Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/11887470.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Yuri!!!_on_Ice_(Anime)
  Relationship:
      Otabek_Altin/Yuri_Plisetsky, Otabek_Altin/Jean-Jacques_Leroy, Jean-
      Jacques_Leroy/Yuri_Plisetsky
  Character:
      Otabek_Altin, Jean-Jacques_Leroy, Yuri_Plisetsky
  Additional Tags:
      Jjbek, otayuri_-_Freeform, Pliroy, Otapliroy, lots_of_cheating, Angst
  Series:
      Part 16 of please_please_please_let_me_get_what_I_want_this_time
  Stats:
      Published: 2017-08-23 Words: 1953
****** peace be with you ******
by Blownwish
Summary
     Everyone wants to forgive. Everyone wants to be forgiven. That's the
     definition of heaven; but there is no such thing as heaven.
     (Or, the one where Otabek is sleeping with Yuri and JJ, while JJ and
     Yuri are also sleeping together, and no one wants to talk about it.)
Notes
     anon on tumblr wanted me to write something otapliroy, based on the
     Gaga song, Judas. I sort of thought about the lyrics. The Christian
     concept of forgiving someone who hurts you, without judgement, and
     recognizing that you hurt others too, stood out in my mind. Seemed
     like a good theme for a love triangle. Hope it actually came across.
     I don't even know.
Daylight was an anvil and it was kicking Otabek's ass. He didn't even like beer
but he was hammering it down last night. Jean insisted. “It's a celebration!”
He’d pushed a bottle of San Miguel toward him with his forefinger. It left a
trail of condensation across the bartop, slick like the sweat trickling down
Otabek's back. “Go right ahead.”
He wished he said no. But of course he didn't. He took a pull as Jean watched
him with his hand over his eyes, as if he could cut the glare from the window.
“You good?”
Jean laughed because everything was a joke to Jean, until it wasn't. He rubbed
his eyes and he shook his head and he sighed and muttered something like, do
you really want to know? “Great, never better.”
So it was like that. Jean spent all of an hour posturing at the bar, putting up
a piss poor effort to be the King,while he ordered beer after beer for Otabek.
They talked about music, or Jean talked about music and Otabek listened to all
the things Jean didn't say out loud. “I actually talked to Bono about a
collab,” meant I’m not working on anything. “Music without heart might as well
be software,” was I'm horny. “Music reaches something that goes beyond words,
to say what we are afraid to say.” Otabek was glad he was buzzed at that point,
because that one hit too close to home.
Granada in the summertime was hot and the streets were melting as they walked
arm-in-arm to the hotel. It was as if the city was built centuries ago just to
reflect and focus the sun’s setting rays around Jean as he smiled. Otabek
couldn't stop staring and Jean wouldn't stop glowing for him.
They fell into the hotel room and into each other with a sloppy kiss. All the
air conditioning in the world couldn't tamp the heat away. White sheets that
could've been Spanish sails in another life couldn't anchor Jean because he
kept sitting up, no matter how many times Otabek pushed him down, and he kept
trying to say all the things that couldn't be said out loud in between his
words.
“I won't tell. You know I don't talk about any of this because it's hard, you
know?” He wasn't talking about cheating on Isabella. “Even saying this much...”
Otabek just nodded and traced a line from the tendons in jeans neck to the
curve of his shoulder with his tongue. He could see Jean’s open suitcase on the
chaise lounge. He didn't even bother to unpack it. Clothes were piled around
it. Shirts. Socks. Underwear. Just one pair. Otabek noted the color.
Slate blue.
He cupped Jean’s face and shut him up with his mouth. He couldn't make him lay
down but he could make him hard. He could make him grind against Otabek like a
stripper giving a lap dance. And he could make Jean whine like a bitch when he
shoved his fingers deep inside of him.
They fucked all night because they didn't know what else to do with each other.
Jean stared into his eyes, as he rode Otabek's dick, as Otabek loomed over him,
as they showered and didn't bother with soap and nearly fell in the stall, and
Otabek knew what he was looking for. He wanted to hear him say Jean was the
best he ever had, and other things. Dangerous things only drunk fools and
ecstatic American street preachers say. It was all there in his eyes;
everything from, Please forgive me, to Tell me I'm worth it.
Was it heaven or hell? Were they forgiving each other, or were they betraying
each other? Otabek couldn't tell. Jean couldn't say it. It burned and it cut
and it was dangerous. This was dangerous.
He stumbled out of bed the next morning with a head so heavy he thought it
would crash through floor. A gallon of piss and that handful of ibuprofen
wasn't making it easier to keep it on his shoulders. He didn't need to pick the
blue underwear up to know what it meant. It was too small to be Jean's, too
conspicuous to be an accident. Otabek stared at the Cyrillic label.
It was a question and an answer neither one would ever say out loud. Otabek
bowed his head; it felt like an anvil was coming down on him.
++
Just because it was technically legal to fuck Yuri Plisetsky didn't make it
okay. He was sixteen and he was too easy. All it took was a motorcycle, a
little luck, and the hype of competition at Barcelona. The boy fell into his
lap and Otabek let him.
Let him think he chased Otabek. Let him think he made the first move when he
closed the gap between them and shoved his tongue into Otabek's mouth. Let him
think this was all his idea when he'd spent years in the background, waiting
for him to grow up.
“Tell me what you like, Beka?” He was so eager to please him. He always was,
but there was something shining in his eyes. Something he saw in Barcelona,
right before he pushed himself onto the ice. “Tell me?” He could see the sun
setting Yuri's eyes, and smell sugar vanilla perfume in the wind, curling
around them, like a spell in a Russian fairytale.
He liked driving him up this foothill on the Harley. He liked gently pushing
him to his knees and showing him his dick. He liked combing his hands through
his loose blonde hair and staring at the sun setting over Almaty. “This.”
Otabek looked down and Yuri was staring back up at him as if it was only the
two of them on a lonely planet. “This is good.”
But he was so good at this. Not just good, the things he did - Otabek
recognized the way Yuri cupped his balls the first time he went down on him.
And it wasn't just head; there were so many things Yuri did. Specific, little
things he picked up from someone else. The way he spread his legs, knees bent
back. The way he moved his tongue around and around in circles when he kissed.
It hurt and it felt like vindication all at once: like forgiving a lie before
Yuri was done telling it.
“Do you want more?”
Of course he wanted more. Everyone always wanted more, and that was the
problem. Otabek just pushed his head back down and imagined the first time Yuri
did this. He had a pretty good idea what it was like.
He was around the same age when Jean showed him the same things. Swallow when I
thrust in, he whispered in the hush of his bedroom, dead in the middle of the
night when his brothers and sisters were sleeping and there was no sound save
for the tree branch tapping at Jean's window pane. Yeah, and put your hand
here.
Just like Yuri was doing, now.
Later, they went inside the tent Otabek took him on his hands and knees in the
dark. He had to reach for his hair and hold him down. He had to feel Yuri, know
this was real and this was him and he was really his, even if it wasn't
completely true.
He wanted to forgive him. He wanted to beg him for forgiveness. Most of all, he
didn't want to say the words. The words would break the sugary vanilla spell.
And if it did -
No.
Otabek held Yuri tight against him. Pushes himself as hard and as deep inside
as he could. He would never, not ever - not matter how much it hurt -
No.
“Please…” Yuri was begging him for release, but the word felt heavier than his
voice. It cracked and Otabek squeezed his eyes shut and buried his nose in the
nape of his neck. He wished he was better than this, and wished Yuri wouldn't
grow up, and hoped that when he did he wouldn't look back and hate him, maybe
even forgive him.
No.
It was so cold that night, even though it was summertime.
++
Jean was a vision in white. He insisted on wearing a white tuxedo to his
wedding, as if he was a virgin, like Isabella. He insisted Otabek stand as his
best man, too. He insisted on a lot of things. A church wedding, a high mass,
Communion with the Saints and Angels, as that fat old priest who'd kicked
Otabek out of his chapel, years ago, for listening to his earbuds, the one time
the Leroys made the mistake of dragging him St Paul’s, mumbled in French and
made lots of crosses in the air.
Jean had winked at Otabek when he came down the aisle. And he smiled at the
crowd. At someone specific. Otabek couldn't believe he expected people to think
Yuri Plisetsky was Jean's friend, but then again people were apt to believe
near anything when they didn't want to know the truth.
Otabek didn't have that luxury. And neither did Yuri. There was something
terrible in Yuri's eyes. Not rage. Not disgust. It was worse.
Pain.
Otabek wanted to stop it. Wanted him to feel it. But all he could do was stand
there and feel his own gut twist as Jean lied to a god that wasn't there, lied
to a girl who wasn't aware, and a family that knew just how crazy their first
born baby boy really was.
Who the hell invited his two lovers to his wedding? Who the hell had one stand
with him, wondering what the fuck he was doing to his sanity? Who the hell made
the other watch in agony? Jean Jacques Leroy, that was who. And he didn't even
mean any harm by it - that was the worst part. He probably thought he was
coming clean, like the blue underwear. Like Confession.
God, Jean. Otabek wanted to beat him and forgive him all at once, when he
lifted the veil. He wanted to make him get back on his knees in front of that
horrible corpse hanging on that cross and make his choice in front of
everyone. 
He wondered if he would regret this. Probably. Jean would probably hate himself
for the rest of his life. Otabek didn't want to enjoy that conclusion.
Otabek said his stupid speech at the reception, not bothering to look at the
couple. Not daring to meet those wide blue green eyes staring back at him. He
held up his glass and drank champagne that tasted like the dregs of Spanish
beer.
He waited in the silence of his empty room, laying on the mattress with his
arms extended, wondering if he was forgiven, if he was capable of forgiving.
The true wonder of love, the miracle of love, is the capacity to forgive.
That's what the fat old priest told them. And when we find ourselves lacking,
when we cannot find forgiveness in our hearts, we must ask God to show us where
it is, with the perfect example of Christ on the Cross.
Otabek was holding his phone in his left hand. He knew he could text him. Could
text and tell him whatever he needed to hear and Yuri would be in his room in
minutes. And they could both pretend they weren't hurting each other and both
silently pretend to feel so good about being bigger than all of this.
His phone buzzed. I'm so sorry. Otabek closed his eyes and dropped it to the
floor. That wasn't Jean.
Otabek spent the night alone with a lamplight on. It was still dark, very dark.
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