his insides turning to mush. He jiggles
his keys inside his pocket but feels a tug on his arm when he takes them out.
“No! Leave it!” Isabella clutches desperately at his bicep, pulling him further
away from his bike even though she clearly doesn’t have the strength to do so.
He doesn’t budge but doesn’t stop her either, curious. “You’re gonna hurt
yourself, you can’t drive like that!”
Oh. right. It wouldn’t be the first time he’s done it, really. The fast wind on
his cheeks wakes him up enough to get him home safe, even when his grip on the
handlebars shakes slightly from time to time. But it’s been a while since the
last time someone actually tried to stop him from hurting himself. It’s not
like he was about to right now, but still. He stares at her, maybe a bit much;
she shakes him awake. “Let me get you a cab, okay? I need to know you’ll get
home safely.” Huh. she’s seriously worried, isn’t she? Otabek barely realizes
he’s smiling. “Please?”
Otabek gives in, letting her guide him back to the main street. Isabella lets
him go for a minute to stop the first empty taxi she can find, and goes back to
him to guide him inside. He chuckles, sincerely this time; she’s so afraid of
what might happen to him she’s handling him as if he was a fragile old man.
Well, he’s disoriented enough for it, at least.
Isabella then sits by his side, pulling a hand to him, as if asking for
something. He doesn’t quite reach to make the question, but it certainly climbs
up to his face. “Your cellphone.” He doesn’t ask, he doesn’t care anymore. She
could smash it or throw it out the window, whatever. He just wants to get home.
Instead she gives it back soon enough. “Let me know when you get home, okay?”
She gets up and closes the door behind her, waving as the car moves away.
Otabek barely hears the question, he has to ask again. The driver huffs at his
obvious foreign and way-too-intoxicated accent. “I said ‘where are we going?’”
He should just go back home, take a shower and go to bed. Or not even that:
just get straight to bed with his clothes on and pass out, let it all be a
problem for the morning after. It’s probably too late to do otherwise anyways,
he should be resting by now. He takes his cellphone out and stops before
unblocking it, the reflection on the black screen smiling back at him.
He should rest, yeah, but he could also let this warmth inside of him linger on
for a bit. He leans back into the seat, grinning unconsciously; maybe she’s
different.
She’s definitely quite something.
He makes up his mind soon enough. “There’s a place I’d like to see.”
***** Chapter 4 *****
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
He can do this, Otabek repeats to himself, staring at the ice under his feet.
He’s survived enough battles, bled his heart out and he’s still standing tall.
Even in tired wobbly legs, bruising bright blue underneath the fabric of his
training gear. He closes his eyes as he speeds up backwards, adrenaline already
flowing madly through his veins, making it all feel like it’s in slow motion.
He closes his eyes to stop his mind from going for every possible bad scenario,
and lets himself go.
He hears the thud of his blades against the ice before he can understand what
just happened; his own name ringing in his ears like a warcry. He opens his
eyes to see his baffled coach, eyes wide and completely still. He told Otabek
he’d have one more chance; one more fall and he’d be off the ice for the rest
of the day. A hand on his shoulder yanks him back into reality, a too
enthusiastic tone right next to him.
“You did it!” JJ pats on his shoulder and Otabek’s legs suddenly remember the
pain of every failed jump, knees bending under his own weight. He holds onto
the guy’s shoulder and a hand snakes across his back to perch him up. “Hey,
don’t give up now! You’ve made it, man!” JJ grabs Otabek’s arm to pull it
around his shoulders. “You just aced a perfect triple axel. You must be so
thrilled!” He leans over Otabek’s ear who’s both too tired and still too
stunned to answer, to at least pull back. He can’t pull back, really: he knows
he’ll fall flat on his ass if he untangles himself from JJ’s embrace. He’d
rather just resist the urge this time. “You should probably rest, let’s get you
off the ice, yeah?”
Otabek allows Leroy to lead him out by his middle; leans like a dead weight
against the rink walls to let JJ click his guards back in place and follows
absentmindedly to the locker room. He slumps down on the first bench he set
eyes on and closes his eyes, almost unaware of JJ kneeling before him, untying
his skates. He shivers as a wave of fire rushes through his muscles, jolting
him awake as JJ starts massaging the plant of his feet. He then realizes the
guy has been talking to him. “What?” His own voice feels sleepy to his ears.
JJ laughs before replying. “You were pissed the other night. Bella told me.”
Otabek cringes at the thought of whatever  else  she might have spilled. “I’m
not really sure why but let me make it up to you, okay?” JJ digs his fingers on
the sore flesh of his foot thoroughly, his hands traveling up his calf, muscles
tensing and stinging as if they were being stretched off their limits, trying
to pull back. Otabek suddenly jerk his leg away as a reflex. “Hey, I know it
hurts but I have to do this, alright? Give it.” JJ scolds with a smile
plastered on his face and Otabek just wants to kick his head so bad; even the
position is perfect for it, but he resists the urge. He still scoffs as a
response. He barely gasps at the touch of expert fingers against his inner
thigh, warm even through the fabric. JJ shifts quickly to his other foot,
starting the process again, and Otabek barely makes a sound this time. He’s
fell on the same side all this time, after all. “So, what’s it gonna be? You’ll
go out with us? We need to celebrate for today! Isabella will be so happy to
hear about your axel!” JJ practically shouts and Otabek flinches away from the
death grip on his thigh. He only gets a cackle from the diot, slowly rising
from his knees. “We should also drink for you not busting anything: you were
putting up quite a show out there. The determination, man! I thought your coach
was gonna lose his voice from yelling at you so much and you still didn’t stop!
Otabek stands up, the soreness of his body tucked away for a bit after the
massage but still exhausted. He can’t even recall how many times he jumped, how
many times he fell: he lost count after the third one, determined not to stop
until he got it right. He still can’t believe he finally did it. He can’t
believe he’s one step closer, he’s definitely pushing forward, finally going
somewhere. He smiles as he pulls a leg on the bench, bending over it to stretch
his sore muscles. Otabek hears JJ ask again and chooses to stop ignoring him.
He does have something to celebrate this time, doesn’t he?
He lifts his head up to change legs before answering. “Sure. Let’s.” short and
as monotonous as he can make it.
He still feels a hard pat in between his shoulder blades as he bends back down,
a chuckle behind him.”Good! Next Friday, maybe? Since you work on Saturdays.
I’ll let Bella know you said yes. Drinks are on me!” JJ’s voice drifts off, as
if he were walking out.
“Wait!” Otabek react before JJ can actually cross the doorstep. “Saturday. I
can change my shift.”  and I much rather have some time to myself after an
entire evening with you, Bella or not.  He bites his tongue before he speaks
up.
JJ just beams, grinning from ear to ear. “Saturday it is!” and he bolts out the
door, leaving Otabek with a weird feeling in his gut.
It can’t possibly go  that  badly, can it? Isabella will be there, after all.
He sighs and goes back to his stretches; there’s still a whole week ahead of
him to worry about before then. It’ll be just fine.
 
JJ insisted on choosing the place since the club Otabek works at was ‘a bit way
too dodgy for him, no offense.’ He promised to avoid fan reunions too, but
Otabek knows JJ’s still big enough of a celebrity around the rink to be
recognized anyways. The bar he chose is too close to it to be an exception.
Unlike he normally does JJ actually arrives late. Well, later: Otabek’s aware
he was half an hour early and took his time to have a beer in peace before
meeting the guy. JJ got so excited about him agreeing to go out that he was
constantly around Otabek, somehow managing to be even more annoying than usual.
And that’s saying something. Still, he was there enough to mark the flaws on
his skating, to improve his moves on the ice. Otabek has to admit JJ is
actually a good teacher.
He notices the exact moment JJ walks into the bar because the moron  announces
it , doing his signature pose and shouting. “The King’s in the house!” like the
fucking diva he is. There are fans cluttering around him, because of course
there are, and Otabek reckons this is his chance to ask for a shot before ‘The
King’ gets set free. He wonders what exactly could this ‘kingdom’ of his be if
he has to state over and over that he’s the ruler. He chuckles over his glass
and gulps its content down before JJ can reach up to him.
“What are we drinking tonight?” JJsits right next to him, elbow on the bar,
loud enough for the whole place to hear. As if he wasn’t obnoxious enough to be
noticed the second he walks in already. “You started without me?” He point at
the empty glasses in front of Otabek.
“Place’s own brew.” Otabek ignores the shot glass and answers in a flat
monotone, gesturing the bartender for another round of beers. “You came alone.”
“Um, yeah…” JJ rubs the back of his neck absentmindedly as the tender leaves
two glasses in front of them. He takes his time to taste his drink before
speaking replying. “She said she wasn’t feeling well, that I should just go out
with you instead. I offered to go take care of her but... “ He shrugs and takes
another sip. Of course, Isabella is a minor living with her parents: having
some stranger in the house because she’s sick would be nothing but trouble.
Even when Otabek’s certain JJ must be hardly a stranger there, knowing
Isabella’s fascination with him. “This is really good, man. Good eye.”
“ You  chose the place, Leroy.” Otabek resist the urge to roll his eyes at the
guy. He really dragged them both to a place he didn’t even known, and really
insistently so? He repeatedly said they had to come to this bar and this bar
alone. “I was hoping you knew where we were going.”
“Kind of. I mean, I pass by this place everyday on my way to the rink and it
looks so cool… I didn’t know their beer kicked ass, too!” JJ takes a long gulp
as if to prove his point and winces as he slams his glass against the bar.
Otabek just stares. Fine, it’s slightly stronger than the watered down cat piss
they serve at a bar and call ‘beer’ just to have something remotely similar,
but it’s not  that  strong. Either JJ’s overreaction, or he really is a
lightweight. Otabek cringes at the possibility of having to deal with a drunk,
even more obnoxiously loud than usual JJ, most likely really friendly and
touchy.  And who just happens to weigh almost twice as he does.
It’s probably for the best that Isabella hasn’t tagged along tonight, after
all. There's no way she can watch the display Otabek is certain JJ is about to
make and still have a crush on the idiot. Yet she’s seen Otabek pissed off
drunk,  pathetic  drunk, and decided to give him her number. Maybe she’s into
lost causes, anyways.
By the time JJ rants about his  flawless  Senior debut routines for the fifth
time Otabek’s already ordering his third shot. The guy’s good, that much Otabek
knows. Too good, even; his performances focus on technical difficulty and
stamina enough to pull any of his jumps at any point of the performance. He
even aces almost every jump at his competitions. It’s like he was born in the
ice, whether as Otabek has earned his place, maybe not with the grace of a
dancer but with the fire of a warrior.
Sure, Leroy’s good,. But that doesn’t make his rant about how he’s gonna kick
Nikiforov’s ass into retirement any less annoying.
“... And I’ll take you with me!”
“Huh?” Otabek zoned out at some point, focusing on their reflection in the
mirror behind the spirits. They look so much closer than he remembers they
were, for some reason. Maybe it’s just his imagination or the dim lights
playing with his eyes. Maybe it’s the drinking, although still pretty light.
Maybe it is actually JJ trying to close the space between them.
He realizes it’s the latter when he feels an arm draped over his shoulders.
“The podium, man! Weren’t you listening? You should be there with me!” JJ
yells, grinning like a madman and clutching Otabek closer; Otabek can only
wince, unable to break free of the hard grip around his neck without actually
hurting the guy. “I haven’t had a friend competing with me for a long time,
y’know…”
Otabek wants to correct him: They’re not friends, they’re rink mates. Fuck, he
wouldn’t even be there if he knew about Isabella not coming. Then again,
tonight has been her idea, her plan all along; Otabek can’t really tell if this
wasn’t what she had in mind from the start. For them to spend time together of
the ice, to bond. She mentioned quite a few times how badly JJ wants to be his
friend, but that’s only because JJ doesn’t  know  him. Neither does she, not
really. They couldn’t possibly like someone as broken as him, as scarred; no
one in their right mind does. It takes an outcast to understand another and
they’re just so…  Nice.
They’re the kind of people who should never know about Otabek’s other side of
the coin.
He can’t let JJ know,even when the guy’s voice falters, grows soft, like
pleading for a hint of affection.
He doesn’t correct JJ: that much he can do.
“And JJ will take you up there, to celebrate with the King!” Leroy does his
pose, an elbow leaned on the bar, and slips; his face doesn’t quite hit the bat
but twists in shock as if it would. Otabek snorts. Chuckles.
Fuck, the moron’s funny: he keeps stumbling off the stool and adjusting back,
leaning on Otabek’s side for support. Otabek tries to stop the urge, but a
rumble inside his gut starts growing through him, making his shoulder shiver.
“Oh my God, you’re laughing!” JJ snaps, pointing at the boy still covering his
mouth in an attempt to stop the laughing fit. It doesn't really seem to be
working. “No no no,” JJ whines, “don’t cover yourself like that, you look so
young, man. It’s so cute!”
Otabek feels tears pricking at the corner of his eyes, his breathing jagged as
he tries too hard to control it, a sharp pain stinging in his chest- He finally
speaks as soon as he catches his breath. “Fuck you.”
JJ laughs, about to reply, but he gets cut short by a hand on both their
shoulders, pulling them apart. He looks around, stunned at the guys surrounding
them, but Otabek reacts quickly. He slaps the hand off of him and turns to face
the stranger. The bastard smiles a sadistic grin Otabek knows a bit too much;
he feels bile rising up his throat. He knows a bully when he sees one; and he’s
seen enough of them. JJ, on the other side, smiles forcefully, terrified; he
must know what’s coming to them, although he clearly doesn’t know why.
“Are you two lovebirds having a fun time in  our  bar? Drinking  our  beer?”
The inflections on the bastard’s voice are barely noticeable but very much
there; Otabek twist his mouth in disgust but says nothing.
“Hey, hey thee, come on, guys,” JJ stands up to mediate in between them, palms
flat in surrender in front of his body; the men at the bastard’s back start
shuffling closer. Same frown, same shit, Otabek reckons; he refuses to show
fear, no matter how many of them decide to show up. Fuck the place JJ picked:
Otabek’s found his good share of homophobic cunts flocking pretty much
everywhere, but these are different than the rest. These are  locals . He’ll
have his payback with JJ in due time, but right now he’s more worried about
finding a way to get him out of there. Even if it involves breaking a few
skulls; specially if it involves just that.
JJ still tries his best at debomb a situation he clearly hasn’t been in before,
clearly can’t handle. “There’s room for everyone here! Look, listen- How about
I buy guys the next round, huh?”
“We don’t want shit from you!” The bastard upfront roars and Otabek smirks:
it’s an act. It’s like watching a handful of dogs on leashes, barking away;
they don’t bite, they just like to make some noise. He knows they’ll back up at
the first blow; cunts like them, who talk so much, always put on a show. They
probably don’t even know how to throw a punch.
Otabek’s not expecting the bastard to take his part so seriously, grabbing him
by his chin and pulling him to the bastard’s face. Otabek hisses through his
teeth, trying to stop himself from spitting the disgust knotting his gut on the
guy’s face. His breath smells like something rancid and cheap scotch when he
speaks so disgustingly close. “Why don’t you take this pretty little boytoy of
yours and find your way out, huh?”
It’s silly, he knows: it’s risky, and stupid and  so damn fun  to pull the
loose string until the whole curtain falls down. To see what’s underneath, to
push. It’s stupid, specially with JJ right there, but it’s also an urge
stronger than him; Otabek wants to see them losing their ground. “Are you
flirting with me?”
He feels the grip tightening against his jaw, JJ practically whispering him not
to provoke them. The thing is, JJ clearly doesn’t know Otabek at all.
“You’re not that pretty even for a faggot. Don’t flatter yourself.” The guy
growls. Funny, the way his grip twitches when Otabek bites his lip, mostly to
repress the chuckle than anything, says something else entirely. “You make me
sick.”
“Watch it, then.” Otabek purrs softly, pulling out from the hand of the asshole
already too stunned to hold him in place and over it, leaning close enough for
their lips to not-quite-brush against each other. “It might just be
contagious.”
The bastard’s face twist in horror for just a fraction of a second before
taking a step back and shoving Otabek back against the bar. No one seems to be
even turning around to watch the show: what a shame. Otabek licks his lips and
smirks at him; the guy’s showing off, puffing his chest out and snapping his
knuckles. He won’t do shit. He still tries. “You have some guts, fag. Let’s see
how brave you are when we beat that sissy grin off your face.”
That’s weak; Otabek’s heard worse, he’s felt worse. These are nobodies trying
to play tough. He could deal with them with his eyes closed and a hand tied
behind his back.
But not him. He wasn’t expecting  him .
“Hey, hold on, guys, no need to punch no one here!” JJ grins and it suddenly
becomes the most sickening gesture Otabek has ever seen. He’s scared, yes, but
he wants to  relate . To them. He feels the embers starting to ignite inside of
him, the rage.
Otabek silently prays to be wrong.
“We’re just having a bit of a drink, as friends do- that’s all, just friends!”
JJ laughs and every cackle is like a sharp dagger dug in between Otabek’s ribs,
piercing the air out of his lungs; he knows he’s glaring at the moron, but he
can’t stop himself. He knows what’s coming, he’d wish to cover his ears tight,
to pull his heart out before listening. JJ is no one to him, not really, but
he’s the one who tried. After that, this feels like treason.
Or a really elaborated joke at Otabek’s expense.
Or just him hoping too much of them. Again. There’s just no one to stand
besides him anymore, is there? It’s just him against the current. And the tide
is rising.
“We’re not -of course we’re not!” JJ practically stutters, still in a too
confident tone to make it honest. “We’re normal, man, just two regular guys
hanging out, none of that- just normal.”
Just normal.
Oh, he’s in for a big surprise.
Otabek can’t really count them, even if he had any interest in doing so. Not
even all of them; just the guys. He can’t remembers who was there no more than
once, who recognized him some time after and bought him the same drink they’ve
met with. He never cared enough, never looked at their faces too much.
How many partners is being  normal ? How many men?
What happens if you can’t remember?
What happens if you never cared, as long as you could feel them around you,
inside of you, roaring lewd noises into your ear? Is that normal?
Is  he  normal?
Experience tells him when to rush his getaway: the already familiar feeling of
his chest closing in, his voice wanting to hide away within him, the drumming
in his ears.
“Are we, now?”
Otabek’s barely aware of his voice leaving his lips, his fingertips tingling
with the need for comfort, for a bright exit sign. He needs to get the fuck
out. His moves are automatic, repeated one too many times, even though never
like this. He takes JJ by his collar and traps his lips on his own, his tongue
sliding inside of the guy’s mouth, dancing, tasting the lingering bitterness of
home brewed beer and poisoned words. He’ll make JJ swallow them: he’ll get at
least that satisfaction.
When Otabek pulls apart it feels like it’s been years, drowned in the mist of
alcohol and self doubt and sheer hatred. JJ looks flushed, shocked, completely
still as if he’s stopped breathing altogether.
“Now you’re not.” He shoves JJ off of him and turns to leave, disregarding the
stupid taunts of the bastards around; he pushes one of them out of his way as
if he was a ragdoll, splayed over a nearby table. Otabek doesn’t even turn
around as he waves goodbye. “Welcome to the freakshow.”
He can see JJ being corralled against the bar by the guys. He doesn’t flinch.
He doesn’t care anymore.
He can’t seem to care anymore.
There was something in him, something he just lost and its rot pulls him away
from the crime scene. Otabek doesn't want to think about it, but his mind can’t
stop repeating it over and over.
He’s not normal.
He won’t ever be.
He can’t ever be.
Does that mean he’ll always be flawed, scarred, corrupt? Hiding in other
people’s desires, in between dim light and thick smoke and hard touches. Is
this all he can ever get to be?
Alone?
Is this what trusting in someone again feels like?
The stink of death inside of him makes his stomach turn; he hurries his step.
It doesn’t matter where to, He just needs to lose himself again. To drown his
thoughts away.
He just needs out.
Chapter End Notes
     The bad stuff is coming up next so brace yourselves. You might be
     horrified but you'll be warned.
***** Chapter 5 *****
Chapter Summary
     This is it: the problematic chapter. You can skip it if you want; I'l
     do a bit of a loose explanation of what happens here, even though all
     of otabek's internal monologue will be missing, for those who can't
     stomach this.
     It's probably not as bad as I think but it was pretty bad in my head,
     so. just in case.
     you've been warned.
He wants to believe it, wants his mind to shut up, but he can still hear it. JJ
didn’t mean it, he’s just an idiot; idiots say stupid things. JJ didn’t mean
it, he couldn't have, he was always so nice, he…
He’s just another homophobic cunt then, isn’t he?
And Otabek can’t really blame him. He can’t blame any of them. There’s a chill
in his spine, a tremor on his skin in every place he’s been touched by their
filthy hands, tasted in a mock of cardboard love and too many shots of  real
vodka, a shadow in the corner of his eye from every face he can’t even
recognize. He never really remembers: he never cares to check much.
He has a type, he knows that much by now. Available, eager and in a hurry; he’s
not willing to bother to hunt them down, he might remember them if he does.
Recognize them. Like them.
Disposable, in and out and let’s never meet again. No names, no ages, no
fucking phone numbers. Ever. Otabek’s seen a wedding band more than once; it’s
not his place to ask. Not his place to judge. Not when his legs were still
struggling to get him home after the exhaustion of the rink all day, the
soreness of being bent over a wobbly filthy sink, and prodded and slapped and
fucked until he felt his muscles give in, his mind lulled in a haze of
fluorescent light and fading voices in the distance. Otabek felt the shame too,
that much they had in common. Only that much.
He’s aware of what he needs when he needs it. Otabek has never given into the
silly superstitions of love: he doesn’t buy it, and it’s disgusting to even
try. Love doesn’t exist in places like the ones Otabek’s going to right now, as
he speed walks through the night. Love is a fluffy fairytale from a different
reality. There’s no love in what he’s looking for, not that he requires it. No,
he needs the world to melt around him, to disappear, and that’s not something
the ice or music can do for him. This is an urge to escape, a thirst of
adrenaline running through his veins. It’s a physical hunger he needs to put
down, and there’s only one way he knows how.
 
The music blasts loudly the second the bouncer opens the door for him. It’s
ridiculous, there’s two flight of stairs to get to the shitty basement where
the shitstain of a club is in and Otabek can still hear the music from the
street. Poorly mixed, too.
Whatever, Otabek’s not here to work; the words haven’t stopped swirling around
his head all the way down here.  You’re not normal.  No, of course he isn’t. JJ
is, probably. The definition of a well established guy: handsome, charming,
talented, known and followed; loud and charismatic enough for people to like
him for it. And just a repetition of all Otabek’s been told people should be.
Of all he’s been told he  should  be. No dodgy nights out, no DJ booths and
free shots and sticking your tongue down the throat of whoever’s buying the
stuff since all their faces look alike in the dark and the mist of alcohol. No
late night desperate calls to your sister and friends to wash off the dirt. No
more hanging up on them before they can even take it. No more girly cigarettes
and heavy smokey eyes and the coppery taste of blood on your lips.
Good men don’t do any of those.  Normal  men don’t .  Otabek shoves himself
into the crowd to move towards the blue-lit bar at the side of the hall. Normal
men don’t step into these places, filled to the brim with people groping and
feeling each other up in various states of undress on the dance floor and
against the walls. Normal men don’t go to places where they get their ass
grabbed as they lean on the bar, two fingers right in between their cheeks and
threatening to press enough for them to feel the threat through the fabric, and
a loud and slippery “I’ll pay for him.”
A normal man would bothered to look and see who was looming over his shoulder
with a Cheshire cat smirk plastered on his face. A normal man not pick the
strongest thing on the menu without hesitating.
A normal man wouldn’t down a long drink as if it was a shot. A normal man would
have refused the shot that followed.
A normal man would have pulled his hand away when Cheshire Smile decides it’s
time for a more private conversation.
Otabek asks for a random item on the menu without even looking and gulps it in
a second before the amused gaze of the man; he can’t give two shits about what
the guy thinks, or even how the drink tastes. It isn’t the point to notice what
he’s drinking anyways. All he knows is that it’s been served in a now-empty
martini glass and it was pitch black. And it might have gone down like
firestarter, burning his throat at each step. The man takes his hand again and
he feels the touch far off, a ghost tickling under his skin. Otabek smiles
without noticing, without knowing why; it’s enough for Cheshire Smile to lead
him to a more private location.
The lights and the heat of other people's bodies against flash past his eyes;
Otabek feels as if he’s on a road back on his bike, speeding way over his
limits. The city passes by around him, without touching him no matter how much
its lights try to reach; he lets his head fall backwards, feel the breeze
against his face…
Otabek feels the cold touch of the sink against his stomach, his hand shifting
forward to hold on for dear life, as his eyes desperately try to find a light
in his own eyes that doesn’t exist anymore. It hasn’t for a long time now; he
licks his numb dry lips while the guy mumbles something into his ear. Otabek
can’t quite listen, he can’t quite focus.
The man yanks his hair back, forcing him to pull his head up, to show his
teeth. “Answer me or I’ll get pissed, you little slut,” he hisses in Otabek’s
ear and something inside him screams to get out, to kick his way out, to bite
him off. Anything, but not this, never this. “Tell me you want me all the way
inside of you.”
Otabek doesn’t answer, fixated on the deep brown of his own eyes in the mirror.
He remembers them differently, he remembers them fonder, more ambitious, more
daring. More alive. Now he feels like blinking is too much of an effort for to
do willingly; he wants to turn back and leave, to punch his way out, to be
alone. His body asks for something different.
The man presses against him, the clear form of his erection against Otabek’s
ass, and an undignified moan escapes the skater’s mouth. Otabek stares. That’s
all Otabek can do, stare at the guy while he just prodes and caresses his back,
running his fingernails along Otabek’s spine to his hip bones and all the way
down to his ass, slapping him. Otabek flinches, sure, but he never answers,
standing completely still as the man just toys around with him. The man doesn’t
need any other reaction to encourage him but the muffled groans and whimpers
his ministrations are pulling out of Otabek.
Otabek hisses and it turns into a loud moan trapped in between his teeth as the
man draws calloused hands down the waistband of his jeans to his crotch.
Otabek’s body betrays him, following every command given and leaning into every
touch, mewling words that should make Otabek fight back. And Otabek does want
to, so badly; he feels the taste of bile and cheap liquor crawling up his
throat, his reflection on the mirror distorting through the tears of shame he
will not shed. Otabek won’t give the bastard the satisfaction.
Otabek’s fingers clench tightly, knuckles white against the filthy porcelain of
the sink, as his pants come undone and down just enough for the man’s hot rough
fingers to pull back from where they were teasing the tip of his cock, already
ready and twitching, to the dimples of Otabek’s back and stroll down, a damp
touch around his ass and back up. Otabek’s eyes shut tightly as he feels rough
fingers prodding around his entrance while the man’s hand holds him in place by
his hip. The hand on Otabek’s hip shoots up to his hair and tugs. The force of
it makes him clench his teeth and pull his head back.
“Open your eyes, princess, and look at yourself.” Otabek groans as a finger
slides inside of him, his body barely resisting. It curves and he clenches
around it, opening his eyes wide, gasping for air: Otabek can see the thin
layer of sweat gripping to his skin through the stained mirror, a tiny streak
of a tear rolling down on one side, his eyes lidded with a lust he won’t
confess. He still moans again as the guy moves inside of him, putting one more
finger in and spreading Otabek open. “Look at the quivering mess you are.” And
the words stick to Otabek’s ear, hot and moist and rancid of whiskey and stale
cigarettes.
The man’s hand moves in and out of Otabek, thrusting fast, mercilessly; Otabek
wants out, away, but the jolt of pleasure running through his body pins him
into place. Otabek hates it, but can’t get enough; he already knows what a
coward he is, how much of a docile little pet, how much of a toy he is for them
to play with.
Otabek’s gaze lifts up as he hears the door opening, right in time for the guy
to pull Otabek’s head back by the hair and lick a slippery streak from his
collarbone to his jaw, insinuating a third finger inside in the process. Right
in time for Otabek to almost scream over the music as he feels himself stretch
to accommodate it, his whole skin prickling, his cock twitching against the
cold sink. The new guy snaps his head back at the sound but proceeds to move to
the urinals: it wouldn’t be the first time he’s seen some guys fucking on a
public bathroom in one of these places. Still, Otabek could swear he saw him
lick his lips before turning around.
Otabek’s gaze unconsciously focuses on the stranger’s back, right behind him,
on the toned muscles the tight shirt can hardly hide. Otabek’s vision starts to
blur as his eyes water, his voice trapped against his teeth as if to stop the
sound. It doesn’t work: the man holding him still moans and presses his now
uncovered damp erection against the small of Otabek’s back. The guy in the
urinals is still looking and stares for a second too long.
The hand on Otabek’s hair runs harshly against his skin leaving bright red
trails all the way down to the waistband of his pants. “You’re that thirsty,
huh, you little cunt?”  No, please don’t.  “Do you want his cock as well?”
Otabek’s breath catches as the man quickly pulls out from inside of him then
throws him to the ground; Otabek feels boneless, defenseless, a poorly stitched
up ragdoll made of a thousand different patterns and smeared with filth.
 
There are some words exchanged over him. They’re not directed at Otabek, even
though they’re clearly talking about him. Someone pulls Otabek’s head up from
the floor by his hair, another hand cupping his jaw.
“Were you looking at me?”
 Otabek’s too dizzy to see the man’s face; his eyes focus on what’s in front of
him, which is some guy with his pants down and his flaccid cock  still dripping
. Otabek wants to gag, his stomach twisting in anticipation of what’s to come,
but the man behind him pulls his hips up, brushing against Otabek’s ass.
Otabek’s embarrassed at the quivering sound coming out of his mouth that most
definitely doesn’t sound like  no , no matter how hard he tries to say it.
Otabek’s whimpers morph into a loud groan as the man at his back spreads Otabek
open and pushes himself inside. The man’s cock burns inside of him, sending
shockwaves up Otabek’s spine. He can’t help but to move back until there’s
nothing left to take in, can’t help but arch his back like a little kitten,
splayed out on his hands and knees on the dirty flooded floor.
The guy holding Otabek’s chin up takes his chance. He thrusts his cock into
Otabek’s mouth, pushing in as far as he can. Otabek gags and pulls back, trying
to breathe despite the hand suddenly clasped on the back of his neck. The acrid
taste of piss lingers on his tongue.
Otabek’s stomach is a swirl of disgust and arousal: his dick swollen red and
begging for attention, his eyes watering as he coughs. “Cry a bit more, cutie,”
the guy in front of him says, his thumb slowly caressing the line of Otabek’s
jaw. The other man takes this as a cue to pull away, only to slam into him,
over and over, pulling indecent sounds and bitten down profanities from Otabek
as a thin thread of spit hangs from his lips and tears flutter off his lashes.
“That’s it, boy, louder.”
And the cock in front barely brushed his lips as it swells up and twitches.
Otabek wants to bite it off, to wrestle his way away, to run home and lock
himself under the hot shower, to forget. Instead the sharp sensation at his
back makes Otabek cry out as the cock slips back into his hole, this time
without so much resistance as the knot in Otabek’s gut sends shivers throughout
his skin and his eyes roll to the back of his head. He curses himself for being
so weak; he doesn’t even respond to the hand traveling from the back to his
neck to the front, pressing onto his throat.
“Did you just come? You weren’t allowed to.” Otabek swallows hard to alleviate
the pressure on his neck to no avail; his limbs start to get heavy, his mind
dull. He stops resisting in hopes that the man will loosen his hands from where
they grip Otabek’s neck.The man at his back thrusts in faster, harder, and digs
his fingers deep into the flesh of Otabek’s ass as he comes in a soft gasp.
Otabek feels the warm liquid trickle down his thigh in a thin line after the
man pulls away. The other guy is still deep in Otabek’s mouth, moving slowly
side-to-side to make Otabek open up. The man at his back pats him in between
his shoulderblades, as if he were congratulating a dog. “Good bitch, now let
this good man treat like you the way you deserve, yeah?”
Otabek hears the rustling of fabric behind him but falls to the ground as soon
as he tries to lift himself up. His brain is clouded but he can still sense the
steps of the man at his back moving far away. A door slammed shut. Otabek would
like to turn around, to make sure he’s gone, yet his body feels as if isn’t his
own, barely strong enough not to slump on the floor. He must look pathetic: he
does feel that way.
Otabek doesn’t even try to wipe the thin thread of saliva hanging from his lip
onto the guy’s wrist. The fingers around Otabek’s neck twitch subtly, and the
man licks his lips with a certain eagerness as he pulls away.
The grip on Otabek’s throat doesn’t grow tighter but it doesn’t let up either.
The man pulls Otabek to his feet as he steps away, grabbing a handful of
Otabek’s shirt to get him up and against the wall of one of the toilet stalls.
The guy lets Otabek go and he slumps down to the floor, unable to stand up; the
world is spinning all around him, whole body sticky with sweat and cum and
self-loathing.
Otabek looks lifelessly at the guy who is rubbing himself in front of him, like
a puppet with too much slack on its strings.  The way you deserve.  Is this it?
Is this what life has in store for him? Is this what he earns for his efforts
to get out of the pit, all of what he can get?
He’ll never be anyone, then. Otabek will never get a damn medal, never get
closer to  him.  He’ll never even cross eyes with Yuri Plisetsky again.
He doesn’t deserve to.
This  is what Otabek is good for. Not for music, not the ice. Not for his
friends, his sisters. Not for Yuri, never for Yuri. He’s too much of a nice
obedient plaything covered in other people’s fluids and resentment. Too much of
a stray dog, beaten up and shoved into shit.
He’s too good being a  good bitch  to pull away.
Otabek doesn’t even make a sound or try to pull away as the guy’s hand reaches
for his chin to push his cock inside Otabek’s mouth again. Otabek doesn’t gag,
or cough, or try not to taste it: he’s numb to the world, a plaything under the
hands of a cruel puppeteer. The struggle is worthless: Otabek would rather just
sit there, limbs completely loose and eyes fixed on a point on the wall right
next to the guy’s head, and let him thrust in and out. Otabek will never be
enough, he’ll never fulfill anyone’s expectations. Otabek will never meet Leo
again in competition, never hold his sisters one more time. Never ride again
with his mates. He’ll never get the chance to defeat JJ and make him swallow
his words.
He’ll never see Yuri again.
He’ll never go back home.
He’ll never be anything other than  this.
Otabek doesn’t really notice when the tears start flowing; he only realizes
when they trickle down his chin and drip onto his thighs. When the guy moans as
he sobs silently.
JJ was right: he’s a freak. Otabek has no place in their world. This is all he
is, this is all he will ever be.
Otabek doesn’t deserve the praise. He doesn’t deserve  them .
This is all Otabek has. A bitter taste floods his mouth, and he can’t hear
anything, so far from reality as he is, yet still the guy steps back to take
his chin and force Otabek to look straight in his eye.
“You liked that, didn’t you? All cute and crying for me,” the guy whispers too
close to his face, covered in sweat and with that damn stupid smile on his
lips. “You’re made to be a dirty little slut, aren’t you? So pretty and well
trained.”
Otabek doesn’t deserve them, but that doesn’t mean he’ll let the world rip his
loved ones away from him. That doesn’t mean he won’t fight for them. That he
won’t make them proud, no matter how far he has to climb out of his own flesh.
He’s a warrior, and he will fight.
The world won’t tell Otabek what he can and cannot have.  He  won’t.
Otabek spits the cum in his mouth right back out at the guy and before Otabek
notices, his head hits the floor with a thud. There’s a taste of copper in
between his teeth, a harsh throbb in Otabek’s jaw where the guy’s fist
connected with his face. He licks the open slit in the middle of his lip and
lets the pain wash over him, prodding at it.
Otabek will fight, he’ll fall and he’ll get the fuck back up. He’ll get to his
Yuri.
But what  then?  How can he cleanse himself of all of this?
How can he make it all go away?
He’s too good at it to make it vanish; he’s been at it for too long.
He’ll never be enough. And Otabek cringes as he starts laughing for no reason,
tears forming at the corner of his eyes. He’ll never be enough, and there’s no
battle that can change that. He’s branded, he’s beaten up and chained down and
filthy.  That’s all he has to offer.
He’ll never be enough, and his breathing becomes jagged, the loud cackle
becoming a sob; he’ll never be enough, he doesn’t belong up there. He’s an
outcast, a street rat, a  fucking queer.  He bangs his head against the floor
and screams his lungs out.
Otabek doesn’t belong. They’re right and he doesn’t belong. Why would Yuri even
look his way?
This is all the love he can get.
His hands grip on his hair tightly, as if to look for a way out. But there’s
none. He’s used goods, hand-outs.
A second class person. A plaything. No one.
A freak. A faggot.
Otabek’s fighting a battle he’s already lost.
***** Chapter 6 *****
Chapter Summary
     Let's try to do this quick: Otabek gets into this shady nightclub on
     a basement to find something to numb his senses with. He goes for
     booze and the first guy who offers to buy him some more and takes him
     to the bathroom.
     Mistery guy takes advantage of the alcohol starting to lull Otabek
     and invites some random man that walks in to play with our boy too.
     Explicit non con scene happens and Otabek ends up lying on the floor
     of one of the stalls, mouth filled with blood from the punch he
     wasn't conscious enough to dodge and his lip split and starting to
     swell. Broken.
     This is some weeks after that.
Eventually JJ grew tired of trying to speak to Otabek again. Or ashamed. Either
way, they barely talk now, only if it’s strictly necessary, and even then
Otabek has to struggle not to hiss at JJ. The sole mention of the guy’s name
makes him remember the bar, the club afterwards, the…
He misses Isabella, sure, but he just can’t stand her anymore. Always trying to
see the good in people close to her disregarding anything else: in JJ, in
himself… Otabek doesn’t believe her words anymore. He can’t stand her constant
apologizing for Leroy’s behaviour. There’s no use anyways: they don’t know what
happened. They never will. They never should. They just can’t handle something
like that.
Not when JJ almost had a heart attack when he saw Otabek the monday morning
after: the already yellowing bruises on his jaw concealed, but his lip still
split bloody, too swollen to wear the rings at the side. JJ had even tried to
corner Otabek in the lockers that day, only to end up shoved against the wall
with a bicep pressed against his throat. It was meant to be a warning but
Otabek couldn’t find his own voice, glaring and hissing like a rabid dog as his
chest started to ache.
He’d tell himself for days it was only the exhaustion of practice catching up
to him, not the memory of a hard grip on his hair, a fist closing around his
neck, reflected on JJ’s light blue stare. He’d tell himself it was nothing: a
fucked up night as many others he’s had, and the lump in his throat would only
grow bigger as he realizes he’s not even lying to himself.
One as many other. One more night getting home used up and beaten down, his
mouth reeking of blood and cum and words too hard to swallow. One more morning
of heavy makeup to try and look less like a stray dog, its body splattered in
scars; to try and look less like himself.
It was much easier, at least. Until he feels the piercing blue stare drilling
at his back, following his every move. It’s been like this since the early
morning, as if JJ had something to say but didn’t dare say it. Which wouldn’t
be so unthinkable since the last time he tried to speak to him, Otabek had
managed to kick his legs off balance and strangle him, only to leave without
muttering a word. Still, Otabek’s patience runs thin, and gives its place to
annoyance; he loses his cool while in the middles of a jump, rotating just a
bit too much. He lands hardly on his side, right onto a too fresh wound from
last night he isn’t willing to confess to his coach. A sharp sting rushes from
his hipbones to his knee and he’s not even in real pain; he’s had worse, but
he’s pissed, and sick of it all, and  JJ won’t stop staring.  Otabek tries to
lift himself up and his leg gives in, sending a jolt through his leg bad enough
to pull a loud  fuck  out of him. He scoffs, and clenches his teeth, very much
aware of everyone following his moves on the ice, slower this time, clicking
his guards in place as he gets to the side. He buries the pain away from his
face and hurries his way to the lockers, purposely colliding against JJ’s
shoulder in his way. It’s a sign as clear as any, and the only thing Otabek
could think of besides screaming at his face in the middle of the rink.
Otabek doesn’t really check if he’s actually being followed: he’s given the guy
his chance, now it’s up to him to take it or not. He winces as he yanks his
skates off his sore feet, ripping off the socks in the way,  damp with sweat
and blood from practice. The coolness of the floor soothes the fire in his
soles as he stand in front of the mirror, his shirt a black knot on his fist
and a rainbow splattered onto his chest. The fresh red over his collarbones,
bright purple and blue still forming on his hips; sickly yellows and greens
over his ribs, his stomach, where the marks have started to fade but the pain
somehow lingers on. It’s like a canvas, painted with the colors of despair; the
story of every fall and every insult thrown at him still printed on his skin.
And a figure looming over his shoulder, bright blue eyes wide in horror. It
must be the first time Otabek sees JJ’s face completely out of his stage
persona: scared and about to run away.
“Oh my-” JJ starts and it’s not enough for Otabek to feel sorry for him: the
bruises on his torso starting to scorch as if JJ’s gaze could light the scars
on fire again.
“What the fuck is your problem?” Otabek snaps, looking at JJ through the
mirror; he’s had enough of this silent chase game JJ’s been playing with him.
“Mine? What’s  yours ? Who did this to you?” JJ’s outraged; he takes a step
forward to reach out but his hands stop midway. Otabek remembers the bite marks
on his lower back, the kicks at his ribs: he can only imagine what his back
must look like by the way JJ’s eyes suddenly glimmer with unshed tears. “Who
would do something like-”
“You think I asked for their names?” Otabek scoffs, his smirk more painful than
amused. “You probably would, since you get along with them so well…”
“I would never!” JJ grabs him by his shoulders and Otabek yanks himself off his
grip, flinching as if JJ’s touch would brand him, as the other did. It’s then
when JJ realizes what he meant. “They threatened me too! You kissed me and they
came after me! You left me with them, you threw me to the wolves, man!” He
defends himself, trying to sound offended.
“More like really loud poodles.” Otabek chuckles and there’s something dark in
his tone. “They weren’t gonna touch you. You’re one of  them,  after all.” He
dismisses JJ’s attempt to reply as he goes on. “You’ve never even been looked
at wrong.” He turns with a bitter smile dancing on his lips; the words hissed
through his clenched teeth. “Fuck, you don’t even know what you did wrong, do
you?”
Otabek shakes his head and starts to walk away, back to his discarded bag, when
JJ pushes him back against the lockers, the cold edges digging into his flesh.
“Shit, sorry!” JJ pulls back as Otabek glares at him, the slight trace of pain
still lingering in the twitch of his mouth. “Look, I understand you’re hurt,
okay? I panicked! You would too if you-” Otabek rolls his eyes and JJ stops
himself mid-sentence. “Fine, maybe  you  wouldn’t, okay? But they took me by
surprise.” JJ sighs and lets his shoulders slump down, defeated. “Look, I’m
really trying here, alright? I know I’ve said it before but let me make it up
to you. This time in a place where I can’t fuck it up.” Otabek only raises a
brow at him, arms tightly crossed over his chest. It’s enough to make JJ
continue; it never takes much effort to make him talk, after all. “I’ve got an
appointment on Friday after practice. I’m getting inked again! And Isabella’s
afraid of needles, so… I mean, you have a lot of metal in you; I assume you
won’t get creeped out easily, will you?” JJ laughs and Otabek shrink into
himself, scowling. They haven’t spoken in weeks and he really expects to be
forgiven just like that, to suddenly become best friends and go everywhere
together just because JJ saw a bruise or two? “I’ll pay for whatever you want,
no matter how big. The guy’s good, I tell you!”
Otabek lifts himself off the locker and walks up to his bag to finish changing
his clothes while JJ keeps on whining at his back on how he doesn’t wanna get a
tattoo on his own. Otabek can shower at his own place; right now he needs to
get the hell away. And to take the long way home tonight.
He’s lacing up his boots when he feels the hand on his shoulder, the plea on
his ears. “Come on, man! Say something!”
“Get the fuck off my face,” Otabek mutters slowly, crushing JJ’s hand in his,
“or I’ll kick that shit eating look off your face.”
That JJ gets right away: he yanks his hand away from Otabek’s death grip and
scowls. He opens his mouth to say something but decides against it, waking out
instead with his head up. Almost as if nothing had happened, if it weren’t for
the way he keep on rubbing his hands together.
Otabek will really need that ride. And a fucking smoke.
Vancouver seems to be filled with homophobic shits, and loud blabber mouthed
idiots. Or at least, the places Otabek walks in seem to be. To be fair, same
thing happened during his stay in the States. He sighs and breaths in the salty
ocean breeze, the cold piercing even through his leather jacket. It lulls his
mind out of it all. There’s something unashamedly vast and deep in the ocean,
something that seems to call out to him; as if the waters could wash away the
corrosion, no matter how old, no matter how rooted. The sea could sing
lullabies to his nightmares, could roar louder than the voices in his head.
Vancouver knows how to be magical. Too bad he has no one to share the magic
with.
The phone feels heavy in his pocket; he wonders how many blows he can take
before hitting back, how much he can forgive.
How much he actually forgives instead of burying the resentment deep in him as
he types a quick text.
Friday after practice. Do not cling to me.
He doesn’t quite know what could sink him first low enough for him to never
reach the surface again: if the too many second chances or the loneliness.
He hopes the ocean knows how to wash off doubt as well.
***** Chapter 7 *****
The whole week has been fairly quiet; JJ, although still sending one or two
furtive looks his way, had managed to stay off Otabek’s back even with their
afternoon plans still standing.
They haven’t even talked about it, not properly; Otabek knows they should but
it’s a conversation he’s dreading to have. JJ not yet quite understanding why
Otabek kissed him must be the only reason he hasn’t told the world about it.
JJ still grins at Otabek when their eyes meet, trying to get a sort of response
out of him.
It doesn’t quite work.
Specially when fatigue takes the best of him, pulling Otabek off the ice after
a sharp pain suddenly crawled up his leg out of nowhere. The medic says there’s
nothing torn, only exhaustion, yet to Otabek it still feels like a slap to the
face. He’s ready to protests when the medic’s hands fall hard on his shoulders,
pinning him to the bench.
“Why don’t you take the rest of the day off, and maybe go see me first time on
Monday at my office?” she says, and it doesn’t sound at al like an invitation.
He even tries to stand up as a token of respect when she walks away from him
but a new fresh wave of fire on his sore muscles keeps him nailed in place,
scowling at his limb not wanting to cooperate with him. The medic turns at him
once more to flash this little cheeky ‘I told you so’ smirk and walk out the
door without just as fast.
He still tries to go through his daily stretching routine to ease the aching
when he feels the weight of someone plopping down on the bench he’s sitting on.
Otabek can tell who it is without even turning to see the guy watching the ice
intensely.
“Tough day, huh?” JJ sighs besides him, as if he was the one forced to stay off
the ice. “What did she say?”
“Nothing torn or broken.” Otabek gives in quickly; he’s almost forgotten what
it’s like to have people who care around him. Which isn’t exactly JJ’s forte,
but he did ask nicely this time.
“Well, that’s not too bad!” JJ grins and Otabek just grunts, his face almost
touching his thigh. “Take it as a well deserved vacation,. You’ll be much more
precise when you come back around!”
“Mh.” He mutters while lifting himself up again. This is a vacation he wasn’t
willing to take; this is fucking time-out. A pause on his training he wasn’t
counting on. He needs every hour on the ice he can get; he’s still barely a
match for JJ’s skating, much less for other much more experienced skaters.
Nikiforov wouldn’t even bother to look at him to laugh at his current skills.
He needs to get better and he won’t be by sitting on his ass at home all
weekend, and who knows how much longer.
“So, um, we’re still up for today? Think you can make it?” JJ’s usual in-your-
face tone softens down to a concerned whisper. “I mean, I can always
reschedule-”
“Don’t.” Otabek cuts him short.  Can’t you just go with someone else?  He still
doesn’t get why the hell is JJ so interested in him. Is he really that
determined for them to become friends? Or was it only his first excuse and now
he’s just trying to fight off the guilt? Either way, JJ isn’t gonna stop until
he gets what he wants, and quite frankly, Otabek’s pretty curious about the get
together. “Don’t cancel; I can make it.” He stands up slowly, leaning on his
less mistreated leg for support, hiding the wince of pain on his face as best
he can and swallows hard to keep his voice from quivering. “I’m going home.” He
can see on JJ’s expression his limping must be quite evident, no matter how
hard he tries to hide it. “Text me and I’ll see you there.”
Otabek can feel everyone’s eyes on him as he takes his bag and walks out the
door; the chill breeze numbing him enough to hop onto his bike and forget about
the medic for a second. He’s got hours by himself until JJ finishes his
training. Part of him wants to believe the idiot's intentions are true, to
forgive him; part of him wants to check if he’s as tough as he likes to
pretend. Otabek couldn’t really decline the invitation: it’s gonna be an
interesting afternoon, no matter what.
He just needs a shower before it all. And maybe a bit of a getaway. He hasn’t
really have the time to see the city, after all.
 
Otabek shows up exactly fifteen minutes after he gets the text with the
address, yet JJ looks like he’s taken years to make it. The artist is still
setting up the table and JJ’s grin seems to quiver when he looks at Otabek
coming through the door.
“Man, I was waiting for you!” he gets up to hug Otabek and the boy flinches,
taking a step back a bit too quickly; he hisses and JJ puts his arms down,
settling for his signature move. “Let’s make this happen!”
Otabek huffs and takes a seat, wincing at every step. The vibration of the bike
in between his legs all afternoon has helped him forget about the soreness on
his leg, but now it’s come back with a vengeance. He feels forty years older
all of the sudden, not bothering to hide how his tongue brushes through his
lips, searching for the usual taste of blood always lingering at some cut here
or there.
The artist chuckles at the sight of a leather clad teen muttering to himself
like a grumpy old man. “Well, we’re all set. Show me your back and let’s put
the stencil on, okay?”
JJ sits on the designed chair, stomach against the back of it, and Otabek can’t
help by raise a brow as the artist rolls the shirt up. Is he gonna get his back
tattoed? That can take an awful lot of time and a patience he’s sure JJ does
not  have.
Oh. Wait. The stencil is not covering his full back, not quite. Otabek lowers
his head to hide the smirk in his lips but the snort of a repressed laughter is
still too loud for JJ not to focus on him.
“What?” The guy widens his eyes in panic and Otabek bites his lip not to grin.
“Is it bad? Tell me if it’s bad, man.”
“No, it’s…” It’s what? It’s not like Otabek can quite see what the guy’s doing
since he’s directly facing at JJ and he can’t possibly see his back. Yet he
guesses where the ink’s gonna be by the artist’s hands on JJ’s back. He
snickers to himself before answering. “I can’t see anything from here.”
The artist steps away from JJ’s back with a smile, offering a hand for the boy
to stand up in front of the full body mirror at the opposite wall. JJ turns to
stare at his lower back, the design printed right in between his dimples.
Otabek can’t quite stop himself from commenting on it; the whole idea seems
just ridiculous. “You’re gonna tattoo your own initials?”
“Well, yeah! Isn’t it cool?” JJ pivots to look at him, already setting up his
hand in that irritating gesture of his. “‘Cause that's J-”
“Are you afraid to forget your own name?”
JJ’s grin falters for a bit after such a question asked in such an empty
monotone. “Well, no… I mean,” he stutters, “It’s a name brand, man!” He finally
blurts out, pretty satisfied with his answer, and it kinda makes my ass pop out
better, don’t you think?”
Otabek runs a hand through his hair to mask his exasperation. This guy is truly
something: is he actually trying to flirt? In the most awkward way possible,
even. “You were bitching about some guy checking you out at the club. Now
you’re asking me to  stare at your ass. ” He states as a matter of fact and JJ
laugh as as he settles back into the chair.
“But this is you, not some guy! You wouldn’t hit on me!” He replies, and the
artists scolds him for moving.
The guy’s gonna have a hard day today for sure.
Otabek stands up slowly, feeling like an old clockwork figure, chirring and
buzzing at the hinges. His eyes immediately fall on the wall that was just
behind him, on the painting covering it whole. An explosion of reds and oranges
and sepias flowing like an ocean of long strides, a landscape worthy to be in
an art gallery, breathtaking. Only interrupted by a black presence at the far
right corner, a Harley Davidson seventy two if Otabek knew his way around
motorcycles, trailed by tire marks on the sand, golden letters flashing bright
against black.
He’s too stunned by the art on the wall, mouth agape and surely looking like a
damn idiot, to notice the words slurring out of his mouth. Even a little too
loud for his own habit. “I’ll be the first to admit my standards aren’t really
high, and yet I still wouldn't fuck you even if you were the last person on
Earth.”
He hears a choked chuckle at his back and turns a bit too fast; his leg buckles
under his weight as he stand as still as he can, waiting for the pain to fade.
He remembers the medic’s smirk and bile crawls up his throat, threatening to
lash out. Fuck the medic, fuck the diagnosis, fuck his fucking weak leg.
“Well,” JJ starts, a hand pressed flat on the middle of his back to stop him
from squirming when the needle digs in, “first of all, rude. And secondly, I’m
sure a thing like this could change some people’s minds, don’t you?” JJ winks
at him and Otabek scoffs. Fucking ridiculous.
“The thing is, Leroy,” he pauses for effect, “a nice ass won’t compensate for
all the shit that comes out of your mouth.”
He waits for the guy to insult him back, to lash out, but the artist reacts
faster: he pulls away and stops the machine to cackle at the comment, echoing
all across the room. JJ just follows a second after. “Wait, were you watching??
That’s so gay, dude.” He jokes and Otabek pouts without even noticing. “Hold
on. Were you really-?”
“I wasn’t checking you out, you self-centered dick.” There’s a smugness to JJ’s
words that just pisses Otabek off to no avail. The idea that anyone would want
to be around him, especially someone like Otabek, who has been through what
they’ve been through together… And the guy is not an idol. He’s not a role
model. He’s not a fucking hero, no matter how much Otabek tried to find shelter
in him. The guy is a dick and an idiot and Otabek just take his head out of the
fucking hole it’s buried in and see it for himself, too. He’s just longing for
something this moron can’t give him.
He shoves his hands in his pockets, fidgeting against the fabric and around the
cigarette box he knows he shouldn’t have bought. “You’re…” He tries to find
words not too flattering, not too nice, or else he’ll never hear the end of it.
But then again, how could he? “You’re one of the best,  I have to  look at
you.”
“Okay, okay,” JJ smiles that paparazzi grin he does for his fans and gets
shoved against the back of the seat again. The artist is starting to lose his
cool at this point for all the shifting and the hissing through teeth. “It’s
just that it really sounded like I should clarify that I don’t swing  that way
, that’s all.”
Otabek senses a whiff of what could have been disgust, or even fear, on JJ’s
tone. He snaps back, irritated. Being queer doesn’t make him a fucking
predator. “You know, not because I like men I have to want to fuck every single
one.  Especially not you .”
“Wow, wait, I didn’t mean to-” JJ starts and his mouth snaps shut with a hiss
as the artist begins to fill up the figures. “Damn, this better look good.”
Otabek smirks, watching JJ close his eyes shut and bite the inside of his cheek
not to scream every time the artist presses a bit harder on his skin. It takes
a while for him to speak again, in between the noise and the pain of the
needle. It takes a while for the words to sink in. “Wait, you  do  like guys?”
JJ sounds like he’s just discovered the fucking meaning of life. Isabella
worked it out in a second, why hasn’t he?
Or better yet, how come she hasn’t told him anything? They’re constantly all
over each other; she must have had a lot of chances to do so.
Maybe she actually meant it when she said it was a secret only for both of them
to know.
Still…”You’re pretty dense, aren’t you?” Otabek quirks a brow at him, and JJ
scoffs. He would cross his arms if he could, pouting like a little child.
“I thought you were bullshitting me! Like at the bar, I thought-” He stopped
dead in his tracks, eyes wide. He finally understood, didn’t he? It took him
long enough.
“To be fair, I  was  taunting the dirtbags at the bar.” Otabek twist his mouth
in disgust at the memory of the bastards calling him names, laughing.
They were the more inoffensive ones of the night, after all.
“Was…  that  really necessary?”
“What was?”
JJ opens his mouth to speak and closes it again. He looks troubled, almost
offended. Close to throwing a tantrum, in Otabek’s eyes. And he knows exactly
the reason why. “You kissed me, man! Like, I understand you were pissed and
trying to prove a point and all, but you just had to  shove your tongue inside
my mouth?”
At this point the artist’s done with his work, and full on laughing, bent over
himself and hands clutching his stomach. He lifts his gaze and it falls on the
fiery glare of Otabek; he swallows hard, and goes back to fetch the cleaning
solution.
“They had to buy it.” Otabek says to the air, absentmindedly. “Trust me, it’s
not happening again.”
JJ walks up to the mirror to see the tattoo freshly finished, his skin stained
with black and slightly reddened; he sways his hips slowly to check out every
angle. “Are you sure? I mean, I can’t really blame you.”
“Not in your wildest dreams, Leroy.”
The idiot just laughs as the artist covers his back while explaining the care
routine he’ll have to follow.
 
“Well?” The tattoo artist towers over where Otabek’s sitting in the couch,
zoning out of the boring lecture he was giving JJ; his hair flowing in big
waves out of a messy bun at the back of his head, and a smile more visible deep
within his brown stare than on the thin line of his mouth. “What are you
having?”
You’re really close  is the first thing that pops in Otabek’s mind. He
dismisses it, trying to hide his discomfort. JJ just unveiled a really
important part of his life and this guy, whoever he is, seems pretty interested
by the way he looks at Otabek. He could put up a bit of a show, just to see how
sick can JJ be of the situation.
“I’m not too keen on ink.” He doesn’t break eye contact with the artist for a
second until the guy yields, moving away to make him follow to the display case
on a corner of the parlor.
Otabek doesn't hesitate; he’s made up his mind when the tattoo was being done.
“I want that one.” He point at one particular piece of jewelry.
“Are you sure? That’s mostly for-”
“Yes.” Otabek cuts the guy short. “I am.”
The guy lowers his gaze with a smirk on his lips; Otabek could almost se he was
licking his lips in the way. “As you wish.” He  says, setting up a chair right
under the lamp. “Have a seat.”
Otabek can see JJ positively squirming on the couch, uncomfortable. He must be
trying to figure what exactly they’re about to do, and Otabek’s not willing to
let it out until it happens. The impressive looking, quite large needle shows
up and JJ loses all color in his face.
Otabek would laugh if it wasn’t for the guy suddenly reaching out and brushing
a finger across the bottom of his chin, bringing him closer. “So? How many so
far?”
He hears a comment from JJ (‘like seventy!’) and rolls his eyes. “Six.” His
voice is firm, his gaze more so. The artist doesn’t flinch either.
“Okay, so you know what we’re getting into. Let’s make the seventh. Now,” the
artist grabs Otabek’s chin to rub a thumb over the scars at the side of his
lip. In a manner Otabek’s certain can  not  be professional. “What did you do
to yourself?”
If only you knew.  Otabek’s lips twist upward so slightly the artist wouldn’t
have noticed if it wasn’t because it was happening right underneath his hand.
“I got bored.”
Not even himself can buy that crap. Yet what else could he say? ‘A guy punched
me after I spat his own cum at his face’? Cute imagery, isn’t it? And a nice
tale for JJ to shout around the entire fucking rink. He still feels the
twitching of the swelling, like a ghost touch, struggling to find room in
between the metal rings. The steel impregnated with the taste of so many fluids
Otabek could have sworn he could even feel the atrocious dampness of the
bathroom floor on his mouth. He was sick of them. Blood kept flooding his mouth
that damned morning, making him vomit his guts out along with whatever else
he’s dared to swallow that night. He might have tried to screw them off
patiently, despite the pain to no avail. The opening was embedded deep into the
mistreated flesh, too hidden for him to reach.
He might have cut them open and yanked them off.
He couldn’t think of any other option.
“Alright, after all of this, promise you’ll keep these two,” the artist presses
his thumb right against the scar; it doesn’t hurt anymore, but the intimate
touch of it, the lingering taste of latex at the corner of his mouth, makes him
shiver. “Just as clean as the new one, got it?”
Otabek just nods. The guy lets him go to take the marker on the table, and he
pulls out his tongue, staring right at the artist’s eye.
He just chuckles and makes the marks. Otabek can’t see JJ from where he’s
sitting, but he can hear him clearly. And the idiot sounds like he’s in a
horror movie.
He must have got it by now.
Mostly judging for the high pitch squeal he lets out when he sees the tweezer
on the artist’s hand. Otabek pulls out his tongue flat in between the tool, and
the artist chuckles. “You’re making my job hard here, boy.”
Otabek only quirks a brow as a reply. He hears the dread on JJ’s voice, and the
stinging of the needle right under his tongue. It all happens in a flash: just
a tiny push and the needle appears at the other side, almost completely
painless.
It does looks fucked up, though. He can feel the metal held right in the middle
of his lips as the artists takes the jewelry and sets it in place. He doesn’t
even know why he closes his eyes at the contact, but there's’ something
alluring on the guy’s fingers around his mouth, the steel ball hitting on his
palate and clinking against his teeth. This is fun. This is not half bad.
He might even keep it.
“... okay? Only soft foods for around a week. And do you smoke?”
“Yes.” He opens his eyes slowly to be reminded that JJ is  right there.  By his
disapproving “you smoke??!” screeched in the background. He doesn’t give too
much of a shit about him right now; he’s loving to have a piece of metal toying
around in his tongue and he wants to try it out.
“Well, try not to, okay?” The artist smiles, this time fully, and Otabek’s lips
twitch upwards again. It’s hardly a smile, but the guy notices it anyways.
“Keep some non alcoholic mouthwash close to you at all times, just in case. And
one more thing. Can I kiss you?”
“Yes.” He responds automatically, and the guy doesn’t miss a beat: his lips
fall soft on Otabek’s, not lustful, not demanding. Just… nice. That doesn’t
happen often.
“Also,” he adds, starting to clean his work table, “try to keep anything
involving your tongue to a minimum. I can already see you don’t talk much,
anyways.” He turns to him to offer a hand Otabek doesn’t take, and a notepad.
Otabek’s not given the chance to ask. “May I have your number?”
“Didn’t you just-?”
“I’ll call in a week. Just to check.” The guy grins at him and Otabek stares.
He doesn’t look half bad, really.
Otabek scribbles the number quickly and gives the pad back, walking to where JJ
is still slouching, pale as a ghost and sweating.
That’s quite a sight. Exactly the thing he came in for. Otabek can’t stop the
smug look for reaching his face. Fuck it, it was fun, after all.
 
They’re out of the parlor and in JJ’s car in no time, and Otabek’s determined
to speak as little as possible. Even when sitting on the passenger’s seat, a
bit too close to ignore the driver.
He can say he’s offended for JJ’s past actions, but the truth is he can feel
his tongue swelling and struggling to follow his commands. Luckily, the sole
sound of metal clashing against his teeth makes JJ so nervous his voice grows
an octave higher.
“I can believe you actually smoke, man, you’re an athlete!” Clink. JJ shudders.
“Your performance can be fucked up by it, y’know?” Clink. “Could you stop doing
that? It’s fucking creepy.”
Red light. Green light. Clink.
“Why do you even smoke? You know it’s bad for you, right?” Otabek looks at JJ
through the rear view mirror, waiting for him to turn his eyes to the
reflection, and shrugs. “What’s so great about it?” Otabek whips out his phone.
He could just text him. Then again, what can he say?
It’s the one thing besides music that reminds me of home?
It soothes my nerves after a too busy night?
Anything would just give too many details Otabek doesn’t want JJ to know. At
least, not now. He thinks it better, and throws the little box to the
compartment in between both seats. The least the guy can do is check for
himself.
Red light. JJ barely glances at the box. “Aren’t those kinda girly? I mean,
that’s why they make it thin, right?” Otabek rolls his eyes and flicks his
fingers against the box. “Fine, I’ll check them.”
JJ takes the cigarettes in his hand and examines them through: small box, white
and pink, somehow sweet over the smell of tobacco.  
“Kiss Romantic? That sounds like the most Barbie Girl brand in existence. Is
this your thing?” Otabek scoffs and JJ grins. Damn it, this is not the way he’s
expected this to go down.
He has no idea what else he could’ve expected.
“These are even pink! Like, shit man, the gayest smoke ever.” Otabek straight
up kicks the guy’s legs as the car starts moving again and a thunder of car
honks and swear words in various languages. This side of the city could be so
intercultural sometimes. “What the fuck, man? Relax!” JJ laughs and opens the
box to sniff at it. He throws it back to Otabek’s lap in a second.
“Okay, I get it. That smells like dessert and I don’t really get the magic of
it, but I can see why you like it, I guess.” He shrugs. “ at least your breath
doesn’t smell like ass after one of those, huh?” Otabek snorts and types out a
text, displaying his phone for JJ to read. He’s not risking it to talk like a
fucking idiot in front of… well, such a fucking idiot.
“It can also cover a good number of things on my breath.  What does that…” JJ
starts, turning quickly to look at the road again, when it hits him. He goes
from a snort to a chuckle to a loud cackle, gripping the wheel tightly in order
not to send them both off the road.”you cannot possibly-” He turns to Otabek
who just stares through the window, trying to cover the grin with the hand he’s
resting his head on. “OH MY GOD YOU DO. What a kinky fucker your turned out to
be, man.” He chuckles again, trying to catch his breath. He whistles long. “I
could’ve have never guessed…”
They stop at a red light and suddenly JJ turns to him, eyes wide. “Hold on, Did
you-?” He doesn’t get to finish the question, in between the astonishment
Otabek can’t quite understand and the car horns behind them, telling them the
green light is back up. He accelerates and doesn’t take his eyes from the road,
muttering something through his teeth. Otabek doesn’t find a way to ask what
the fuck was that so he goes for the first thing that pops up to his head: he
kicks JJ’s arm to make him look at Otabek. “I said, is that why you’ve done it?
Kinky shit?” He huffs, smirking as he looks back up front. “Are you some kind
of freak?”
Otabek says nothing, waiting for an explanation even though he knows exactly
what JJ means. He just enjoys looking at the guy, usually so sure and full of
himself, squirming on his seat for something so little as a bit of metal jabbed
into a bit of flesh.“For fuck’s sake, you just punched a hole through your
tongue! What’s the point?”
Otabek tilts his head, smirks.
“ You really wanna know what I’ll do with this?  Ok, man, that’s…” JJ snorts,
“that’s really fucking kinky. How could I not know that? You’re full of
surprises, man..” He full on laughs and Otabek shrugs, unable to stop the smile
on his lips.  If you only knew.
“I don’t even know how that works, like… I don’t think I’ve ever kissed anyone
with a thing like  that .” JJ speaks to the air, watching the road intensely,
and Otabek smirks to himself.
He knows JJ’s driving; he shouldn’t. He’s done so many things he shouldn’t
though. He’s just put a piece of steel through his tongue just to scare the
guy, for fuck’s sake; he could at least enjoy it.
He taps on JJ’s shoulder softly enough for it not to feel like an emergency.
Red light. JJ turns to him. He lets out his tongue slowly, swollen thick and a
little splash of red sitting in between the flesh and the metal that pulls back
when the backside gets stuck against his teeth, as if it was about to be ripped
off. JJ literally gags and his eyes go desperately back to the road.
“What the fuck, man?!”
Oh, this is gonna be fun.
***** Chapter 8 *****
Otabek takes a deep breath as he kicks off his shoes to put on his skates after
such a long time. He’s missed the cool atmosphere of the rink; it fills his
lungs as if nothing would have this past week. He feels alive again.
One week. One damn week he’s been out and he can finally come home.
He’s scoffed and whined (because that was what he did no matter how much he
wants to convince himself it was a polite discussion) at the medic when she
said it.  Take the whole week off  and it felt like a challenge more than a
command; if only his body could respond to his will of fighting his place in
the rink.
It wasn’t that terrible, really: he’s had some time to know the city better. To
stay full nights on his bike under the stars, parked right by the shore. To
work on his music. To call his family, his friends.
He’s delayed the latter for a few days, though. He didn’t dare call his sister
until his tongue was fully healed and he didn’t sound like a slobbering toddler
anymore. She’d never let him live it down.
To be honest, he couldn’t quite guess how she was gonna react: it could be just
a joke or two, it could not. She’d never really judge his taste for piercings,
but Otabek knows she’s not very fond of the idea of needles punching through
his body, as harmless as they might be.
He hasn’t even told her yet. He didn’t really tell anyone. Dasha just figured
it out on her own one night.
How the hell could someone notice it so quickly is still beyond him. And by the
noise, no less. Through a shitty laptop microphone. Who the fuck recognizes the
clink of metal against teeth through a lagged Skype call?
Although, by the places she’s used to hang around in, it’s not really much of a
surprise; most of the crowd are like human canvases, inked and pierced and
modified beyond recognition. It makes Dasha’s photo albums pretty damn
interesting.
They must be quite something themselves, too; he can’t help but feeling curious
about how all that steel could feel against his skin, the little metal ball
toying around the insides of his mouth. He’s learnt a trick or two himself
already, with the help of not-as-dull-as-he-thought Cedric, the tattoo artist.
Who had actually called to check on him, and Otabek still refused to give him
his name.
In fact, he only answered the call because he had too much free time on his
hands, and he’s never been good at fighting his curious instinct. He can’t just
stay still; if he does, his mind starts wandering, remembering. He can’t allow
himself that.
Luckily, he’s finally back on the ice, and it embraces him like a mother
missing her child. Sliding softly underneath his blade, softening every
landing. He settles for doing only doubles today, just in case, even when his
mind keeps repeating at him he’s in good enough condition to do so much more.
Even when he’s not supposed to do jumps  at all  today.
There’s something that’s changed in the rink, somehow, People are staring too
much, even whispering behind his back. That’s a new one.
Something must have happened while he was away.
Some gossip must have happened, more like.
He skates out of the rink at the call of his coach ( I told you very clearly to
keep it light, Altin!)  to take a break, dropping onto the bench, water bottle
in hand.
“Told you you’d come back better than before!” JJ yells to him, leaned on the
sides of the rink. “You didn’t miss one step!”
“I had to tone it down, Leroy, of course I didn’t.” Otabek doesn’t even look at
him to answer. If he actually fell on the ice today, his coach might just force
him to stay off for another week. He’s not risking it.
“ Still, ” JJ steps off to sit next to him, “you’re improving. Gaining
confidence. It shows.”
Otabek fidgets in his seat, fingers drumming against the bottle; He’s never
learnt how to answer to flattery. International competitions and cameras have
never taken the social awkwardness out of him; he’s used to…  Stronger  words
thrown at him, after all. “Thanks…” He hesitates, staring at his feet, and JJ
chuckles.
“Are you shying out, really?” He snickers, bending on himself to look at Otabek
pouting, huffing like a child. He speaks softer, as if he was talking about a
secret only meant for both of them. “You shoved a metal spike through your
tongue without even blinking and you get all flustered for a little
recognition? You’re truly something, aren’t you?”
Otabek doesn’t answer, lifting his gaze up to the rink. He’s been out for too
long and he still has to wait to call him back in: he feels like in time out.
And with JJ.
He’s really winning at life, isn’t he?
“So, you still have it?” JJ’s voice trembles at the question. Who would have
thought the great JJ Leroy would lose his cool so easily by the image of a
thick needle piercing straight to the flesh? Otabek makes his piercing click
against his teeth and JJ flinches. “Holy fuck, it’s still there. I thought
you’d have regretted it ‘cause, y’know, the ice or… I don’t know, the smokes or
something.”
It almost sounds like a wish Otabek isn’t feeling like coming true. He snorts
trying to repress his laughter. “You think I did it just for you?”
“Well… Didn’t you?”
He’s not quite wrong, not really. Otabek had wanted to get his tongue pierced
for a long time but didn’t dare. The idea of playing tough in front of such a
annoying guy like JJ pulled him through it. That doesn’t mean he’s admitting
that to him, though. Not with those words.
Not with words, if he can help it. The coach scolds at Emma, correcting some
detail on her step sequence while the rest of his mates warming up drawing
circles and eights around the rink, too distracted talking to each to look his
way. He pulls his tongue out slowly,curving it at the tip so the little metal
ball can rest right over the fold. JJ only stares at it, the backside poking
out, twitching as if it was a spike digging the hole wider. He lets out a
choked sound, white as a sheet but says nothing. Otabek pulls back before
anyone can see the piercing, smirking. It  can  be their little secret, after
all.
“Don’t do that, man.” JJ whimpers, almost begging and Otabek just chuckles.
“Don’t do what?”
JJ groans, about to complain, when the coach calls Otabek back from his break.
Finally.
He won’t be doing any jumps for today, just in case. He doesn’t know how many
times that trick will work.
The metal rests at the bottom of his mouth, a reassuring touch reminding him
the things he can pull off despite anything. He’s survived an afternoon alone
with JJ; they've even actually  talked.  Fuck, he’s kissed a man right in front
of him, despite everything JJ’s done.
Otabek’s not even annoyed anymore. It’s weird, he should; JJ has done enough to
hurt him, yet…
He’s forgiven him. The cool breeze rushes rapidly through his skin as he speeds
up and realizes: he’s an idiot, thick and all, but he doesn’t mean wrong. And
Otabek’s forgiven him.
He can be stronger than this, than all of it. Than the fear of competing
against world medalists, the need to get his mediocrity bitten off of him by
strangers. Than the memories of him beaten and humiliated, used to some
stranger’s will. He’s survived all that, he’s pulled through. He can do this.
He can get better, he’s getting better. He can defeat them, he can beat it all.
He can be worthy.
He can meet his Yuri where it counts: on the ice. He’ll be good enough to do
so. They’ll see.
The ice is a battlefield and he’s been on the trench for too long. It’s time to
fight. Time to prove his worth, his might.
The metal ball clicks against his palate and he smiles: there’s nothing he
can’t put behind him. Nothing he can’t battle his way through. He’s a survivor,
a warrior.
He’s good enough.
He’ll get there. For Yuri. For himself.
Please drop_by_the_archive_and_comment to let the author know if you enjoyed
their work!