Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/12162201.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Yuri!!!_on_Ice_(Anime)
  Relationship:
      Otabek_Altin/Jean-Jacques_Leroy, Jean-Jacques_Leroy/Yuri_Plisetsky,
      Otabek_Altin/Yuri_Plisetsky, Otabek_Altin/Jean-Jacques_Leroy/Yuri
      Plisetsky
  Character:
      Otabek_Altin, Jean-Jacques_Leroy, Yuri_Plisetsky, Christophe_Giacometti,
      Michele_Crispino, Celestino_Cialdini, Emil_Nekola
  Additional Tags:
      Otapliroy, Mafia_AU, mafia_otapliroy, its_my_first_mafia_au_please_be
      gentle, Jjbek, Pliroy, Major_character_death_-_Freeform, Stripper_Yuri,
      Drug_Use, bad_lap_dancing, Oral_Sex, Anal_Sex, Hand_Jobs, i_don't_know
      anything_about_guns_but_there_are_guns, Bathroom_Sex, Gun_Kink, otayuri_-
      Freeform
  Stats:
      Published: 2017-09-22 Words: 4904
****** love note ******
by Blownwish
Summary
     Mafia solder Jean-Jacques Leroy falls in love with the wrong
     stripper, and everything goes straight to hell. (Otapliroy mafia au)
Notes
     Thank you to Phayte for the beta and just basically holding my hand
     through the whole thing. You rock, lady!
     Warning!!! MAJOR CHARACTER DEATH!!
As far back as he could remember, he always wanted to be a gangster. He knew it
would cost more than blood -- more like his eternal soul, if he had one. The
way he looked at it? He wasn't using his soul much, and he was probably going
to hell, if there was one, anyway. And that was fine. Being in a crew meant
something special. It meant family. It meant security. It meant everything.
So why the fuck is one of his own, his own fucking partner, is pointing a .45
at him?
“Don't act surprised, Beks.” This isn't one of Jean's stupid jokes. He's not
laughing, he's not even smiling. No, he's giving Otabek the cold stare. “You
knew this would happen. So don't make this hard.”
Where's his zippo? All he can do is light a Marlboro. “I'm not the one pointing
the gun.” The red neon lights flashing behind Jean should read Big Bang, but
the first g is burnt out. They go on and off, on and off, like a turn signal.
Otabek smirks. “Glad you didn't lie and tell me Crispino sent you.”
“You know what? If that freak Crispino told me to kill you, I’d kill him and
his sister.” Jean isn't phased. “I don't wanna do this, man. You made me do
this and it's breaking…” He stops. He takes a deep breath, and for a second
Otabek can see his lip tremble. But Jean's a soldier. A soldier doesn't crack,
and those dead eyes never blink. “Fuck it man. Why? Why'd you do this to me?”
Otabek smiles. “The boy can't help it.” He's not sure who he's talking about,
but it applies, just the same.
A cigarette falls in a puddle between them. The neon lights flash on the wet
concrete as one gunshot fires. Two men go down. They're both soldiers. They
both know the score. There is no coming back from a love letter delivered
straight to the heart. One stares into the other one’s eyes as his blood pools
around them.
“I loved you.”
“I loved you, too.”
Then it's over. He's over. One kiss on the lips takes his dying breath. Otabek
gets to his feet as he turns up his collar. “À tout à l’heure, mon ami.” And he
still loves that fucking son of a bitch.
++
Jean had spent the entire day talking about this pretty little thing he'd just
met. “You ever seen blonde hair so fine that it's literally shiney?” He asked
right after he punched out the pudgy little bodega fuck who hadn't paid his
protection money. “And that sweet little mouth. Ever seen lips that remind you
of cherries with that red lip gloss?” He kept losing count of the money he'd
collected at the Coffee Etc., and Otabek was ready to snatch it out of the
idiot’s hands. “Oh, man! Oh, man! You oughta see those eyes, man! I don't know
if they're blue or green, but man! You could drown in those eyes!” He was
tapping to top of the Crown Vic as Otabek drove like a bat out of hell down the
highway. “Eyes that look right through you, okay?”
“This one gonna tell your wife, Jean?” Otabek was pissed. That bodega guy
shorted collections by two gs, and meaning Otabek was making up the shortage by
one.
But did Jean give any shits? Apparently not, because he was blowing smoke down
the high way, grinning ear to ear. “See, that's the beauty of it. My pretty
little kitty doesn't want a wedding ring. All kitty wants is the King.”
Oh, of course. That's what he always said. “Right.” Otabek snatched the
Marlboro out of his mouth. He needed a hit. When they got to the Bang he was
going to be needing more than that. Maybe one of those dirty little things
would come off the poles and insinuate themselves between his knees. A thousand
dollar short after spending all day collecting was not what he would call good
business. Fucking bodegas! Those assholes never paid up.
“Damn right.” Jean snatched his smoke back with a wink. “No one resists
Québécois anaconda. Am I wrong?” He probably winked again, but Otabek was too
busy keeping his eye on the road.
Big Bang wasn't exactly a bar, or specifically a strip club. No one sat on
those grimy stools expecting to pay for the drinks or stuff ones between
plastic tits. But everyone knew money had to be exchanged from one side of the
coppertop to the other, and the bills weren't singles. The entertainment
expected money, too. And they charged by the hour, wiseguy discounts
applicable.
Once they perched themselves up at the bar, nodding at Chris as he stood up and
straightened his Westwood suit jacket, Otabek tapped out a Red and kept the
zippo lit for Jean, who just leaned in and lit his own against Otabek's cherry.
“Paying the tab, boys?” Two shots of Johnny Walker Red appeared like mana from
heaven.
Otabek handed over the money while Jean threw his shit back. “Twelve Gs.”
Chris eyed Jean’s hand. Moron cut his knuckle on that gold tooth he knocked
out. “Aw, you boys run into a little trouble at the office? Don't tell me
you're short.”
“Not short.” Otabek ground his teeth. “Never short.” He wasn't some punk ass.
He paid his due.
This Swiss fuck loved tattling to Crispino about how his shit Kazakh and Canuck
soldiers were having trouble with accounts. Otabek was about to tell him Jean
got it fingering his diseased mother and that Chris needed to go finish the
job, when a beat stepped in. It was that throbbing, pulsing shit they played
when the entertainment changed up and something tasty rolled up on the stage.
Chris said, “Sounds like Jean’s little friend is coming on. Hope your new piece
of ass is better than the last one I hired.”
“Must not be much.” Otabek shrugged when Jean gave him that sour puss look.
“What? It's three in the afternoon. Look around. Place is empty.”
Jean wasn't phased. “Just watch.”
The stage was more like a landing strip, with a wide gauge brass pole ready to
catch whatever pretty thing came flying out, between the legs. Otabek wasn't
watching it because this was Jean's piece and Jean’s face was already lit up
like a kid during Christmas morning. The bitch must've put it on this idiot
good. Otabek only saw that look a couple of times, times that were better to
forget if he was gonna keep working with him.
Jean clutched Otabek's knee. Squeezed. ”Crisse!” Was this idiot blushing? “I
want you to see this, Beks. Look at my beautiful kitten!”
He wanted to find some nice pretty face to fuck. Find a nice bar or two and
snort them off a nice cut of ass. He wanted to forget he just lost money. And
most of all? He wanted to pretend he wasn't sick of Jean hopping from whore to
whore, like some lovesick asshole. Otabek did not want to sit there, with his
dick in his hands. He wasn't some fucking schoolboy at his first titty bar. If
he wasn't fucking it, he didn't wanna to look at it.
So why was he even looking at Jean? God, fuck! He didn't need to go there.
“Hey,” Jean’s hand went a little too high up Otabek's thigh, “you're not
looking.” And it's only going higher.
“How would you even know?”
Jean took a long, slow drag and blew smoke up at the ceiling. This piece of his
must be nice, real nice, because Jean couldn't take his eyes off the stage.
“Quit making moon eyes at me for once, and just - oh, baby!”
“God fuck, Leroy. You're the world’s biggest ass clow -- “ Otabek didn't
finish. He couldn't. He forgot words when he saw this angel, this beautiful,
golden angel in black booty shorts hanging upside down from the poll. His skin
was creamy, his body was tone, and his hair fanned out as he arched his back
and - oh, dear sweet Jesus - those eyes. This angel was staring right back at
him with the power and fury of heaven in those eyes.
“What'd I tell ya?” Jean was whispering in his ear. “Eyes that look right into
your soul.” Jean touched him. Right there, and squeezed again.
++
Otabek's not a made man. Being made is for full blooded Italians who can have
their families traced all the way back to the old country. No, Otabek's not
Italian, he just grew up in the neighborhood between St Ives and Cleeves Street
with all the other Italian kids. He had plenty of Italian ‘uncles,’ who paid
his mother’s rent after his father died. They were big, hairy men who came out
of his parents’ bedroom in wifebeaters, smelling like alcohol and sweat, who
peeled off ten dollar bills from fat bank rolls to ‘run and get some ice
cream,’ if he woke up in the wee, small hours of the morning. Ice cream turned
into cigarette money. Turned into beer money. Turned into phone numbers of
friends with jobs for the skinny little Kazakh kid. These were what he had
instead of a father. These were the men who raised him: Little Julie, Big
Paulie, Joey Two-Times, Frankie the Gimp.
“Your mother might not be what they call respectable,” he was told, “but she's
a lady. Never forget that.”
Otabek looked up to these men. He still looks up to them. There is something
about the old school, about finding a way to navigate through the shit show
called life with some dignity, that Otabek never forgot. He loads another clip
in Jean’s .45, kisses the barrel, and pushes it in his leather jacket as he
walks into the Bang, as if he didn't just kill his partner and best friend.
The place is packed with Cialdini soldiers, coked up, smoked up and high on the
tits and ass, served up by the pound. The Angel is here, somewhere, ready to
take down the big man, tonight. Otabek's still not sure what he's going to do
about it. But it looks like a few people’ve already decided what side he's on.
The Mich the Czech is already reaching inside his jacket.
Otabek lights his Red with the zippo Jean gave him when they joined Crispino’s
crew. It's gonna be a long night.
++
The champagne room smelled like a disease and nobody ever complained. At least
Otabek never did. He was sitting back, rubbing his half hard dick through his
slacks, as the Angel gave Jean a lap dance.
It was the worst lapdance Otabek ever saw. It was more like Jean was bouncing
this boy on his knee while he fondled his ass under the shorts. Something was
off. The boy could move out there, but he kept looking back at Otabek like he
was shy or something. “Come on, kitten? Don't be shy. Beks here is my best
friend.”
“I want another bump. Double isn’t enough for two. One thousand dollars.”
Otabek narrowed his eyes. The kid didn’t have an accent, but there was
something about the way he talked. Something clipped. Jean smacked his ass. “My
treat.” He tapped out a little coke on the side of his hand.
The Angel snorted and shook his head. “Fuck…” And there it was. He threw his
hair back and started grinding his hips. It was dirty, it was fucked up, and it
was amazing.
Jean smacked his ass, again. “Yeah, fuck!” Then he smiled back at Otabek.
“What'd I say? Beautiful, huh?”
Otabek tipped the Angels chin back and made him get a good look at the both of
them. “This crazy asshole thinks he's in love with you. Thinks he's in love and
he wants me to fuck you with him, just to show me why. Thoughts?”
This Angel laughed. “Fucking don't care.”
“You heard him,” said Jean, as Otabek watched little circles of little slide
over all that milky skin. “Fucking don't care.” He wanted to be one of those
circles. Especially the one sliding over the crack peeking out of those booty
shorts. Jean’s finger is already there.
It still felt off. “I think I'm gonna want a little more than some little
bump.”
What he got was a line off each creamy ass cheek while Angel blew Jean. The
world went white and he was hard as a rock, ready to ram himself deep into
Angel heaven as he stared at that tight little asshole. “How's that, Beks?”
Otabek rubbed the leftover into his gums. “Gimme your lube.” He caught it,
easy.
Jean turned Angel around. “Daddy's gonna get you ready for Mr Altin, kitten.”
Angel got on the sticky leather couch. Got on his hands and knees and showed
Jean his ass. “Mmmm!” Jean didn't think twice about eating him out. He just got
right in there, tongue up the ass. Angel pressed his cheek against the cushion
and gasped. He was staring right at Otabek.
And this time? This time Otabek could see something in his eyes. It wasn't
hard, no. It was soft. And when Jean started rubbing his hard little pink dick,
when this Angel reached out for Otabek, when Otabek took his hand, Otabek
unbuckled his belt and let this sweet little thing pull it off. “Aw, fuck…”
“Come here.” Jean grabbed his sleeve and shoved his tongue into Otabek's mouth,
just as this boy started sucking Otabek's dick. All he could taste was cherries
-- cherry lube. “Amazing, huh?”
It didn't matter if something didn't feel right. Otabek was all in.
++
Otabek didn't love whores. He fucked whores. He lovedthe life. He loved his
gun. He loved his partner. And, yeah. A couple of times he treated his partner
like a whore. But that was only because, sometimes, Jean acted like one.
“You stupid son of a bitch!” He was drunk that one time in the old roadhouse
toilet, during that out of town job. Drunk and pissed because Jean forgot to
check a bathroom when they busted into Santini’s house. That big Sicilian
bastard came charging at Jean with a machete, and Otabek lost his shit
unloading six bullets into that piece of shit. And he kept pulling the trigger
after he was out of bullets. Jesus fuck! Why did Jean have to be so stupid?
After half a bottle of cheap whiskey Jean started saying dumb shit about how he
needed to blow off some steam, right before he got up to take a leak. Otabek
followed him into the john and watched him piss into the urinal. All Otabek
could think about, was Jean nearly getting chopped to pieces that dego fuck.
Jean didn't get a chance to zip it up because Otabek slammed him, face first,
against the wall, yanked those stupid chinos down around his ankles and pulled
his shirt up so he could see that damn tramp stamp Jean got the weak before.
“Stupid, stupid son of a bitch!”
Otabek spat, and ground his cock between Jean's ass cheeks. Fuck if he knew
how, but he had his gun pulled and he was making Jean suck the barrel, too.
“You wanna die? You wanna fucking die? I'll kill you! I'll fucking do it right
here!” Jean just stared back with tears in his eyes. Whimpered when Otabek
reached around and jerked him off.
And fuck if Otabek knew why, but somehow he forgot the gun and just started
kissing him. It didn't matter how many times Jean muttered his stupid sorries,
against Otabek's mouth. “You can't be sorry enough for being so stupid!” Otabek
roared like an animal when he came all over that damn tattoo.
He didn't love whores. He didn't love anybody, not like he loved Jean. Jean...
How many nights did they roll down the road, lords of the highway, guns out,
dicks hard, blasting bullets at the sky? Two misfits in an Italian crew,
snorting coke off the dashboard as they jerked each other off. As they wrestled
on the concrete, laughing and tangling their legs up together, talking crazy
shit, like how they'd make their own crew one day. Do their own thing. And
they'd live like kings. Fuck like gods. And die like men, not like dogs in
tenements.
But Jean loved loved lots of people. Loved his wife. Loved his whores. And
sure, he said he loved Otabek. Jean was stupid that way.
++
Angel isn't his name, but that's what he should be called. Not baby, definitely
not kitten, no - Angel. Not just because he seems to have some way of shining
in the light, with that golden hair and smooth, milky skin. Not just because he
has a face like the ones Otabek's seen in those renaissance paintings in the
big boss’ house. Not just because Otabek half expects to see wings when he
throws his head back and arches his back when he's grinding on Otabek's lap.
No, it's because he's mysterious, supernatural. He's got secrets in those
changeable eyes. Otabek can almost see them when they get really big, right
before Otabek edges him off and stops jerking his pretty pink dick. He wonders
what sky this Angel fell from. Who's the god he answers to?
“Daddy likes it when you play nice, kitten.”
“Shut up, Jean.” Otabek grabs his face and shoves his tongue down his throat.
Otabek's high and he wants to fuck. Fuck them both. Fuck them all. But Jean's
got other ideas. He's pulling the boy up and turning him around. Jean's hands
grip his smooth as has he lowers him down on Otabek's dick.
It's so tight. He's so tight. And Jean's grinning from ear to ear as he scoops
up a little more coke with his pinkie. “Love you, kitten.” He snorts it. He
kisses Angel, and Otabek feels that tight body clench around his dick while
Jean tugs at his dick and Angel comes.
He sobs when he comes. He sobs and he reaches behind him. For Otabek's hand.
Jean is still kissing him. He never stopped kissing the Angel.
One snort later, the Angel is facing Otabek again, and Otabek can't stop
thrusting up into him as he stares into those blue green eyes. And he can see,
now. He can see everything. This isn't an angel. His isn't a whore. Whores know
how to pace it, they know how to moan more more more, when they get fucked out.
They don't need to be reminded, with a slap on the ass, to keep bumping and
grinding. They don't get needy and lean into a john’s shoulder, because they
don't show fatigue.
And they sure as fuck don't need their johns to lay them out on the sofa while
one finished off in his ass and the other turned his head and fed him dick. But
that is what’s going on.
Just a little more and he's going to pull Jean aside and tell him. Just a
little more of this sweet ass. It's tight, like the kind of ass Otabek used to
get when he fucked that fifteen year old in the boys locker room, back when he
played football for St Gregory's. Tight like Jean’s ass the one time Jean gave
it up for him, back in Pennsylvania. It's good, so good he has to ram it in as
deep as he can because he can't resist the soft little whimpers and the cute
little bounce of that pink dick that's already half hard and begging for a
mouth. Bet the boy never had head. Bet he'd done the second someone put his
mouth on it. Otabek smiles up at Jean. Beautiful, crazy Jean. He's smiling
right back down at them and he has no idea.
“Suck his dick, Jean. Suck it for me.”
He's a regular Johnny on the spot, slurping it into his mouth and humming. And
this kid? This fake whore? This fallen angel? His eyes are rolling in the back
of his head. Otabek reaches over and combes the hair out of his face. And he
smirks when that kid manages to look back at him. I know, Otabek mouths.
Man, that kid. He's something else. He doesn't look scared. He doesn't miss a
beat. He looks back at Otabek, and shows him what he really is. He has the eyes
of a soldier.
God, he's even more beautiful. Too bad he has to die.
++
Emil is an idiot. He's too hot to impress Mich and his sister, too tweaked on
ice to rely on instinct, and quick to flash his .38 at Otabek too soon.
Somehow, this crazy Czech bastard saw when went down in the alley. Maybe he was
passing by, maybe he looked out a magic window, maybe his head popped out of an
stray cat’s ass, for all Otabek knew.
Otabek takes a long drag off his Red and wonders who else knows, as the lights
pulse around him in that bump and grind beat. As suits and skin press against
him, against the hot guns in his jacket. As he feels Emil follow behind him,
itching to pass him a love note, as Otabek makes his way to the back room. To
the big man: Celestino.
Do they think he's going to kill Ciao Ciao? If they do, it's more than he
knows. He doesn't know who he belongs to, now that everything he loves is dead.
His father, his mother, the life, Jean. All he's got now is this question mark,
this crossroads, and a gun at his back when he touches the brass door knob.
“Whatchya doin,’ Altin?”
See, he has to smile, because no matter how much Emil talked, and he can talk a
lot, there's no way he was able to tell everyone in this room. And Otabek's no
short cash meth head. He's an earner. He never shorts his payments and he
always pays on time, because he doesn't have to hole himself up, downtown,
every night, shooting drain cleaner down his arm. So Otabek has lots of respect
in this shit hole, and Mich has a couple of guys he blows for favors. “Put your
dick back in your tracksuit and walk away.”
“You killed your partner. I saw it all. Yeah. And I know why. You want that
little blonde bitch for yourself. But it's too late!” Emil's breath stinks as
he hollers in Otabek's ear over the music. “Your little stray cat’s already
fucking the boss!”
Otabek remembers how Jean passed that little soldier between them when it was
all over, the both of them kissing his sweet, swollen lips, then stopping to
kiss Otabek. Let’s get away this weekend, us three? Go to Niagra and just be,
you know? Jean always was a dreamer, that damn idiot. Otabek takes one last
drag off his smoke. Probably his last.
“You gonna die over a little whore!” Emil snickers. He can keep snickering.
Otabek slips under, slides around, grabs what turns out to be Mich’s keys,
slams his rotting head into the door and kicks him through.
He slams it shut and watches Emil groan at his feet while the soft click of a
dozen guns say hello in the dark room.
Otabek holds his hands up as a door opens. As light pours into the metal box of
an office and shows Otabek a figure with long hair, in a robe. He looks almost
like God, but he's just a man, a man in a bathrobe. He only thinks he's God.
“Celestino.”
“Otabek! What a pleasant surprise!” He can almost see that smile. The smile
that shows every tooth in his head. “Why don't you join me for a drink?”
Every gun follows him as he walks that long walk toward sure death.
++
He had to do it. He had to tell Jean the kid wasn't legit. But he had to have
more than a feeling, so he sat down at his laptop when he was good and sober,
and did a little keystroking. Otabek was no Internet genius, but he knew who
was who, when it came to certain families, and he had a feeling, with this kid,
that the family he was associated with was one of those.
And he was right.
Nikiforov had a 'nephew,' so to speak. Otabek had heard rumors about him; a
beautiful boy, too beautiful to just be a family friend. Now, the photos
available were grainy and they were several years old, there was no mistaking
that little toe headed kid at that perverted Russian freak’s side was the very
same Angel Jean fell head over heels over.
“His name’s Yuri Plisetsky.” He placed the prints on the linoleum table after
the waitress made another coffee pass. “He's a member of the Russian Syndicate.
Who knows what he's doing here. But the fact that he's at the Bang and working
under an alias?” Otabek stopped right there.
Jean folded his arms up and nursed his Marlboro. He shook his head. “No. You
have it all wrong. He's running away from that Nikorofov. That’s what it is.
He's not -- “ He put his hand over his eyes. He slammed his fist against the
table. He took the saddest shuddering breath, and then nothing.
“Jean, be reasonable - “
“No!” He was looking back at Otabek. Looking at him with that dead stare he had
when he gave love notes. “No, you just - “
Otabek felt the love note aiming straight for his heart. Jean was ready to
kill. “I just, what?”
He stood up. He threw money on the table. He put his aviators on. He spoke. And
when he spoke, his voice was flat. “I'll give you a day to take this back,
before I come for you. If you were anyone else, I'd do it, now.”
Otabek rubbed his zippo between his fingers. Rubbed the inscription Jean
scratched out with his switchblade, because no one would ever know what it
said. “I'll see you tomorrow night. You'll have a day to think it through. And
we’ll figure out what to do about Plisetsky from there.”
“Beks? You and I will burn in hell for everything we've done together. And I
would do it all again. No regrets. But you cross me, and I will burn the heart
out of you.” There were no tears. Not the kind that showed.
He walked out of the Denny’s, leaving Otabek with the pictures and a head full
of conviction. Jean would come around. He had to.
++
It's so easy to forget Celestino didn't get where he is, the fifth son of the
old boss’ brother, just because he liked lifting museum paintings and listening
to Puccini. The man surrounds himself in this shit, even in his little office
boudoir. Otabek isn't looking at the French end tables, the four poster bed, or
the Botticelli Venus mounted above it. No, he's looking at one Yuri Plisetsky,
bound and gagged in the middle of a pristine white bed.
“You're a Johnny Walker man, aren't you, Otabek?”
No, he got here because he's always ahead of the game. Otabek nods. “Red
label.”
Celestino smiles as he offers Otabek a glass. “But of course. Oh, please. Sit
down. Make yourself at home. I don't intend to tie you up, like Mr Plisetsky.
Not if you make the right choice.”
Otabek holds the glass in his hand. “You're offering me a choice. Take my
chances trying to bust the kid out of here, or kill him and stay.”
Celestino sits on the bed, leans over and smiles at Yuri, who's positively
growling at him. “He's so smart, isn't he? Shame he's not Italian. I would have
made him a captain by now.”
Otabek swirls the drink around. “Jean liked this drink, too.”
“Leroy? He was an albatross around your neck. Consider his death… an
unfortunate eventuality. You can see where his judgement led us.”
He leans back. He watches Celestino trace a line across Yuri's cheek. “The boy
was Jean’s. Not mine.” His finger slides over Yuri's neck. Over a love bite.
Maybe he left it. Maybe Jean left it. He can't say. All he knows is, he's here,
Jean's in hell, and Celestino rules his own version of heaven. Otabek wasn't
sure about much, but he always knew where he stood on that score.
Otabek gets up. He draws his gun. “Jean would understand.” And he fires.
++
Funny thing about Emil? He never sold his Harley. Good thing that tweaker
pulled the keys to his bike on Otabek, instead of his gun. Otabek rides it like
a bat out of hell as the sun rises over an endless pine forest. He's heading
north, to Montreal, where Jean was born.
Two arms - strong arms - clutch him tight. Yuri Plisetsky probably doesn't care
about Jean or Montreal or even Otabek. But he's riding with Otabek now. And
Otabek? He always wanted to be a gangster, ever since he could remember, and
now he’s just an outlaw. No family, no partner to back him up. Just two guns
and half a tank of gas.
He feels one hand reach for Jean’s .45. “Careful, Angel."
Yuri doesn't pull it out. He just holds it, like a warning. And fuck if it
doesn't turn Otabek on.
  Works inspired by this one
      [Art_-_Lettering]_Love_Note by thisiseclair
Please drop_by_the_archive_and_comment to let the author know if you enjoyed
their work!