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sabraeal · 3 years

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All That Remains, Chapter 8: The Flower Garden of the Woman Who Could Conjure [Part 5]

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Obiyukiweek 2021, Day 3: Strength Upright: Compassion, Courage, Self-Control Reversed: Weakness, Doubt, Discord

Once upon a time, a troll makes a mirror.

Is that not how we started this story, so long ago? How so many start: a vile creature forges an object. Who and what change in the telling; a troll makes a mirror, a god conjures a box, knowledge grows in a garden. In the end, it is all the same: what is once contained is opened, unwitting. Or lost, foolishly, in a heart so cold and cruel that it becomes bent to another purpose entirely.

But that is merely an allegory, a fiction composed to cover the raw edges we leave when we rub against each other. For that is the truth, is it not? There is no fell creature, no capricious and omnipotent beings to blame for our misery. There is only us, carving our place in our story by smoothing pieces off another. A snow queen is not made from frost and cold but by the blades of others, slicing slivers from her flesh until only ice remains.

That is the truth we cannot bear: the only monsters we face are the ones we have made. The only poisons we drink are those human hands have brewed.

And it starts like this, always: a girl in a garden, remembering the image of a rose, and wondering, how could I have I forgotten?

“You were quiet at dinner tonight.” Shirayuki hasn’t been at court long-- or rather, in court, privy to all its secret signals and capricious undercurrents-- but she knows that this is as close to an “are you all right?” as Haki can come. If confrontation is only allowed the glint of a knife, affection is stifled to a hint of warmth, a fire made in a room one is forbidden to venture. “I hope that the meal agreed with you.”

A flash of pharmacy white flutters at the corner of her vision, frustratingly out of reach. It’s been so long since she’s been there, since she’s thought of anything but silverware and schottische; when she tries it’s like a hundred voices shouting at once, each demanding to be heard. Just like being at Lilias, heads bent over a knotty problem--

“Shirayuki.” The consort does not crouch; it’s best, Lady Mihoko often remind her, to pretend one has no anatomy beneath the waist. But Haki does perch on a cushioned stool, her brows drawn tight over the elegant line of her nose. “You are not...indisposed, I hope?”

A solid shake dispels the fog mired around her. “What? Oh, no! I only...” It would be a mistake to speak of loam between her fingers, of the satisfaction of hearing a pod snap from its stalk. “I didn’t have much to say with my, erm, conversational partners.”

Royal brows raise to stunned arches. “Is that so? I would have thought you’d find much in common with Lord Kazunori and Lord Seiichii.”

They had both been older men, southern lords drawn to court for Seiran’s summit. Kind enough, but they spoke to her as they would their own daughters, which is to say: warmly, but brief. Not of any topics that one might sink their teeth into, lest it leaving lines around her mouth.

“I think they were more interested in talking to each other than to me,” she admits. In part because of her sex, and in part because-- well, her body may have been in that chair, obscuring the twining gods and goddess painted across it, but her mind had been a wing away, wondering if it was yet time to harvest the roku berries, or whether this year’s crop of apprentices knew akegi from yura shigure. “It seems there’s much to discuss before they all meet for, ah...discussion.”

Haki hands her a rueful smile. “There always is.” With a sigh, she sweeps to standing, as statuesque as any marble in Wistal’s halls. “Well, I suppose there’s nothing for it. I’ll have to ask the majordomo to find you some more scintillating seatmates tomorrow.”

“Ah..!” Tomorrow. Never had a day seemed so far away, so much more than a handful of hours between dawn and dusk. At Lilias, the nights had wavered between seasons, some so short she hardly slept between sun set and rise; and others so long that she woke in darkness, only to leave the lab in the same. But still, none seemed so long as this, and for no reason at all.

“Is something wrong?” Haki turns to her again, concern rumpling the curved lines of her mouth. “Do you have plans...?”

“No!” Shirayuki rushes to assure her. “It’s only...you mentioned dinner, and suddenly I felt so...”

“Weary?” Haki offers, when she won’t. Her eyes soften with mouth to match, smile turning her from heavenly to beatific. “I’m not surprised. You have been hard at work these last few months.”

And hardly anything to show for it, in Lady Mihoko’s learned opinion. Shirayuki bites back a groan. She would be sixty before that woman found her approaching passable, and even then, she still wouldn’t be good enough for a prince’s wife. Not when his children might have some chance, no matter how slim, of seating their sullied bloodline on the throne of Clarines.

“Perhaps you have earned a break.” Shirayuki blinks, staring up into the consort’s glowing face. “A private dinner seems in order. A night of no pressure of expectation.”

It sounds too good to be true. “Oh, no! I couldn’t--”

“Give me but a moment.” Haki hesitates at the door to her boudoir, lips lifted in an impish grin. “Perhaps my good brother might find himself available as well?”

Her mouth snaps shut. It’s been ages since she saw Zen, just the two of them. He came to dinner rarely-- understandable, with the summit only weeks away, and entirely under his purview, despite Seiran’s tacit position as host-- and where he went, Mitsuhide and Kiki went too. Haki had been her closest companion these past few weeks, the only friendly face, but Shirayuki longed for someone who didn’t look at her and see a princess, but--

Nervous energy courses through her, jolting her to her feet. Her hands itch, wanting for something to do, and with no plants to hand, they land upon the package on the receiving table. It’s wrapped in humble brown paper, folds clean and crisp, twine tightly tied. Haki’s medication, she realizes, dropping it from her numb hands. Made in the pharmacy. There’s a note on top-- instructions. She’d recognize them anywhere; after all, she’d written more than a few of them herself.

It’s curiosity that makes her pluck it from where it sits. It’s been ages since she’s been in the lab, but her knowledge hasn’t faded; there’s no harm in seeing whether there are any mistakes. An apprentice could have made this, after all. The dose does, as Garack was so fond of saying, make the poison.

She flips open the card, already flushed with the thought of being useful, but--

It’s not some apprentice’s writing at all. Oh no, she knows this spidery scrawl all too well. It was on every jar at her bench, every treatise she read late into the night.

It’s Ryuu’s.

Ignorance is bliss, they say. Always with a laugh, but stewing beneath it is envy and longing in equal measure. A pining for times past, for a childhood never quite as innocent as we remember.

For that is what we miss: innocence. Not the not-knowing, but state of not needing to know. The trust we felt towards those who always knew in our stead, who kept us safe from the dangers that pressed in around us. The ones who protected us with little lies; the small pauses to omit what might scare us, the careful editing to make our worlds the giddy fantasy we dreamed.

But there comes a day where all children must grow up. There is a day we must know these things for ourselves, so that we may see the world with clear eyes. For even innocence can be a cage, should some other hand try to lock you within it.

Ignorance is bliss, they say, but oh, only if they can keep you from knowing what it is you do not know.

May I ask you a question? the little girl asks, her gaze no longer on the garden, but the horizon beyond. It is bent in her vision, the glass made in such a way that each diamond blows out the edges, warping the world around it. She had never noticed when she looked only at the garden so near to it, but now...

Now the imperfection is all she can see.

Anything, the sorceress replies, her fingers wrapping around the caps of her shoulders. They’re cold, as cold as the glass beneath her palms.

The girl looks at their reflection, at the way the wave of the glass make those fingers bleed into talons. Where have the roses gone?

Shirayuki’s hands tremble, her eyes tracing every last loop, every hurried curve. “I didn’t...”

Haki peers around the jamb, letter folded in her hand. “Did you say something, my dear?”

This is the closest she’s been to Ryuu in months; even from where she holds it, the scene of lavender and akegi shigure waft from its paper. Not scented, not on purpose, but just from being left in a desk’s cubbyhole with his hastily tidied samples. His parchment smelt the same in Lilias, fragrant as the hothouses themselves.

Her chest can hardly contain her breath. “I didn’t realize that Ryuu was overseeing your treatment.”

A shadow flickers over the sorceress’s face, her grip painful for but a moment before she is her usual smiling self. A moment that could have been imagined, if only the girl was so sure it was not.

Roses? the sorceress asks airily. I’ve never grown any roses.

“Excuse me?”

“It only makes sense,” Shirayuki hurries to add, placing the card back atop the package. “He’s taken over for Chief Garack, and she always oversaw the royal--”

“Shirayuki.” Her name is firm from Haki’s lips, just shy of a scold. “I’m quite sorry but...who are you talking about?”

So many tales speak of trust as a blade, one that may be used to cut, that breaks when forged from brittle iron. A weapon, wielded and forgotten on the battlefield once the story is done.

But you and I know better: trust is a spell, woven to protect. It is a shield, unseen but always felt; sense by faith and not by fingers. And when it wavers, it does not break, does not shatter like a blade upon a stone; no, nothing so dramatic as that. Instead, it frays, unwoven one thread at a time, unnoticed until--

Until the hole can no longer be ignored.

She doesn’t leave the consort’s chambers meaning to break her curfew; oh no, when the door closes behind her, Shirayuki has every intention to head straight to her own. Her feet drag beneath her, weary from contorting herself into a mold that barely fits. There’s nothing she’d like more than to divest herself of all these courtly trappings and pass effortlessly into oblivion.

But she turns a corner, her mental map of the palace resolving, and she realizes: in one direction is her room, and in the other, the pharmacy. It’s late, but Ryuu would still be there, committing his last-minute thoughts to page while the offices emptied around him. She misses him, a longing so intense it aches.

It would only be a short visit. If Izana brought her before him in the morning, trying to act as both judge and jury-- well, Ryuu would be her physician, once she and Zen finally managed to make it down the aisle hand-in-hand. It only made sense to keep a cordial relationship with the man who would bear the next branch of the Wisteria tree into the world.

And if she missed him, the boy who straddled the line of friend and brother and son both-- there was no need to explain that to the king. It wasn’t as if Izana made a habit of confessing his ulterior motives to her. Though strangely, she thought he might understand that better than anyone.

Or all but one. And he...

Well, if there was a single person who might know where he went besides her, her feet were carrying her to him now/.

Were you to ask the girl, she would say she had not chosen night on purpose. The sorceress had housed her, fed her, loved her in her way; even with the image of the rose burned behind her eyes, she trusted her still, in the desperate way one does when one knows they should not, but cannot bear to contemplate why.

Opportunity chooses for her; the late afternoon sun burns hot, and when they finish their dinner, the sorceress excuses herself to lay down in the dark, to merely rest her eyes-- and does not wake, not even when the door creaks as the girl slips around it. The moon guides her steps when she walks into the garden, bright as the day itself, but she does not need it: her feet carrying her better than memory could.

There is one there, just as there was this morning: a petal, pink and sweet, fragrance so familiar she knew it even without sight.

Come out, she murmurs, digging her hands into the earth. Come out my lovely, my dear. I have been searching just for you.

A tendril spirals up from the ground, tentative. It flips and flaps, and oh, she is too shocked, too awed to help it. Even still, it finds her, wrapping around her finger, and with a single drop of blood the bush emerges, whole and dirt-smeared, from the soil.

What, it murmurs, impatience tinging its words, took you so long?

In the day, the pharmacy is all rush and chaos: apprentices burning tinctures and ushering patients to their rooms; masters emptying drawers as soon as they are filled, only for other herbalists to hurry to replace them. Guards arrive with injuries and nobles with ailments, no moment ever dull while the doors are open.

But at this hour, when the lords and ladies are all tucked in their beds-- or are at least pretending to be-- and the work is done, the pharmacy sleeps. There is no herbalist at the front desk, only the push bell Ryuu despised when she was his apprentice, since it always meant she would be pulled away from him or he away from his project.

A necessary nuisance, he called it once, and Obi had laughed. Just like me, eh, Miss?

She no longer remembers what she said-- it was early enough when he was one still, though she’d like to think she was too kind to say it-- but now she wishes, even if just for a moment, that she could tell him how much of a gift he was to her. How much he had made tedium bearable, even when she hadn’t known it for what it was.

Instead she bites her lips, rubbing at the ache in her breast. It’s hardly the first time she’s forgotten to say what matters, but-- but this won’t be her last chance. Obi might be away now, but he will be found, and she will tell him...

Everything. Every last thought she had since the moment they last spoke; her apologies and her worries, her failures and her triumphs. Because Obi hearing them-- that’s what makes them real.

Her hand wraps around the third door’s knob by habit; even now she expects to open it and see her projects spilled across her desk, to see a curtain closed beneath the other, and a window open between them. To see it waiting for her the way her heart waits for them, empty and waiting to be filled.

But there’s nothing of them there anymore. Nothing besides memories that no longer fit over the space it has become.

Her feet carry her onward, down to the last room, a sliver of light slipping across the hall where it’s been left ajar. She still expects to see a curled mass of blonde hair bent over the desk, long tables sprawled with books and half-finished studies, a bottle of roka medicinally sitting in the corner. But instead--

Instead it is a dark one, a riotous shrubbery of walnut and teak in desperate need of pruning. That had been her job in Lilias, along with Yuzuri’s helpful hands, but is seems no one here has yet talked the Chief Herbalist to task.

Give it a few years, Garack would tell her, and he’ll have herbalists as eager to get into his hair as you three were with me.

She leans against the jamb, a sigh slipping past where her heart clogs her throat. Ryuu had once fit beneath a desk half this size, and now he towers over it even seated, looking more and more like Shidan with each passing day, a man overgrown by time and deadlines.

“Ryuu.” It’s a palpable hit when their eyes meet. Everything else about him might change, but that gaze, so wide and thoughtful-- that never does.

Until now. One moment they spark, a fire lit behind blue glass, and the next...

It gutters, his gaze slipping away.

“Shirayuki.” His voice is so much deeper than in her memory, so much older. And colder too. “Excuse me, Lady Shirayuki. Is there something you need?”

“No.” She clings to the doorway, too aware of how fine her dress is, of how little it belongs in this place, his sanctum sanctorum. How little she belong here, now. “I saw a card you wrote to the consort, and I...wanted to see you.”

“A card?” His eyebrows twitch; she can no longer tell if it’s in surprise or confusion, not on this stranger’s face. “Ah. The powder for her migraines. Did you want some as well?”

“No, I’m-- I’m well.” It feels like a lie, even as she says it. It wouldn’t have, only hours ago. “I just...I’m here for you.”

His knuckles blanch where he grips his pencil. “Well, you’ve seen me. I trust you know your way out.”

You’re too late, too late, the roses say, their sing-song jangling in her ears. I’ve been hidden away for so long, and even now I cannot find him. The betrayal in their voice is thick when they ask, How could you forget us, your flower and your boy, when we have always grown together?

“Ryuu.” It leaves her lips cracked, broken; her mouth no longer knows how to form the shape that calls to him. “I know it’s been...a while, but please don’t think that I didn’t want to-- that I wasn’t thinking about you. I just...”

His pencil pauses on the page, but he does not speak. He just looks at her, the way he would at a stranger, and this room is suddenly a desert and ocean both, too far and deep to go by foot alone.

Still, there is nothing she will not brave, not for him. “It was hard to come,” she admits. “I’m not allowed in the gardens, and I’m not allowed to take patients. Coming here, watching everyone working the way I always have...”

It would have been like watching someone eat a feast while she was starving.

His eyes soften, even if they don’t precisely thaw. “I know that you’re marrying the prince, and that you don’t have time for m--” his lips press tight-- “this. I’m not upset because you’ve set your career aside.”

“But you are...” Her words limp as she says them, wounded fawns searching of an elusive mother. “You are upset.”

His hands flex as he places them on the wood, utterly silent. “I knew...” he breathes, so harsh it scrapes her own throat too. “I knew you’d have to give things up--important things. But...”

Ryuu had always spoken slowly, thoughtfully. But still, these moments when he meant what he said, when he composed rather than conversed-- it had never taken him to long to tell her what he meant. He trusted her, knew that even if his words came out garbled or his message was lost in a sea of ellipses, she would salvage it, gluing it back together with his intention.

So when he sits silent, it wounds her almost as much as his words.

At last his gaze lifts again from his work, but the glare he fixes on her-- “But I never thought you’d let one of them be Obi.”

Her mouth works, but the well from which she draws her reason is empty, leaving only pain in its wake.

“I didn’t...I didn’t let him leave,” she murmurs, more wind than whisper. “He never told me he was going. He just left without even...”

Saying goodbye. As if all these years had meant nothing at all.

“There’s a guardsman,” she says instead, her voice trembling toward something approaching even. “He said he saw Obi leave with--” a woman-- “someone.”

Ryuu grunts.

“He ran off with Torou, once.” She wants the words to come easy, but each one emerges from her trembling, the way her fingers are against her skirts. “On the way back from Tanbarun. That’s...that’s probably what this is. An old friend that needs help, and then he’ll come right back--.”

“He won’t.”

Each breath is a stab, deep in her chest. “You don’t know that.”

“I do.” He stands; a production with how much of him there is now. Cautiously, his hand extends, a fist hovering over the knotted wood of his desk.

It takes all her courage to take the first step, and all of it again to take the next. On and on until she’s crossed the room, hand outstretched, quivering beneath his own.

His palm opens, and into hers falls...a seed. Tiny. Blue. As clear as glass.

“An orbia seed?” Shirayuki lifts it up to the light, the plumule a hazy bead nestled in its luminous cotyledon. It’s impossible to tell by sight, but still, she’s sure-- it would germinate, if she planted it. “I was collecting these before we left.”

“I know.”

“It’s funny,” she murmurs, a smile lifting her mouth. “I never did find a blue one.”

“I know.” His explanation comes in fits and starts, a path never worn in the telling. “I had one. I gave it to Obi.”

“You...?” The thought catches in the light, just like the seed between her fingers. “Oh. Oh. But...” Her mouth curls, a silent question: why?

“I don’t know. I thought he might...” Ryuu’s shoulders twitch, as narrow as Obi’s when he first blew in with the wind. Before he settled into the man he became. “When he was ready...”

Of course. Her hand closes tight around the seed. Obi had what she needed all along. And she’d never known, not until...

Not until he was gone. “Where--?”

“I found it on my desk.” Ryuu’s fingers flex, falling by his side. “The morning after he left.”

Where did he go? the little girl asks, desperation choking her as surely as her tears. Where can I find him?

How should I know? the roses reply, thorns in their words as well as their stems. You are the one who left me buried under the ground. How could I watch him when you let us be trapped together?

“Did you...” Her mouth works, cutting itself against her question. “Did you tell Zen’s men, when they came? Do they know that he...?”

Said goodbye, she cannot say, to someone at least.

“No.” Ryuu blinks, his eyes as round and innocent and blue as ever. “They never did. Come by I mean.”

This is not the first time we have spoken of betrayal, is it? Of the wound that never heals, the jagged cut that scabs over only to be ripped open anew. The injury that teaches one to be wary, lest one be inflicted again.

But that is only after the wound is made. When it is first done...

Well, it is strange how long a heart can bear a blade through it without ever feeling the killing stroke.

“You are thinking,” Haruka remarks, with no small amount of disapproval. “I can tell.”

Shirayuki blinks down at her place setting, expecting to see broth dripped across the tablecloth, or perhaps the edge of her sleeve dipped in yolk, maybe even her tea dribbling over the edge of her cup--

But there is nothing. The white linen is pristine beneath her gold-rimmed plate, her sleeves and elbows tucked up and off the table, and if anything, her beverages of choice are picturesque in their vessels, juice beading with moisture and tea gently steaming. “What am I doing wrong?”

It, historically, has been the wrong question to ask the marquis, sure to send him into a silent huff that will stretch from first course to fifth, disapproval deepening with each sorbet. In his vaunted opinion, the fact her inexperience might cause her to trespass the unspoken rules of good manners is bad enough, but to not know precisely when and how it was done-- now that was truly unforgivable.

However, today he merely settles back in his seat, rubbing his fingers against the cloth tucked over his lap, and fixes her with his unerring gaze. She doesn’t shrink beneath it; oh no, instead something in her chest shifts, almost as if-- as if it grows.

His lips twitch, just the slightest upward tremor. “Nothing.”

Her mouth opens, then closes, stymied. “Then how did you know?”

A single, noble arch lifts. “Because you have never once stopped.”

It is to the tiger-lily the little girl turns, after the roses. They are a pompous flower, no doubt, as proud and self-important as any big cat, but despite their bluster, they are honest. The noblest flower in this garden, hearty and constant, and though they sniff when she kneels down upon their bed, dirtying her hem, they listen.

Have you seen him? she asks, heart lodged tight in her throat. Have you seen my precious boy?

“So what is it,” Haruka murmurs into his glass, “that has you so engrossed, young lady?”

Her lips press together, teeth plucking at the scar. “You told me once that I should know who is my ally, and who is my-- Zen’s.”

The rim has hardly touched his lips, but Haruka sets down the crystal, hands folding behind his plate. “I did.”

“But those are not the one two options, are they.” It’s not a question, not anymore. “Sometimes they may seem to be one or the other, or both at the same time, but really-- it’s their own, isn’t it? Everyone is just trying to do what they think best.”

“That is...” The marquis takes in a steady breath. “A very mature way to see a frustrating problem.”

“The consort has said that she is my friend,” she says slowly, each word shaken loose from her heart. “But she is also lying to me.”

“Is she?”

Haruka, she had said once, these long skirts tangled around her legs, binding fast as any chain, he’s hard to read.

Is he? Zen’s hand was cold against hers, like touching marble. Izana’s had been the same so many years ago; she wonders if it might be a problem with their circulation, perhaps passed down from a parent, but this doesn’t seem the time to ask about his mother’s medical history. He’s always seemed clear as crystal to me.

Though, he continues, mouth set in a rueful grin. After a childhood of lectures, maybe it’s easier. I can tell how stupid he thinks I am just from the degree of his eyebrows.

His brow is furrowed now, a tight knot over the bridge of his nose. There’s no angle, no lift, and Shirayuki isn’t quite sure what that might say about his perception of her intelligence. If it were anyone else, she might even call it concern.

“Is she lying to you,” he asks, posing it like Lata when he wants to ask something particularly perverse as a rhetorical. “Or are you not asking the right questions?”

Her fingers clench tight on her lap, linen rucking up between her fingers. She likes this far less than Lata’s. “Your Grace...”

Now his brows raise, shock stark on his face, “Yes, Miss Shirayuki?”

“Do you...?” The words stick in her mouth; to ask them is to admit defeat. No-- distrust. That the best interests everyone has been working towards are not her own. “Do you know where Obi is?”

I have seen no precious boy, the tiger lily trumpets, as proud as ever. Only a little girl loved by all who see her. How lucky she is to garner such attention!

I care not for me, the little girls mutters, impatient. Where do you think he has gone?

Away, away. The flower bobs beneath its own self-importance. He has been taken away. Down and gone and buried with the roses. Perhaps you are the better for it.

“No.” It’s the truth; he wouldn’t bother to lie to her. “As of now, his location is unknown, even to the king himself.”

She licks her lips, nails biting into her thigh. The orbia seed burns a hole in her hip. “Are they looking for him?”

A shadow ripples over his face, gone before she can follow it to its source. “Someone might be.”

“I mean Zen,” she clarifies. “Or Izana.”

“I know,” he replies, voice impossibly gentle from such a forbidding mouth. “I think we’re ready for the next course, don’t you?”

Innocence and ignorance, truth and illusion, trust and betrayal-- we have meditated upon each, as if they are but separate concepts that can be held to the light and have each facet revealed in turn. But surely you seen that they have all brought us here, to this part, to this singular place: a knife buried in a breast, a garden made into a cage. A girl in each, who has finally seen the truth beneath the illusion.

We should rejoice, should we not? For these girls who might free themselves, might heal themselves? But yet you do not, do you? For you know the trick of it:

A wound does not truly begin to bleed until the blade is removed. And a girl like this--

Ah, her hand is already at the hilt.

For once, Shirayuki is relieved that it is her round-faced guard that awaits her and not a more experienced one. Or worse yet, Kiki, who would anticipate her before she could get a word in edgewise.

But luck is on her side; this dear boy springs from his place on the wall, every muscle tense with anticipation, quivering to do his duty, and she-- she is ready to take advantage of it.

“Ready, my lady?” he asks, bouncing on the balls of his feet, a hound eager to be given his leash. “It’s off to the ballroom next, isn’t it? With Master--?”

“Not today,” Shirayuki informs him swiftly. “I need you to take me to the king.”

The color leaches from his face. “The...the k-king?”

She nods, tight, officious. The sort Lady Mihoko gave her maids; the sort that belonged alongside a command obeyed.

“But, my lady...” He shuffles on his feet, loath to disappoint her. “Don’t you need an appointment to see His Majesty? I don’t think you can just go right in and--”

She’s already walked past him, chin held high. “He’ll see me.”

It may seem humble before the dawn, its petals as rumpled as bedsheets, drawn over its head like a child-- but when the sun casts its fiery crown over the garden, it is the convolvulus that is ascendant. It needs no dazzling pattern, no fanciful pinwheel of petal and sepal to make itself stand above its floral brethren, but only purity of color. For there is no other here that is so purely white, that has a color so simply blue. The tiger lily might roar among the plots, but it is to the convolvulus it bends, when it rises from its nightly slumber.

The little girl watches as the sleep falls from its petals, witness to its splendor. What, it asks, ruffling its delicate mane, could have made you seek me out, girl?

There is a not-insignificant portion of her life that has been spent waiting; not in the way of most of her colleagues-- for water to boil, or a titration to drip, or even for a letter of acceptance to arrive-- but for men with nothing else to recommend them but birth to decide they’re bored enough to receive the royal pharmacist. Shidan had called it fundraising and Kazaha glad-handing, but Shirayuki can admit now, as she flies past Izana’s steward, leaving him and her guard in her wake, what it really is:

Insulting.

The view always arrests her when she enters the royal solar, and this morning is no different; the sun setting, finishing its bright arc through the sky, but the angle of it, with the windows as they are-- it sets the king’s hair alight, a halo burning.

A target, she names grimly; and she the arrow. With his steward calling her name behind her, she takes a determined step toward him.

“Have you not heard then?” Izana asks, hardly bothering to look up from his papers. “I already approved your request to be excused from dinner.”

Shirayuki hauls up short, skirts swishing around her ankles. “Dinner?”

“Yes.” His brows raise, as does his gaze, already bored. “My brother already spoke about at length this morning. So if you seek to move me as well, please note that I have already stepped aside.”

“I...” She blinks. “I wasn’t here for that.”

Interest sparks in his eyes, quick as a struck match. “Then by all means, scold away. At least--” his mouth quirks, too amused-- “I assume that is your intention, marching into my office unannounced as you are.”

“Forgive me.” The steward presses a hand to his heaving breast. “Mistress Shirayuki--”

“It a force of nature,” his master replies, mouth curling like parchment corners. “So I have often had occasion to find out. You may leave us.”

“Your Majesty--” Izana merely lifts his brows, and the man stutters to a stop. “Of course. As you wish.”

“Now,” he hums as the doors close. “Just which wind sent this storm spinning into my office?”

Bound here you might be, but I know the trick of this place, the girl says, kneeing at the bed’s edge. What roots grow here touch the roots of all the morning’s glory. And you who wake with the sun-- you keep the closest watch on the horizon.

If there are any in the garden who know of my precious boy, she continues, the breeze rippling the convolvulus’s ruff. It would be you. So tell me, please...have you see him?

“It’s Obi,” she admits, heat stinging her cheeks. “I want to know the, er, status of the search.”

Izana blinks.

Oh, how kind it would be if this confusion was feigned, if it were all just a show to drag out her loyalties; to force her to admit that even if Zen was her heart, she could not turn her back on her home. That this was simply another moment where she would show him that friendship was strength, and the walls he erected himself were merely a folly.

But there is no smug satisfaction buoying his words when he asks, “The search? Didn’t Sir Obi leave my brother’s employ months ago? The beginning of the summer, I believe--”

“He didn’t quit,” Shirayuki insists, even as the seed weighs heavy between her skirts. “He disappeared, and Zen said he had put men out to search for him.”

A flower has no face, but the girl need no smile, no hooded eyes to discern the sorrowful bent of its stem.

I am but the morning’s glory, the convolvulus sighs, and when the night comes, I fold myself tight. Your boy does not pass me in my waking hours, so perhaps it is that he travels in the night.

But what does that mean? asks the girl. Why would he only travel at night? He is but a boy, a boy, and he walks in day.

The convolvulus is quiet, swaying in the garden’s eternal summer. I do not know, he admits. I do not know at all.

“Ah.” His eyes soften, no longer the unrelenting velvet of the night, but the waves of deep water, and Shirayuki finally has cause to find out: to experience Izana’s pity is a thousand times worse than his disdain. “I am not privy to the movement of my brother’s men, so long as I do not need them in attendance. He must not have put in his last report...”

“Please.” Her hand flies up between them, earning her an incredulous lift of a brow. “It only makes it worse that you are being decent about it.”

His laugh surprises her. “So you’d like me to gloat?”

“No.” Her breath saws out of her, great heaves that shake her shoulders. “I want you to grant me leave to find him.”

“You?” His brows raise, even his eyes widen, but to his credit, he does not ask, but what could you do? Instead his mask settles back over his face without a ripple, the king staring out from behind it. “It would be a waste. I have heard from your tutors that you are making good progress. Lady Mihoko even ventured to say you might make a passable princess, if you pushed out an heir fast enough.”

Her mouth twitches. Only yesterday, she would have nearly fainted with relief, but today-- “What praise.”

There’s a stern tilt to his mouth, a forbidding set to his eyebrows; if she didn’t know any better, Shirayuki would call it concern. “As I recall, our agreement did address this.”

“Then you mean...?”

“Yes.” He nods, splaying his palms across his desk, almost as if he were bracing himself. “If you leave the palace grounds, you forfeit your chance to be the one at my brother’s side. A princess leaves such things in the hands of her guardsmen--” his mouth twitches-- “and her husband.”

You want her to go, do you not? Even now you quiver at the edge of your seat, begging this little girl to open her eyes, to keep them open, to see through the illusion and run as fast as she can. You want her to leave the garden, to break through the last of this enchantment and leave safety behind.

But tell me, what would you do, with the knife quivering it in your chest? To forget it is to live with the pain. To remove it is to be free.

An easy choice, you might say. Who could live with a blade in their breast? Ah, but do not forget:

There is no way to know if the wound is fatal until the knife is removed.

“There is something I wonder, Mistress Shirayuki.”

His musings shatter the brittle silence between them; that fragile bulwark that has kept her in his skin. Now that it’s gone, she trembles, every muscle in her body fighting the urge to cross the king’s study and shake him until decency falls it.

A hopeless quest if there ever was one. “Is there something else you could possibly say to me?”

She says it sweetly; most would hear only that-- the tone rather than the content. But Izana has not sat so long on his father’s throne by being that sort of man; no, his mouth curls, amused.

“No. It’s only...” he hums, gaze lifting from his paper. “I wonder when you started to think Obi left.”

Then what do you know? the girl says, anger and bile rising in her tone. What good are you?

A flower cannot smile, but she feels teeth when it replies, I know that it will cost you, and cost you dear.

Izana might as well have struck her. Shirayuki rocks back on her heels, only just catching herself before she trips over her own hem. “I-I...what do you...?”

“When you came in here, you first talked as you had before.” Long fingers knit beneath his chin, though he does not deign to rest on them, not alert as he is. A cat before a kill, still toying with with the prey between his paws. “You insisted on his disappearance-- the implication being, of course, that you deny his own agency in his departure. Kidnapping or coercion, one might say.”

She cannot see its teeth, but Shirayuki isn’t so foolish to believe there is no trap. “Y-yes..”

“But now you come to me and ask after my men.” His mouth quirks. “You ask for my permission.”

“Isn’t that what I’m supposed to do?” she asks, fingers clenching in her skirts. “A princess wouldn’t depart without the approval of her liege.”

“Of course.” He waves a hand, as if all those rules she spent late nights learning mean nothing at all, as if they were worth less than the paper on which they had been printed. “A princess would. But you, Miss Shirayuki, you--” his eyes spark, the way she only saw that night in Lilias as he closed the gates-- “you jump from windows. You follow a flower into a cave. If you truly believed your companion in danger, I doubt there is a single promise that would keep you by my side.”

She cannot breathe, let alone hazard an answer. Not when even a flutter of an eyelash could give her away.

“Which begs the question, doesn’t it?” His gaze fixes her to where she stand, pins through a moth’s wings. “Just what reason would make him leave?”

Me? the girl cries, already thinking of her lovely red shoes, of the boat they bought her down the river. Why me?

Because my dear, the convolulus hums. It is your fault that he has left.

The doors swing open, and the steward steps inside, sparing her an infuriatingly smug glance. “Sir Lowen, Your Majesty.”

“A moment,” the king tells him, “Mistress Shirayuki and I are nearly done her.”

The man nods. “I will tell him to await your will.”

Shirayuki blinks. “What--?” It’s trial to catch her breath, to make her heart stop pounding in her breast. “What is Mitsuhide doing here?”

“You need an escort to your dinner, do you not? I thought he would be the most palatable option for you.” Izana fixes her with a meaningful look. “I do hope you find your answers, Mistress Shirayuki.”

You don’t know me. Obi’s gaze is raw in her memory, too gold. You don’t know anything about me.

You know how he is. Zen’s smile curls at the edges, brittle, like parchment pasted to vellum. Obi has always come back on his own before.

Zen will take care of it. Mitsuhide won’t meet her gaze. I’m sure Obi will be back any day now.

“Don’t worry.” It’s a miracle that the words don’t catch between her teeth, the way she’s clenching them. “I will.”

A hand wraps around a hilt. A breath shudders. And with one, swift tug--

The blade moves but an inch.

#obiyukiweek21 #obiyuki #akagami no shirayukihime #snow white with the red hair #my fic #All That Remains #snow queen au #ans #YET ANOTHER CHAPTER #WHERE I DO NOT REACH THE END OF THIS PART #it's coming guys #really it is...#...one day....#but at least you get this small glimmer of hope #FOR NOW

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asimpqueen · 4 years

Note

Heyyy, not a lot of people had made general relationship Headcanons about Okumura Rin or Yurio from Yuri on Ice so if you could do those would be great uwu, doméstic fluff Is apreciated thanks in advance

I will try for both! I had to rewatch Blue Exorcist for this one. I’m currently still on the first season but this is what I have so far.

Constructive Criticism always appreciated!

—

General (Domestic/Fluff) Relationship Headcanons:

Rin Okumura (Blue Exorcist)

Yuri Plisetsky (Yuri!!! On Ice)

—

Rin Okumura

~ If you wanted children, just know he has names picked out

~ Hates asking for help, but whenever you offer hes much more accepting

~ When sleeping, he’s always got an iron grip on your waist and holds you like he’s going to lose you

~ His favourite thing to do is make you giggle

~ He’ll make you breakfast in bed if he’s up before you

~ Y’all have lil baking competitions together and critique the other like actual judges

~ Despite his destructive behaviour, he often treats you as if you are glass

-Meaning many trips to Yuukio for help

~ He loves hearing you ramble. It’s like the only time he ever shuts up

-He’ll ask you many questions about your favourite subjects

-Yes he’ll forget everything you say to him about these subjects, but that’s okay!

-He loves the feeling he gets whenever your face lights up because to him it’s a new thing to love about you, even if you’ve already explained it a million times in reality

—

Yuri Plisetsky

~ He talks about you to his grandfather all the time, and vice versa. You two know everything about eachother before you even met

~ He’d take you to Japan to try the pork cutlet bowl

-He’ll constantly be questioning you on how you like it instead of letting you finish the food

~ Hes an empathetic babe, and even though he’s really standoffish when you’re affectionate, he loves seeing that glint in your eyes

~ Y’all are VERY competitive when it comes to Just Dance (You probably have a just dance night once a week)

~ When you are in bed, about to sleep, he’ll keep his distance unless told otherwise

-However hes very cuddly and when he knows you’re asleep and/or comfortable with him being close by he’ll curl up by your stomach like a little kitten

-Loves when you run your fingers through his hair while cuddling

~ He always pretends not to notice whenever you attend his practices or lessons with Lilia

-If you do make eye contact, he’ll look away with a scowl and deep blush

-Then he’ll misstep a couple times or mess up a few jumps, prompting Lilia to smack him on the back of the head

-It’s worth it, though, because your support to him means the world

—

Hi! Sorryy for the wait, the holiday season is something else... I hope you guys had a wonderful Christmas and if you do not celebrate Christmas, I hope you had beautiful days~

Hopefully I’ll be able to get at least one more request done by end of the week. Trying to take it easy for now. <3

Thank you! All your love and support means the world to me ^^

Sincerely,

~ M <3

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thisislizheather · 5 years

Text

March Magic

Forgive the lateness of this post, but March was a busy month so LET’S TALK ABOUT IT.

So after leaving Ipsy last year (for various reasons), I’ve missed receiving a little package every month full of makeup samples. I was all set to try Birchbox, but they wouldn’t accept a Canadian billing address so that didn’t work out. Instead I opted to give PLAY! By Sephora a chance. I was a member for three months before cancelling last week. My reason for ending it was mainly because I barely got any lipsticks or highlighters or anything FUN. I don’t know if it’s because they know that I’m in my mid-thirties or because they just have an influx of specific products, but a bitch doesn’t need twenty sample size cleansers. Not this bitch, anyway. Also, sending out a foundation sample (no matter the luxuriousness of the brand) makes ZERO sense because finding the right shade makes all the difference in the world for foundations. Also, I barely wear foundation. So I ended it. Also, am I the only one who hates getting tiny perfume samples? I feel like I have so many that I feel bad about throwing out, so I just keep them in the washroom and then use them instead of air-freshener if someone (or myself) stinks up the room (#lizadvice).

I was briefly intrigued by Frank & Oak’s clothing subscription box but decided after an hour of research that it’s probably too expensive for what you’re getting, even if the clothes are gorgeous.

Of course it was upsetting to hear that Luke Perry passed away. He was definitely one of the first men that I loved on television (god, I remember every single detail of that 90210 when his wife Rebecca Gayheart was killed). Such a good actor. So wildly attractive. And man, he was one of the best parts of Riverdale. I hate thinking about that show without him.

I absolutely love spring peas, so I made this Lemon-Basil Orzotto and it was really good.

I tried this charcoal that’s supposed to clean your makeup sponge and it was kind of annoying to use. It just takes too long to get a good lathering, and my foaming hand soap does the job much better and quicker.

I’ve only used it once so far, but I think I’m really into this Bliss Jelly Glow Peel Exfoliator that I got at Target for $10. No irritation at all and my face felt crazy smooth afterward.

I have a mini version of Sunday Riley’s Lactic Acid and it’s kind of really good, too. Only a million dollars more expensive than other good facial products! Sweet! Also, you’d think having “acid” in the name would frighten people away but I guess not. Obviously never going to buy the full size because it’s not magical or anything, but happy to have tried it.

Ate at this Mexican place Pulqueria in Chinatown that was pretty good. The location is pretty cool (very NYC out of a movie) and the inside is gorgeous. The food? Pretty decent! All in all, nothing to write home about but definitely worth remembering if you’re in the neighborhood.

Got some ice cream at Taiyaki and it was the definition of plain-as-a-dick. Nothing special here.

Finally ate at Lilia in Brooklyn! Honestly, it was really great and I can’t wait to go back. I made Nathan get the spicy lamb fettuccine so that I could try it and I got the mafaldini with pink peppercorns. His was fantastic, but mine was only so-so (it was way too al dente) - I think I just ordered badly because everything else we had was incredible. They had this herbed focaccia with ramp butter special that blew our faces off. I’ve never heard of a bread special before and it’s a brilliant idea, more restaurants should do this, people go nuts for fancy bread (myself included). The cauliflower appetizer (with spicy soppressata, sicilian pesto & majoram) was amazing and the dessert soft-serve swirl was wild. I already know what I’m ordering next time: the sheeps milk cheese filled agnolotti with saffron, dried tomato & honey. The service was of course great, and the space itself is gorgeous. No idea it used to be an auto-repair shop. Is the pasta better at L’Artusi? I’ll have to order the agnolotti before I answer that question. One must be well informed before making such declarations.

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A post shared by Lilia Ristorante (@lilianewyork) on Mar 4, 2019 at 5:56am PST

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A post shared by Lilia Ristorante (@lilianewyork) on Mar 19, 2019 at 10:38am PDT

On my birthday, I took advantage of a free-facial offered from Smith & Brit in the city and it was beyond lovely. Claire (the owner) is such a fantastic woman who really knows what she’s doing and she made it such a wonderful experience.

I also took advantage of the free birthday brow arch they offer at all Benefit locations and whoa. I almost exclusively thread my eyebrows every few months, so I was excited to have them waxed for a change. I have pretty sensitive forehead skin, so I did have tiny bumps around my eyebrows for a few days afterward, but it still was worth it. They do an “eyebrow map” of how your eyebrows would best look and then wax them accordingly. And then they follow that with filling them in with Benefit products. I usually use a combination of Colourpop’s brow pencil and Milani’s waxier eyebrow pencil, but when she used the Benefit eyebrow gel wand, I was floored at how much fuller they looked. Really considering buying the mini and seeing if I can achieve that same look. Look how full!

Above Photo: Excuse the horrifying closeness of the above photo

I tried both 2019 birthday gifts from Sephora and Ulta, and talked about both of them here.

I watched all of Shrill in one evening and I can’t imagine not watching it that way. It’s perfect. I can’t stop playing this song on repeat, WHY IS IT ONLY ONE MINUTE? Other thoughts: I had no idea that the morning-after pill doesn’t work for women over 175 pounds, that’s insane!? The mother/daughter storyline is so well done it hurts. ALL of the outfits on pretty much every single woman are so fucking lovely. I rewatched that one part with the woman in red walking and buying flowers over and over it just made me so happy, I can’t describe why. And the pool party episode? I may have sobbed through some of it, and not in a sad way but in a cathartic way. It just made me feel so many things at once. Mostly about how sometimes you feel invisible if you’re self conscious or self-loathing about your body, and you feel like you don’t matter unless you fit into this idea of what you think people expect you to look like and how if you don’t fit into that, then you’re essentially a worthless piece of garbage, so you treat yourself that way on a daily basis. And how this type of thinking can last you a lifetime because it’s all you’ve allowed yourself to believe for years and years. There are so many ways that a person can feel inadequate or less than, and it’s so internally normalized because you truly believe that you’re not good enough and you never will be. It’s a depressing way to live and so many women especially live this way, myself included obviously. So that whole episode really just felt like a fucking dream of a reality. I really hope there will be more episodes of the series, I’ve never related to a television show more in my life.

I tried the watermelon makeup wipes from Sephora and even though they smell amazing, they don’t take off all of your makeup. Pass. The Avon one is still my all-time favourite.

I tried the cleansing pads from First Aid Beauty and they’re tingly, fun and great. Perfect alternative for when you don’t feel like washing your face. I don’t know if that’s their intent, but that’s how I’m using them.

Nathan’s second album came out on iTunes! Buy it! Love it! Or not! Do you!

I’ve been having trouble sleeping and one thing that has helped? Taking a hot shower before bed. Is this such common knowledge that I’m a moron? Maybe. In any case, very happy to have learned this.

Started and finished watching the final season of Broad City and it was really, really good. I always forget how good this show is. I wish it existed when I was a teenager.

Practically in LUST with Trader Joe’s Everything But The Bagel Seasoning. I’m so late to this party, but at least I finally got there. I’ve only even tried it on top of some buttered bread and I was floored at how good it is.

Can’t stop rewatching all the old Ready or Not episodes on YouTube. Also, Degrassi Junior High.

You know how sometimes you have irrationally dumb opinions on things you know nothing about? That was me with dry shampoo. I didn’t really understand it. Also, I thought it was exclusively for white women, I don’t know why? Obviously I tried some (this Amika one) and I mean… it’s kind of spectacular. I maybe shouldn’t have discovered it because I might never wash my hair again.

I visited the Everlane store in Soho (because apparently YouTube ads really do work on me) and even though it’s beautifully minimalist, it’s way too overpriced.

Tried the pizza at Lions & Tigers & Squares Detroit Pizza and it was really good. They don’t offer single slices, but it’s the perfect place to go with someone to split one. So in love with Detroit style lately. (Also, can I accept world-wide-credit for the massive amounts of pepperoni pieces you’re seeing on pizzas these days?! I’ve been ordering triple-pepperoni-well-done pizzas for DECADES and I’ve been harshly judged endlessly because of it and LOOK AT WHERE WE ARE NOW! Full credit.)

Above Photo: Pepperoni pizza from Lions & Tigers & Squares, NYC

The penultimate episode of this season of This Is Us was wildly good. There was so much relatable couple stuff, it’s so hard to even get into if you didn’t see the episode/don’t care about the show, but if you did? Email me. I could talk about it for an hour, it was so well done. It’s essentially about the give and take in a relationship and about how it’s rarely equal, and man… so, so well done. Loved every minute.

Remember how I tried and liked Bumble & Bumble’s Thickening Spray? Well, I still do but definitely don’t spray it on your roots, it works much better if you use it sparsely on the rest of your hair when damp. Maybe that’s already obvious but I’m very new to using any hair products, so forgive my stupidity.

SO excited for Jenny Slate’s new book.

I went to Beacon’s Closet for the first time and whoa. I didn’t find anything I loved, but it’s definitely one of those places you should stop in every once in awhile to see what’s there. The space is a little overwhelming, but the things that I’ve seen people get from there are gorgeous and so inexpensive.

I tried to find my colour in the Fenty collection of concealers and nothing matched, but it’s not a huge deal since I’m happy with the NARS one I’ve been using. And speaking of concealers, Colourpop just released their own and they were kind of good?? Again, I still prefer the NARS one, but the Colourpop one is actually kind of good, especially for being $6.

Finally ate at Raclette and I don’t think I’ll be returning. There are basic rules for making a good grilled cheese. I mean, I’m no scientist but you should be able to hold up the sandwich. And that just didn’t happen here. I had to use a knife and fork, which is… sad. Astoria Bier & Cheese understands these rules and still remains the best place to go if you’re in the mood for one.

I accidentally tried smoked salmon for the first time and it was really good, who the hell knew? Apparently everyone but me. I’ve never ordered it because I really only fake-like cooked salmon, so why the hell would I like it uncooked or *shudder* smoked? Also, it looks so gross! I should’ve known better though because it’s almost always true that if something looks gross, it probably tastes amazing. That’s a thing, yeah?

I tried samples (because I own a million fucking samples of every cream on planet earth) of Kiehl’s avocado eye cream and passssssss. It left my under eyes crazy red and zombie-like, so never again.

Bought a new white living room carpet from Carpet Factory Outlet on the Upper East Side and it was so cheap and great, have to keep this place in mind.

Absolutely hate this Tarte mascara, it stays on your lashes for days after you think you’ve washed it off and I don’t know why anyone would want that.

Since I’ll forever love Trader Joe’s, we tried the new broccoli and kale pizza crust and it’s even better than the cauliflower crust that we love. This one also doesn’t burn as easily in the oven as the cauliflower one, so I think this is the new favourite.

There’s a new flavour of banana pudding at Magnolia Bakery: chocolate hazelnut. It was sold out when I tried to get it, but I did get a sample and yikes. Obviously it’s the greatest.

Ate at Al Di La in Brooklyn and it was not fantastic. Their version of “gnocchi” was confusing and 1000% too spinachy. The tagliatelle al ragu (below) was obviously good, but, like, it’s so hard to fuck that up.

Above Photo: Tagliatelle Al Ragu at Al Di La, Brookyn, New York

Found this lovely-as-hell store in Park Slope, Habit. Literally everything felt and looked beautiful. In love with this one specific brand they had.

Went to a Mortified show with Harmeet who was visiting me, and it was good! We only stayed for the first half because honestly my feet hurt and we were standing and I think we both just decided, “Yeah, we get it… we’re good” and then went to Ample Hills Creamery around the corner. Love it when friends decide to leave an event early together for something more fun, not enough people do this.

FINALLY made it to Daily Provisions. Maple cruller? Heavenly. Everything-bagel-flavoured croissant injected with cream cheese? Delightful. Danny Meyer continues to do no wrong. Favourite breakfast place in Union Square.

Above Photo: Maple Cruller from Daily Provisions, Union Square, New York City

Still very much in love with this song, and as I was listening to it one day I started reading the comments as I was listening and this one YouTube comment… my god. So sweet. Maybe parts of it are definitely corny or too much or something, but my god, in the moment, I loved it:

“I heard this song when I woke up un-groggy for the first time after an abortion. It was the first time I heard it. And riding in the car beside my Mom, who had been pro-choice her entire life until the moment she was staring that decision right in the face, both of us were silent the entire song. Through every lyric, it was as if Sara had written a eulogy of my life. Everything we had been through, everything I had suffered. Everything I had seen. Every time I had to grow up sooner than I should have. Everything I had to push to the back of my mind so I didn’t lose myself completely. Everything surfaced through these lyrics. This will just be another comment lost among this thread. But if someone happens to read it - if someone who NEEDS to see this comment see’s it - know that things will always be better. TIME HEALS ALL. Even if it seems as though no one would care if you were gone. Even if it seems as though you have no purpose in this world. YOU MATTER. It doesn’t matter how many mistakes you have made. It doesn’t matter how many times you have sworn to God “you’d change” if he just forgave you for this one mistake. Hell. Even if you don’t believe in God. If you don’t know what to believe, if you’re lost, if you don’t know what to do - just keep going. Keep doing. Keep moving in any direction that is away from the heartache and pain that keeps you tied down. Let go of the past. Let go of the fear and hurt your heart endures on a daily basis. Just keep living. Keep going. Forgive. Never forget. Learn from your mistakes. Better yourself. Live for you. Find your happiness. Love unconditionally. Live.” — Shelby Grimm

Went to Momofuku Noodle Bar for the second time and it was so much better than the first time. I also ordered better. The chilled spicy noodles with sichuan sausage, thai basil & cashews (shown below) were incredible and I tried some of the broth of the spicy beef ramen that Harmeet ordered and holy shit, it was good. I’m still too… not into the idea of ramen, but that broth was fucking nuts. ALSO, their dessert special (caramelized white chocolate pie with hazelnut and puffed rice was F-U-C-K-I-N-G memorable (also below). Christ.

Above Photo: Chilled Spicy Noodles from Momofuku Noodle Bar, NYC

Above Photo: Caramelized White Chocolate Pie from Momofuku Noodle Bar, NYC

A few months ago I got dinner at Pil Pil on the Upper East Side and since it was good, I stopped in there for lunch recently and it’s probably the best lunch I’ve had in that area for sure. There’s a $4 happy hour sangria special and their lamb sliders are incredible. The fries are maybe my favourite restaurant fries in the city, they’re so crispy and drizzled with this spicy aioli and they also have a chocolate-hazelnut dessert cake that is unbelievable. I know it sounds like I love everything everywhere, but I swear I don’t.

There is a place in NYC where you can rent out really nice digital cameras for 24 hours FOR FREE and no one knows about it (the only hiccup is that you need to have state-issued ID). Sony Square is a “public space committed to showcasing innovations in products, music, movies and gaming” - which essentially means that every few weeks they change up their aesthetic to showcase new Sony products, but the camera-rental service is an always-available option. Insanely cool thing to offer.

Found amazingly soft and comfortable leggings (cheap too!) at Aerie (thank you Marla!) that I will exclusively buy from now on. (No more trash Aritzia leggings that disintegrate every three months!) Bought some of their workout pants too that have pockets (!) that were incredibly soft, too.

I saw the movie Us and really liked it. Mostly because yeah, it’s a good movie. But also because IT’S AN ORIGINAL MOVIE. I’m so sick of remakes and superhero movies that I love it when movies like this get made. I know it’s classified as a horror movie, but it’s not really, in my opinion. Plus I love when you finish watching a movie and you want to come home immediately and research as much about it as possible. It’s good, go see it!

Harmeet and I went to Manhatta for lunch (because apparently I have a Danny Meyer obsession) and it exceeded all expectations. First of all, it’s not crazy expensive despite the fact that it’s in the fucking sky (60th floor). We got the mushroom soup, the scotch snails with pork sausage in garlic butter and the French onion burger and everything was amazing. Service was perfect. Views are insane. Perfect place to take someone who’s visiting, especially for lunch. Will definitely go back.

Above Photo: View from Manhatta, NYC

Above Photo: Harmeet! In all her beauty!

Above Photo: French Onion Burger from Manhatta, NYC

Lastly, I watched the Leaving Neverland documentary on HBO. I also watched all the episodes of Surviving R. Kelly. I watched both of these within a few days and I don’t recommend anyone viewing all of these things in such a short amount of time unless you want to cry endlessly and (irrationally? Or understandably?) loathe an entire gender for a few days. And look, if you know anything about me, you know what a huge fan I am of Michael Jackson. From his music to the connection of meeting Nathan, I’ve forever loved this man in the way that all of his fans love him. For years I would think (and sometimes, ugh, say) “I don’t know that man personally. I don’t want to know about his personal life. I can’t judge him if I don’t know him.” And I’d say these things as a way of deflecting from the fact that I didn’t want those beautiful songs tarnished in my mind, as dumb as that sounds. And in an extremely similar way, I acted the same with R. Kelly. I didn’t WANT to take “When A Woman Loves” off of my iPod for years because I didn’t want to believe someone who could sing so beautifully could be some kind of monster, which makes zero sense but seems like a rational thought to people who still don’t believe these victims. The way that we worship these artists/abusers, without actually knowing anything about them (or sometimes knowing complete details of their abuse), wanting them to continue to achieve success no matter what the cost, is so unhealthy and odd and is part of a larger culture that is already designed to idolize anyone with status or more money than us. I didn’t want to watch Neverland. I knew it’d be bad. I only took down my Woody Allen poster in my childhood bedroom last year (to be fair, I don’t live there, but this should’ve happened years ago). I rarely spoke up in favor of these men, but I did stay silent when they were discussed because that was easier to do and basically what most everyone else was doing and made it feel acceptable, which is awful. I feel horrible that it took this many years for victims to be believed and it makes me sick that I’m apart of the group of people who made it impossible for victims to be heard. As hard as these things were to watch, I think they’re wildly important to see.

This one part from Surviving R. Kelly sums up one of the problems so well.

“Our society tends to compartmentalize the things we don’t want to look at, and magnifies and glorifies the things that we do. For example, if an individual is providing something to the society as music, cinema, politics - we’re more likely to compartmentalize the negative behavior and minimize it, as a way of accepting what they’re contributing.”

Jesus, a lot happened in March. Excited for April! Some upcoming things that you can expect in next month’s post: I’m going to start taking collagen (I’ve heard it helps hair growth), a family trip to Niagara Falls, a Best of Astoria post & thoughts on the new Twilight Zone. Hello, April!

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yoiotdfics · 6 years

Text

Fic Rec List July 2017

R & R (Risk and Ruination)

fishingclocks

Summary:

On the floor by Yuuri’s bed, there is a forlorn little beep, as Yuuri receives his fifteenth unanswered notification of the morning.

One of them from his fiance.

One of them reading ‘YUURI!! TAKE THE DAY OFF!!! YOU’VE BEEN WORKING HARD AND I LOVE YOU BYE’ followed by a copious amount of varying heart emojis.

Going ignored, the screen goes dark.

Of Office Blunders

BunniesofDoom

Summary:

Yuuri accidentally sends a picture to his boss that he really shouldn’t have sent. AU.

“OOC MY ASS!”

preciousbunnynoiz

Summary:

Yuuri secretly writes fanfiction, including Victor Nikiforov/Katsuki Yuuri fanfiction and some asshole keeps telling him he writes too OOC.

Yuuri hates him so much

I’m Pretty Much Fucked

monstersinthecosmos

Summary:

Quick drabble about getting ready to have company over. :)

If you can’t take the heat…

mtothedestiel

Summary:

Stay tuned, coming up next it’s Top Chef: International! Join thirteen chefs from around the globe as they battle it out for glory and prizes in the one and only New York City (and share all their innermost thoughts along the way!) Who will emerge victorious, and who will burn out?? Heartwarming triumphs, devastating eliminations, and even ~forbidden romance~ are all coming your way on this showstopping season of Top Chef!

To Worship and Be Worshipped

Unforth

Summary:

Tumblr ficlet written to the prompt: Yuuri as god/deity of some sort and Victor as a completely besotted worshipper

Déjà Vu

KasumiChou

Summary:

“Are you planning to sleep all day?”

A voice questioned with a soft chuckle. A chuckle that set his heart alight.

Victor lay there for a moment, a feeling of déjà vu overtaking him.

Warning: Major Character Death

Soul Loop

Cherry101

Summary:

It was almost funny, how easily it was to watch the day restart.

At this point… it was even common. Every few weeks, there would be a day that would repeat itself. Once, twice, three times, and then everything would go back to normal.

Otabek knew what it was, but he didn’t know what to do about it.

All The Beauties In His Hands

WinterSky101

Summary:

The wedding of Jean-Jacques Leroy and Isabella Yang is the wedding of the century.

Load Paper Tray 1

esutonia

Summary:

Perhaps, Victor realized, they were all gifted in their own ways. The way that Victor could charm the ancient, malfunctioning Xerox into producing perfect packets was perhaps the same way that Yuuri could print carts of brochures but not once refill the paper trays.

Soulmates/Office AU: Everyone has a little magic in them, but soulmates’ powers complete each other. Soulmates don’t know they’re meant for each other, until they figure out how their powers fit together. Victor and Yuuri work for the same company, and end up together with the help of a particularly old, obnoxious Xerox.

we have at least eleven minutes

spicyyuuri

Summary:

just a quickie between gala performances. no big deal, right?

nsfw victuuri week ♔ day two ♔ clothes

Ache

Val_Creative

Summary:

She misses everything about Minako. Hasetsu isn’t the same — too quiet, too empty of joy and laughter.

rouge my knees and roll my stockings down

alykapedia

Summary:

“It’s just that only whores wear the knot in front,” Yuuri says, stepping in close to breathe in Viktor’s intoxicating scent before peering up at him through lowered lashes and affecting an accent he’s heard during one of his and Phichit’s ill-advised jaunts to Covent Garden. “Did you want me to be your whore, milord?”

(Or: A morning well-spent with Lord Nikiforov and his expensive whore.)

At First Bite

opalish

Summary:

“Phichit,” Yuuri said slowly, noting that the hamsters currently had fangs. Tiny, needle-sharp fangs. “Did you name your hamsters Spikester, Hamsticula, and Edward Cullen II because they actually drink the blood of the innocent?”

“Oh, you caught that?” Phichit asked with a winning smile.

The Track

YuriPirozhki (AceOfSpace)

Summary:

JJ liked to think that one day, he could realise his goal of skating flawlessly to a program and song that he’d put together by himself. That would be the day when he’d be more than just Jean-Jacques Leroy, the son of ice dancing’s power couple. He’d be JJ Leroy: Record breaker, history maker, and one of a kind. He was convinced that his new guitar would help him to get there.

places to go, sights to see

Mayarene Rose (Paradise_of_Mary_Jane)

Summary:

This is what Yuuri knows: There is a giant green monster blob, a man with a blue box, and a planet called Barcelona. Also there’s time travel.

(“Time and Relative Dimension in Space,” the Doctor had proudly explained which made absolutely no sense. But then, nothing in the past hour had made any kind of sense so Yuuri’s willing to go with it.

It’s probably not a dream. Probably.)

Boof? Boof.

JMonCheri

Summary:

Makkachin tells us on how Viktuuri sexy times go down.

WARNING: EXTREMELY explicit. Don’t read unless you want to nut your intestines out.

Soft Things

airspaniel

Summary:

Yuri dresses up, with a little help.

Always Looking Out for You

TripCreates

Summary:

Mari walks over to the closet to start getting things out. She reaches for a box up on a shelf and she begins to pull it toward her. Once it slides off the edge, some sheets of paper slip off the shelf from underneath the box and drift to the floor. Mari laughs as she sees the familiar Viktor posters land on the floor. “I was wondering where those went.”

~~~ Or Mari helps Yuuri pack up his room as he gets ready to move to St. Petersburg to be with Viktor.

love is blind(folded)

hamartiawrites

Summary:

It’s the day of Viktor and Yuuri’s wedding.

Everything looks perfect. The decorations are perfect, every single visitor looks stunning, and Phichit is certain Yuuri will look absolutely breathtaking when those big doors at the end of the hall open.

There’s just one problem, and unfortunately, it’s a big one.

The groom, Viktor Nikiforov? The five time world champion? The Living Legend? The most decorated men’s figure skater in history?

Yeah, he looks downright ridiculous.

(Or the time where Phichit thought Viktor wanted to hurt Yuuri when all Viktor wanted to do was hurt himself with Yuuri’s beauty.)

My Favorite Shape

thoughtsappear

Summary:

Isabella has never doubted Yuri Plisetsky’s animal magnetism.

Firebird

LavenderProse

Summary:

“It’s almost like a marriage proposal,” Viktoria says, and the thing is—the thing is, if Viktoria wanted it to be, Yuri would make it one. If Viktoria had asked, “Is that a marriage proposal?” Yuri would have unhesitatingly said yes. She would have lowered herself onto a knee before Viktoria in Fukuoka Airport, the officially certified least romantic place in the world, and said Viktoria Konstantinovna Nikiforova, please—please—

(Yuri doesn’t know if Viktoria will stay. She wants her to. She wants her to want to. But she doesn’t want to be the only thing holding Viktoria here. Life for Yuri Katsuki is, as always, Hard.)

Cherry

sophiahelix

Summary:

Now Mila turns to look at her, blue eyes open and bright. She offers the cigarette back, pinched between two fingertips lacquered red as her lips, and quirks a smile, sarcastic and knowing. “You mean you don’t support your brother no matter what?”

“Hmph,” Mari snorts, and takes the cigarette back.

Situation Status: Possibly Awesome

ineptshieldmaid

Summary:

It’s early in the season, his first year competing in the Grand Prix as a senior, and Kenji is in a Situation.

We’ll Always Have Paris

Teuthida

Summary:

Lilia recognized her, of course.

The Struggles of Living with Viktor Nikiforov

Minipandacakes

Summary:

Yuuri had imagined life with Viktor in St. Petersburg as being a perfect blur of snuggles and laughter and kisses. And while he was right, he wasn’t quite prepared for the frustration that comes right along with the happiness when you first make a home with your partner. This one-shot is made up of a trio of short stories I couldn’t resist writing out. Enjoy!~

Blades of a Ballet Dancer

Katrinova

Summary:

When word gets out that Yuuri helped create his record breaking routine Yuri On Ice, the world wants to know if he thinks he could do solo work. Yuuri says no, everyone else disagrees. Obviously, everyone else is a traitor.

Part of Yuuri Week 2017 Day 4- [Theme: On Ice]

Strut For Me

Katrinova

Summary:

“Darling, as your coach and choreographer it is also my job to make sure you get the exposure you deserve!” Or, there were aspects of being a world champion figure skater Yuuri was not prepared for. At all.

Part of Yuuri Week 2017 Day 5- [Theme: Eros]

Tweet tweet - Yuuri Week Day 7

hazelandglasz

Summary:

In which Yuuri should never be left alone with a full bottle of vodka and a fully charged phone

[Player] is Suffering From Thirst. [Player] is Well Again.

counterheist

Summary:

“Tell him you’re a blacksmith, Yuuri, tell him you’re good with your hands.”

“…but I’m not a blacksmith?” Phichit is a blacksmith. Yuuri used to make saddles and gaze longingly at daguerreotypes of men wearing the newest shirt collar designs. Now he gazes longingly at Russian immigrants. Maybe he’ll see Nikiforov wearing a new shirt at the next Fort. Maybe he’ll drown at a river crossing first.

Who’s to say?

Crop Top Distraction

nerdlife4eva

Summary:

When Yuuri, Phichit, Victor, and Yurio take a vacation to an all-inclusive resort, Victor’s and Yurio’s fans begin to monopolize their time. Even though Yuuri is understanding, he easily goes along with Phichit’s plan to regain Victor’s attention. These dorks fall in pools over each other. Yuuri is in a crop top, Phichit is in a crop top. Victor is lucky to be alive.

This is part of YuuriWeek and the amazing art is thanks to my insanely talented friend Magical-Mistral please go give this artist some love and watch for our future collabs!!

not in service

PuggleFiclets (Pugglemuggle)

Summary:

“You know what they say…” Yuri replies. “If you crack the ice once, you better be ready to shatter the whole motherfucking pond.” In a dictatorship dominated by the International Skating Union, Yuri was bound to end up in prison sooner or later. He isn’t planning to stay there, though. No—Yuri’s got bigger plans.

#yuri on ice #yoi #fic rec list #July 2017

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yurio-plisetksy · 7 years

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Underestimated: Yuri Plisetsky x Reader

Request: Head cannon/ scenario were Yurio has to take more ballet classes 1 on 1 with the top student/dancer who's like a little chubby so he doubts they can do anything but then sees they're actually so much better than him??? If that makes sense????

The sensation of his muscles burning under the surface if his skin wasn’t unfamiliar at all. The uncomfortable stretch as he forced his body into impossible curves had been his practice since he was little. But his new coach had managed to surpass his limits.

“Fully stretch your feet, Yura. I can see you slacking.”

Yuri rolled his eyes in response, not exactly agreeing on the slacking part since he was giving it his all. He just wasn’t able to bend them at such an angle, and she was asking him the impossible. He couldn’t give her what she expected of him, and it was getting more and more frustrating the longer practice went on. When the moment arrived when his muscles were shaking under the intensity of his forced stance, and there were beads of sweat rolling down the curve of his nose, she stepped up to him with a threatening look.

Her slender fingers wrapped around his ankle, and with a harsh flick of her wrist she twisted it.

“Fuck!” Yuri called out, referring towards the cramp that twisted into the muscle of his feet. His toes curled down, and as much as he wanted to stretch it again and get rid of the pain, his coach was eyeing his form with disapproval in her eyes.

“I can’t work with you if you’re not able to give me a perfect form. I know that you’ve been participating in this ballet class for a while, but you have only improved this much.”

She pulled her hand back, and at the sound of her fingers snapping Yuri released himself from the cruel position, and loudly groaned as he stretched his foot back into comfort.

“I’ve been practicing at least 5 hours a day… what more do you want from me?!” The Russian plopped himself down on the floor of her studio. He angrily tugged the shoes from his feet and sighed in relief as he finally freed them from the tight material they were trapped in. It didn’t surprise him that droplets of crimson began to stain the floor, he just needed to remind himself to clean it up as he left.

“I know, Yuri. It has been tough… that’s why I’m assigning you another teacher.” Her back was turned to him, her form perfect as ever as she scribbled a number and a name on a small piece of paper. Yuri eyed her once she returned to him, and grabbed the note that was handed to him.

“Another teacher? So you’re saying I will be working on my ballet even more… Fucking great.”

“___?”

At the mention of your name you turned towards the skater, already expecting him as your teacher had asked you for a favor. You offered him a smile, already eyeing his form as he walked up to you to greet you with a firm handshake.

“Yes, that’s me. You must be Yuri. Nice to meet you…” He eyed you with a hesitant look in his eyes. You were not what he had been expecting at all. Like his coach, most ballet dancers had straight, skinny and sharp structures in their build. Legs representing only muscle and almost no sign of fat whatsoever. But your curves were the exact opposite of that stereotype, and he wondered if you were even capable of attaining such form as the usual ballet dancers.

“Yeah, sure…. So, are you the one who’s going to teach me?” It had happened before that people questioned you about your abilities, but you knew you were one of the top dancers of your class. And really, doing such an art with a body type that was labeled as ‘not proper’ for this sport was already difficult by itself.

“Before you’re gonna judge me, you should see what I’m capable of first.” A standard response to people who didn’t believe that you actually could dance. Yuri held his hands above his hands in defense, trying to act like you didn’t just read his thoughts. But after thinking about your statement you figured that maybe he should show you what he could do first, so you knew what level you were working with.

“I take that back, do you have anything choreographed yet that you could show me?” Yuri, who was seated on the ground whilst tying his pointe shoes, shrugged in response, and that wasn’t really something that gave you enough information if he did or not. So you assumed he came prepared and asked him on what song he wanted to perform.

As he handed you a Cd from his bag, you eyed his messily tied shoes with a disapproving look. But as he didn’t seem like the type to be fond of subtle criticism, you spared yourself a snappy remark by just placing the Cd into the player without saying another word. You motioned towards the center of the room, calling out for him to position himself in his first stance.

“All right, show me what you got.”

“... I mean… that wasn’t bad at all…” You smiled as the Russian ended his choreography, chest heaving up and down as he quickly got rid of the returning cramp in his leg by stretching for a bit. You handed him some water, along with the tip to stay hydrated to refrain him from getting muscle spasms.

“I’ve been doing ballet since I was little, so it’s not like I’m still struggling to keep up. It’s just that my coach thinks my form isn’t perfected yet and I don’t look beautiful while dancing…” For some reason getting this explanation from him felt somewhat relieving, as if he knew that there was still room for improvement and that he actually wanted to perfect his routine.

You chuckled at his words, crouching down next to him as he drank from the water bottle.

“First of all, let’s try to smile as we dance. That by itself will make your routine a tad bit more beautiful…” You offered your own smile as an example, and he just stared up at you with regret in his eyes, probably mentally cursing at his coach for setting him up with miss. sunshine, aka you.

He didn’t like ballet, he liked ice skating. That’s why he barely smiled while dancing. You furrowed your eyebrows at his unimpressed expression. A exhausted sigh made its way past your lips and you knew teaching this kid was gonna be a big task. You could already feel your energy draining from your body as he yawned under your gaze.

But if miss sunshine wasn’t going to work, then you’d go for lady badass and stricten your teaching. You weren’t going to waste your time by putting up with his rebellious attitude, and he didn’t have to expect your coöperation if he wasn’t cooperating himself.

Yuri jumped at the sound of your hands coming together, the aura around your presence changing as he averted his gaze back to your face. Your lips curled into a smirk, hands finding each other behind your back while you straightened your shoulders.

“Let’s get started, shall we?”

Yuri had underestimated you, and from the bottom of his heart he felt like apologizing for his quick judgement. He couldn’t deny that the way your body moved caused his heart to skip a beat, and to say you were talented was still an understatement.

You were a prodigy. A miracle still waiting to be discovered. To be judged by professionals for your dance instead of your body type. But the world of dance wasn’t fair, and you had to adjust yourself to be able to be taken seriously at all.

Before he started this class he had thought of Lilia to be the toughest, strictest trainer there was, but under your gaze he felt much more tense. The way your eyes scanned every single movement of his body, the way your voice echoed through the room as you instructed him to straighten his leg, and the clap of your hands when he needed to start over was causing shivers up his spine. But improvement was being made, and he definitely noticed.

His muscles became less and less sore as his limbs got used to the familiar stretches, and he was getting less and less tired as he finished his performance.

The real satisfaction came when you told him that he was the most beautiful dancer you’d seen in awhile. He actually smiled when you complimented him,genuine and sweet to which you wondered why he would hide it behind his rebellious attitude.

He was a constant tease as well, always commenting on the way you stuttered as you complimented him, or shooting a quick whistle in your direction as you removed your shirt to reveal the tank top underneath. It caused you to go red from time to time, and you caught yourself looking forward to spending time with him as he continued his banter.

“That was really good… I think I’m done teaching you…” You spoke, as he showed you his perfected, improved routine. He smiled, teeth bare for you to see how genuine it was and a small chuckle confirming that fact as well.

“I think there’s still one thing left to do…” An raised eyebrow came from you in response to his vague statement. You motioned him to spill his secretive words, and when he did, warmth began to rise to your cheeks.

“___, would you like to go out sometime?”

It wasn’t like you didn’t expect this to happen, it was more like you hadn’t expected him to ask you at this moment. Just after he finished his routine, and he was still somewhat out of breath.

It took you a moment to realise he was still waiting for you answer.

“Y-Yes. I’d love to Yuri…”

#yuri plisetsky #yuri plisetsky imagine #yoi #yoi imagine #imagine

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aurum-auri · 7 years

Text

The Hatchling

First | Next

The eggshell fractured like breaking glass, and Victor heard a soft croak from within.

He looked to the dragon nearest to him, the massive, white-scaled behemoth that barely squeezed inside the cave. Bogatyr looked upon his offspring with the proudest gaze in his eyes, warm despite the cold, carved-from-ice quality of his face.

Victor felt a sudden wave of jealousy. The egg darkened, and Victor’s eyes snapped back to it in fear. “No no, come on, come on out,” Victor whispered. The egg slowly softened back to soft rose-pink hues, and Victor chewed his lower lip in awe.

Another fracture spiderwebbed along the surface. Something poked through the top, pointed and sharp. The two dragons began to hum, rumbling with a low musicality that Victor could feel in his bones. Victor tried to join, but his voice was too high to match the song. He murmured soft encouragement to the hatchling, begging it to come out. He could barely speak.

Reverence stole his tongue as the creature finally emerged. It was messy and wet with the contents of its egg, something quickly resolved with a few swipes from its mother’s tongue. Victor almost couldn’t breathe.

He’d hatched it. He’d hatched a dragon egg. Standing before him on shaky legs, there was a hatchling the size of a large dog, its scales leathery-looking and soft, colored like the fresh pink petals of a flower. It looked up at him. Its eyes were large and silvery-white like its father’s. Something in Victor’s world tilted.

“She’s beautiful,” he breathed. She gave a few hesitant beats of her wings and croaked, blinking at him. She almost seemed to be smiling.

“Isn’t she?” the woman breathed, and Victor could have sworn he almost saw the hints of a smile.

“No matter how many eggs you see hatch, it never loses that feeling, does it?” Yakov mumbled, and even he looked a little awed. “She needs a name. Feel free to sleep on it, boy, but don’t wait too long. Give her a good, strong name. Something that suits her, alright?”

Victor nodded in wonder. The little dragonling hobbled forward toward Victor. She nuzzled at his hand, her scaled muzzle soft under his fingers.

Victor’s heart soared.

“The letter, Lilia,” Yakov said.

The woman clucked her tongue at him. “Everything in its proper time.” But she still reached into her coat and pulled out a thick, parchment envelope sealed with a wax crest. She extended it to Victor. “Your parents will need to know what is expected of you, having hatched this egg, and what accommodations they should be prepared in the town-”

VIctor’s shoulders fell. “... Oh, right. Sure. I’ll make sure they… get it.” He took the letter just as the hatchling stumbled forward, butting up against Victor’s free hand. A little smile broke over his lips.

“How will we get home?” Victor asked, gazing back at the mouth of the cave. The howling wind kicked up snow at the entrance, making it almost impossible to see more than a few feet outside. But even if the wind hadn’t been viciously swirling, it wouldn’t have been possible to make out Victor’s town far, far in the distance.

The little dragon hatching croaked at him again, and Victor pulled her into his arms. She seemed to like when he scratched her behind the ears, right above the frill around her neck. She was so beautiful she hurt to look at, a precious thing with pink scales fading to a dusky rose at the edges of her wings. Tiny horns poked out the top of her skull.

“She’ll fly,” Lilia said. “She might be too small to ride, but every dragon must have their first flight, and there’s no better time to learn than now. “

“What? So soon?” Victor sputtered. He hugged her close. Outside the cave, just past the cottage, there was a sheer cliff face. Victor couldn’t imagine they’d push the hatchling off the edge, but from the determined look on Lilia’s face… “She only just hatched!”

Lilia strode out of the cave with her shoulders back, not looking to see if anyone followed.

Unconcerned, the hatchling rooted around Victor’s clothes, sniffing him and exploring with tiny claws. Bogatyr nosed at the hatchling, pushing both her and Victor toward the cave’s entrance. There was no choice but to go.

Victor saw Lilia emerge from the cottage with a small burlap sack in hand. “This is how we will train,” she said. She reached inside and pulled out a large, brilliantly red apple. “Zmeya, fly,” she commanded, tossing an apple in the air.

The red dragon burst from the cave, flying hard and fast to snap the apple up and plunge off the cliff. Victor stumbled to the edge, watching in wonder as the red dragon snapped her wings out and started to glide outward, circling on an updraft to land beside them once more.

Lilia passed Victor a few apples, and he struggled to juggle them in his arms. The hatchling never took her eyes off her mother until Victor worked one into his hand. “I just… feed her one? She’ll eat apples?” he asked doubtfully.

“Dragons will eat many of the same things you will. The prefer sheep and goats, of course, and meat in general, but enjoy small treats such as fruits on occasion.”

Victor stared at the dragon doubtfully, but offered her one of the apples all the same. The hatchling studied it inquisitively for a moment, giving it a hesitant nip before suddenly snapping it up whole. She crunched noisily at it, spattering juice into the snow, making happy huurrring sounds as she did so.

Victor laughed and offered another, tossing it up into the air. The small dragon hopped left and right, bounding in the snow before leaping upward to snap it up. It bounced off her nose and landed in the snow piles. She dove in after it, coming up covered in powder and smacking her jaws delightedly.

“Now throw one off the edge,” Yakov said.

Victor froze. The hatching was still hopping around him, happy as a lark. Victor’s gaze rolled out over the cliffside where Zmeya had demonstrated. The sheer cliff face fell down, down, down, hundreds of feet. At the foot of the cliffs, the snowy ground was dotted with slate colored rocks jutting out, threatening death if one should happen to fall.

Victor was going to be sick. “I- I can’t-” he sputtered, holding the apples close. The hatchling tried to nose one out of his hands, and he turned away. “What if she doesn’t make it, what if something happens?”

“Then that’s life,” Yakov said harshly. “She will never fly if you have doubts in her. Believe that she can, and she will find a way, it is that simple. Trust in yourself as much as you trust in her. It is the only advice we can give you. The rest is up to her.”

Victor glanced down at the menacing cliff face, then at the cheerful pink dragon hopping around him, rooting for access to the apples. She’d swiped one when he wasn’t looking, and now she knew there were more.

Victor pressed his cheek into her neck, wrapping an arm around her. “I believe in you,” he said. “Please, please be okay.”

Victor closed his eyes, pulling out another apple. He waved it around to catch her eye. After a moment, her full attention was on him. Her wings pulsed lightly in the air, tail lashing at the snow. Such an innocent little thing.

Victor winced, and he tossed the apple over the side. The hatchling didn’t hesitate, pitching herself off the edge.

Victor dropped the apples and threw himself at the edge. He had to see. He had to know, even if the result was a smear of crimson below. His breath caught. “Open your wings,” he cried. “Please, please, you can do it.”

She twisted in the sky, wriggling helplessly, and Victor let out an anguished scream.

She was falling.

#yoifantasyweek #day one #YOI #dragons #Dragon Rider AU #cliff hanger #dragon ficlets #auri writes #ficlet #apples are so tempting aren't they #i'll try and post the next piece tomorrow

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diem-writes · 7 years

Text

1 hour ficlet batch 6 #4

Another prompt provided by the darling @suzurei. I always love to write Victor and this was a good reason to write a young Victor. i do not write him enough. :}

If you like this story or any of the other 1 hour ficlets, please consider sending in a prompt.

Too Cute To Not Be True

Yakov looks at his watch, then at the clock above the door, before getting his phone out of his pocket to check if the other two really aren't broken. He let's out a sigh and starts pressing in a very familiar number on his phone, one he has already called several times today.

The voicemail comes back just like it was when he called ten minutes earlier his yelling is almost identical as well. He hates it to see promising skaters go to ruin and he just knows this boy can make it to the very top if only he wouldn't flake.

Plus Yakov hates to admit it, but he is worried for the kids safety. They insist in living in the dorms all by themselves even though he and his wife had offered them a room in their house. Not that he can't blame them, with a family situation like that who wouldn't want some privacy.

His eyes move back to the clock above the door when he finally sees something silver flash through the hallway into the direction of the dressing room. So he finally bothered to show up and only an hour too late.

When Victor tosses open the doors with the biggest grin on his face, making it quite clear he is utter unapologetic about being so very late to his training, Yakov starts yelling before he takes his first three steps into the hall.

“How can you ever imagine to become the best if you can't even manage to make it in time! I will not tolerate such behavior from you, no matter how talented you are. Do not forget boy that if I cut you off there isn't a trainer or coach in the world that will burn their fingers on you. Now get on the Ice and give my figures.”

His finger snaps from the fifteen year old to the ice in his strictest way possible. Victor simply nods with a dopey heart shaped smile on his face before stepping unto the ice and starting the requested circles.

It doesn't take long before Yakov catches the boy humming, realizing this doesn't seem to work as a punishment he orders victor to go over his routine three whole times constantly changing the jumps to keep the boy on edge.

It takes no genius to realize that nothing Yakov does to vent the anger of his star pupil being an hour late does anything to even dent the boys cheerful composure. Yakov actually finds himself getting a bit of a sore throat from all the yelling he's been doing decides to call for a small break.

Victor immediately skates to the opening and gets off the ice, which is something he never ever does. When he takes his phone from his bag and Yakov sees him quickly press in some numbers he's quite surprised.

“Hiya, my love. Did you miss me? I miss you. Yes I do. Are you okay without me? It's not to cold in the room is it? I wish I could have stayed with you some longer.” Victor practically coos into his phone to Yakov's great horror.

He is in utter disbelief about what he's hearing, but there's only one conclusion possible. Apparently his star skater picked up a boyfriend since the last time he saw him and this man - as Yakov has no doubt it has to be a man taking advantage of the silly boy – is now apparently staying in the kids dorm room.

He fears he'll have to have 'the talk' with the boy a bit sooner than he had hoped for. But in all honesty Yakov had thought that Victor would be the kind to swoon a bit about somebody, giving the man the time to spot the issue and deal with it accordingly.

Once Victor hangs up he's called over to where Yakov's sitting. The older coach looks at the boy, and at fifteen it's still a boy no matter how mature he thinks he is, walking towards him with the ease in his step he fears comes for the wrongful thought of finding somebody who cares for him.

Yakov sighs, he should have seen it coming, he was warned by other coaches that kids from broken homes have a tendency to look and find for love in all the wrong places. He had just hoped that skating and the call of the audience would have been enough for Victor at this time. He absolutely hates that he will now have to manage to break the boys heart without being resented for it.

“Sit down my boy. We need to have a little talk over the current season. You might not think it but going from juniors to seniors is quite some thing.”

Victor nods cheerfully, his smile growing even larger.

“It's not just that you will be going up against people older than you, people who have been doing this longer than you. But people will look at you differently. They will be expecting you to act more maturely than they allow for skaters in the junior division.”

He places his hand on Victor's knee in what he hopes is a fatherly gesture.

“It's not just the skaters, but the press will want to see a more mature version of you as well. That can be an issue sometimes, as they might make you forget that you are still technically a child.”

Yakov sighs. He has always hated to have to go into this part of the talk.

“You might even come across people willing to take advantage of such a situation. Telling you how mature you are, how you are not like others of your age, how they feel like they can talk to you on the same level. These people are dangerous Vitya, very, very dangerous.”

Yakov sees Victor's smile slowly slip from his face, his eyes growing big when Yakov's words slowly sink in.

“If somebody like that approaches you, turn away, come to me, call Lilia. What ever you do break off contact with them immediately, even if they are a sponsor. Hell especially when they are a sponsor or even an official.”

Yakov gives Victor one of his rare smiles.

“I don't want you to be taken advantage off, you are too young to know this but you really will have enough time. And right now skating comes first.”

Victor gives a slow nod, softly biting his lip.

“Coach Yakov. Why are you telling me this now? Did something happen at the last sponsor meeting I didn't realize? I really only laughed once when that man made a comment about my hair. Did he mean more with his comment? Is that why you are warning me now?”

Yakov looks a bit surprised. Sure the man had made some comments but… in hindsight.

“Not really, but yes. If people make comments like that to you just make certain you are not alone or that you can contact somebody at once. I'm certain this man meant nothing by it, but comments like that are not always appropriate.”

Victor nods quickly showing he understands.

“You don't have to worry though Coach Yakov, I'm certain Makka will be more than capable to keep the bad people away from me. They are really dependable.”

Yakov's mouth nearly drops, realizing he might have to be even more specific after all. Plus what kind of name is Makka?

“Wait I can show you a picture. I made it this morning when we were in bed.”

Victor grabs his phone and tries to get his camera to work shoving a grainy picture under Yakov's nose. It takes the man a moment to realize exactly what he's seeing.

“Is that...” He looks up at a blushing and grinning Victor.

“It is!! I was finally able to pick them up yesterday! Aren't they just the most wonderful dog you've ever seen. And they are hypo-allergetic so I can even take them with me to a lot of countries, and no one can get in trouble over it. So I'm certain that I'm perfectly safe from bad people.”

Yakov just leans back and for the first time – but definitely not for the last time – he finds himself being subjected to victor singing the praise of his wonderful dog. Even being guided into talking to the puppy over the phone when he asks about Victor's call earlier.

I the end he really did not have to worry about anything. When Victor finally finds somebody to gush about they're nearly twelve years older, and give him more than enough time to come to terms with it indeed.

If you like this story or any of the other 1 hour ficlets, please consider sending in a prompt to get one for yourself.

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#1hour ficlet #yuri on ice #victor nikiforov #yakov feltsman #diem writes

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mypoorfaves · 7 years

Note

Could ya write the Yurio afraid of thunderstorms?? Cause. Having hot head Yurio scared of that lip storm. Would make my day. If not well..Hakuna Matata.

Hakuna Matata indeed, my friend! I had a lot of fun with this prompt! (You can find said prompt here on my good friend @sneezehq‘s blog!)

This is all platonic Yuri and Mila. Although if you squint and stand on your head when the planets align just right, I suppose you could see it as a romantic ship.

This takes place the very next day after Victor leaves for Japan. Only Yakov knows he’s left, since Victor hasn’t uploaded the photo from Hasetsu Castle yet.

Yuri isn’t living with Yakov and Lilia yet, so I’m assuming he lives alone in some really cheap apartment or something, maybe a dorm? Anyways he’d be alone, so that’s why he wants to go to Mila’s rather than back home.

Anyways, please enjoy!

The Storm Before the Calm

~2300 words

～～～

At the first sound of booming thunderclaps, Yuri heads for Victor’s house.

There’s a thunderstorm brewing today. There hasn’t been one for quite a while, and Yuri has been thankful. It saves him from the humiliation of camping out with Victor at his place until the storm passes. Don’t get him wrong, Victor certainly doesn’t judge Yuri for his fear, that much he is sure of, but that doesn’t make it any less humiliating. A phobia of thunderstorms at the age of 15. How childish, he chides himself. He’s the Ice Tiger of Russia. He shouldn’t be afraid of a little light and sound.

Despite the pep talk, Yuri can’t help but pick up his pace as lighting again flashes across the sky and thunder rumbles in the looming grey clouds.

～

“Oi! Victor!” Yuri shouts, pounding on his door. He’s been standing outside for the past five minutes at least. Why isn’t he answering? He should be home. Victor wasn’t even at practice today; if Yakov knew why, he was keeping quiet about it. Yuri just assumed the man was sick. Therefore, it would make sense for him to be home right now and answer his goddamn door!

Yuri frustratedly calls out and pounds on the door once again. Droplets of rain have already begun to fall in the time he’s been waiting. The drum-like pounding across the sky has become more frequent, and is mimicked by Yuri’s jumping heart as the world is lit up in a monochrome of black and white and grey for an instant before it fades back into darkness.

Where else could Victor possibly be? It’s not too late in the evening, despite how dark the clouds are making the sky appear. The sidewalk has become darker too, tainted with drops that are falling thick and fast and in greater numbers now. Given the time (and the fact he skipped practice), if Victor wasn’t home that meant he was out having a good time with some of his friends and wouldn’t be back for a while. Even though Victor knew it was going to rain tonight.

“That bastard…” Yuri growls under his breath, forcing himself to feel irritation over hurt that Victor has abandoned looking after him and his childish fears. With a huff, Yuri turns away from the door and walks into the downpour, heading to the only other person he could think to confide in.

～

By the time he finally approaches his destination, he’s thoroughly drenched and chilled to the bone. His shoes are so filled with water that they make a squelching noise when he walks. His wet socks chafe his already-blistered feet. The sweater he’s wearing is doing nothing to help keep him warm as it’s soaked from the onslaught of rain that continues to pelt him, causing him to shiver. (At least, he likes to tell himself he’s shivering from the cold rather than from fear.)

Dragging one heavy foot in front of the other, he reaches Mila’s front door, swallows his pride and rings the doorbell. It takes a moment, but he hears movement within the house. “Thank god,” Yuri thinks. He didn’t have anywhere else to go other than his own lonely home if Mila, too, happened to be out.

Another clap of thunder explodes and Yuri flinches with a small whimper. His next exhale comes out shaky and with a shiver as water drips from his soaked hair down his face and onto his wet clothes. Although Mila is evidently inside the house, she seems to be taking her sweet time in coming to the door. Yuri is cold and upset, and (damn, he hates to admit it, but) frightened. As more lightning flickers across the gloomy sky, he raises a frozen finger to the doorbell again and rings it multiple times, then impatiently pounds on the door and shouts, “Let me in, баба!”

That seems to get her attention as she hurries towards the door. Through the closed door, he can faintly hear her muttering to herself wondering why Yuri is here and so snappy.

He must look absolutely miserable because Mila stops her complaints the moment she opens the door and sees him standing there looking like a drowned rat. “What are you doing here?” she questions. Yuri automatically opens his mouth to snap back at her, but Mila speaks first. “Never mind why, just get inside! You must be freezing!”

Not possessing the will nor energy to argue, he crosses the threshold and Mila closes the door as another crack of thunder booms. It takes all of Yuri’s willpower not to whimper at the sound, but he manages by biting sharply on his lower lip. Luckily Mila doesn’t seem to have noticed. She’s already bustling off towards the hall closet, mentioning something about drying off with some towels.

Yuri just stands in the doorway, arms crossed across his body, teeth chattering as he tries unsuccessfully to control his trembling. Mila comes back with a towel and Yuri wordlessly takes it and drapes it over his shoulders. He steps out of his shoes and peels off his socks and steps onto the smooth hardwood floor. It feels surprisingly warm. Or maybe he’s just that cold. He pulls the towel tighter around his frame.

“So what brings you to my place?” Mila’s inquisitive voice breaks into his thoughts. He keeps his gaze on his battered feet, not looking up or voicing an answer. “It’s not everyday you willingly want to spend time with me, so something must be up.”

Yuri just fiddles with a frayed string from the towel. “I don’t feel like talking about it. It’s stupid anyways…” he trails off, hoping she’ll just drop it. He keeps his gaze aimed at the ground, his wet bangs curtaining his green eyes. When he sneaks a quick glance up, Mila’s expression has softened from prodding to sympathetic.

Miraculously, she does drop the subject. “Dry off as best you can. I have a spare shirt I can lend you; it’s from an ex-boyfriend who spent the night one time. You can borrow a pair of my leggings, too.”

She retrieves the items quickly and is delivering them to Yuri when a deep, crackling wave of thunder rumbles throughout the house. It crashes like shattering plates and Yuri actually feels the building shake, the vibrations reverberating in his chest and fear tingling down to his toes. The lights flicker off and on for a moment and Yuri gasps, squeezing his eyes shut tightly with a whimper.

Even once the rumbling has faded, Yuri keeps his eyes shut as embarrassment immediately rushes to his cheeks. There’s no doubt Mila saw that, and now she knows and she’s going to make fun of him for having such a childish fear.

“Oh, Yuri,” he hears her say. “Is that why you came here? You’re scared of storms?” Yuri just nods, not trusting his voice. He’s on the verge of tearsーfrom fear or humiliation he’s not sure; likely both.

He expects Mila to laugh at him, insult his ridiculous phobia. What he doesn’t expect is a towel draped over his head. “You need to dry off your hair too,” she says, voice full of care as she gently ruffles his hair through the towel. “You might catch a cold if you don’t.”

“I already got drenched in the rain. What difference will it make?” Yuri mutters. Although he’s relieved Mila is not making fun of him, her pity isn’t doing much to boost his pride. He pulls the towel off of his head, simply holding it in his hand.

“If you won’t do it yourself, then I’ll do it for you,” Mila offers, taking it back from him. “Quickly get changed. You can take a hot shower too, if you want. I’ll be waiting on the couch when you get out. We’ll have some drinks and pirozhki, and I’ll put a movie on. I hope you like rom-coms, because that’s all I have,” she says with an apologetic smile.

Mumbling a thanks, Yuri heads to the bathroom to get changed.

～

Mila already has everything set up when he emerges in dry clothes. As promised, there’s a plate of pirozhki on the coffee table, as well as two steaming mugs of what Yuri soon discovers is hot cocoa. He settles on the couch, wrapping himself in one of the blankets Mila has brought out. Without much speaking from either of them, she starts the movie.

It’s only about two minutes in when Mila once again brings up the issue of Yuri’s hair, the strands still wet and dripping onto his new shirt. Feeling warm and comfortable from both the change of clothes as well as the atmosphere of the home, Yuri doesn’t protest when Mila pats and rubs at his hair with a towel to dry it off. She takes an excessive amount of time in doing the job and Yuri relishes every second. He loves having his hair played with; it just feels so heavenly in a way he can’t even begin to describe. Victor had eventually found out how much it calms him and had taken to playing with his hair and even braiding it on nights with a particularly bad storm.

Soon his hair is sufficiently dried and the towel is dropped in a pile on the floor. Yuri focuses his attention back on the movie (though he was barely paying attention before, so comfortable and honestly trying not to fall asleep). He fights a sudden shiverーthis time from pleasureーas Mila runs her fingers through his damp hair. Yuri melts into the touch with a sigh, and he hears Mila give a soft hum resembling a chuckle at the reaction.

“If you were a kitten, I have a feeling you’d be purring right now,” Mila comments fondly. Yuri can’t find it in himself to come up with a response, so utterly content and tired and finally feeling at peace. Mila continues her ministrations, the two of them sitting in silence other than the sounds coming from the tv that thankfully drown out the storm. It’s only once Mila starts to style his hair in a simple braid that Yuri finds the courage to speak.

“Whenever there’s a storm, I would always stay at Victor’s place,” he starts. There’s the slightest pause from Mila, but she carries on with her actions as Yuri continues to speak. “Once he found out I was scared of storms, he insisted I come over to his place so I wouldn’t be suffering alone.” He smiles fondly at the memory of a concerned Victor inconspicuously pulling him aside one practice and offering he comes to his place after; Yuri had been so scared of the thunder resonating through the rink that he was even flubbing his jumps. Yuri had initially been embarrassed at being found out, but begrudgingly accepted Victor’s offer and it quickly became a routine occurrence. “He would put on a movie to drown out the soundsーjust like we’re doing nowーand he’d even style my hair sometimes too; said it reminded him of his junior days.”

Mila isn’t talking, just letting Yuri say what he wants without her input, but her nimble fingers gently wrapping around the blond strands and diligently winding them around each other say more than enough. “I went over to Victor’s today, since the weather was bad,” Yuri tells her. “When I got there, I stood outside for a while but he wasn’t answering the door. Eventually, I just figured he has better things to do than look after me, so I came here.” He feels Mila’s fingers stop, the braid finished. It’s not very long, and there’s no elastic to keep it from fully unraveling.

“You were the only other person I could think to turn to,” Yuri explains, eyes focused on his hands folded in his lap. “As much as I hate to admit it, you’re like an older sister to me. Even if you do piss me off a lot of the time,” he adds with irritation he doesn’t truly feel. “So now you know,” he finishes with a sigh, “if Victor didn’t already tell you before, that is. I wouldn’t put it past him to babble something stupid like that to you,” he mutters, still angry at the older skater for blowing him off.

“Oh, Yuri,” she consoles him. “It’s not stupid. Everyone has fears. I’m touched that you trust me enough to tell me yours. I didn’t know you were so scared of thunderstorms.”

“So Victor didn’t tell you?” Yuri asks, surprised. He turns to face Mila.

She shakes her head at his question. “No, he never told me anything. He must really care about you to keep it a secret.” Yuri can’t help but feel touched by her words. “Just like how I care about my sweet little Yura!” Mila gushes and pulls him in for a tight hug.

“Let me go, баба!” he shouts, but he doesn’t really mean it. He doesn’t fight to get out of her embrace and soon settles down.

It must be getting late, since Yuri is already beginning to feel tired. He hides a yawn, hoping Mila doesn’t notice and send him to bed. He’s comfortable the way he is now. Mila is kind and caring, like a big sister should be (even if she does still get on his nerves sometimes). The blankets around them are soft, and his stomach is pleasantly full with the snacks Mila provided. Yuri is no longer paying attention to the movie, but the pleasant sounds drown out the terror of the storm. Feeling a warm sense of peace, he lets himself rest his head against Mila’s shoulder as he closes his eyes.

～～～

(End)

Notes: баба is Russian for woman or hag (or “peasant woman” according to google translate 😅)

Fun fact: astraphobia, also known as astrapophobia, brontophobia, keraunophobia, or tonitrophobia is the term for a fear of thunder and lightning.

#w!oi #other #yurio #fear #phobia #thunderstorms #fanfic #mpf writing #ask mpf #request #requests are always welcome!#although it may take me some time to get to since im preparing my stories for sickdays 3.0 #also I'm sorry guys the read more bar wasn't working on mobile so i had to get rid of it >.<

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foolsonice · 8 years

Text

Phosphenes

written for @pliroyweek 2017 - Day 2, Confidence

Fandom: Yuri!!! on Ice Relationship: Yuri Plisetsky/Jean-Jacques Leroy Characters: Yuri Plisetsky, Jean-Jacques Leroy Wordcount: 5957 Rating: Teen and Up Additional Tags: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hurt/Comfort, Accidental Kissing, Kissing, First Kiss, a story featuring:, attentive JJ, and, Confused Yuri

After the disaster of Vancouver Olympics, Yuri finds comfort in the arms of the one he proclaims to hate most.

Phosphenes (n.) The stars and colors you see when you rub your eyes

[continue reading on AO3]

“And above all, watch with glittering eyes the whole world around you because the greatest secrets are always hidden in the most unlikely places. Those who don't believe in magic will never find it. (R. Dahl)

The shooting star which had risen high across the skating horizon last year came crashing down on earth with full force.

Cup of China: 4th place

NHK Trophy: 5th place

Vancouver Olympics: 6th place after the short program.

Could it get any worse?

Yuri had to run, had to get away from the cheering crowds that weren’t cheering for him after ruining his free skate program with three falls in a row. If he could save the 6th place he’d be lucky; he didn’t think he could. Reporters surrounded him, cameras fired their flashes in his direction and somewhere he heard Yuri’s Angels crying. In one ear rang Lilia’s voice, in the other it was Yakov. He had to get away from them; from those idiots flirting with each other at the rink, too; from JJ who performed better than ever in his home country. With the first opportunity presenting itself, Yuri disappeared, ignoring the furious shouts trailing after him.

The ranking after the short program was:

1st- Jean-Jacques Leroy

2nd - Victor Nikiforov

3rd - Yuri Katsuki

If that was the final ranking after the free skate, Yuri didn’t know, and cared less.

The underground of Vancouver’s ice-dome was endless – a massive labyrinth of hallways with doors leading just to another hallway, with even more doors. Yuri ran into the opposite direction to where the dressing room assigned to the Russian athletes was located, winding his way far into the heart of the maze. As he ran, the voices and shouts became distant, nothing more than surreal flitters of murmur, until they subsided completely. All around him was eerily silent, but not in a good way. Yuri was so angry with himself that his ears were ringing, so disappointed that he was almost dizzy with it, leaning against the wall of the corridor to take a few breaths, before he continued to run.

Yuri tried the first door he came across – locked. The next one – too. It was the third which yielded to Yuri’s hand. There were lockers inside the room, a mirror, and a couple of stupid Canadian flags. Perhaps it should have startled him and let him overthink his choices but it didn’t. How so, when every spot in this god-damn country seemed to be decorated with red maple leaves on white ground these days. It was normal. And for that simple fact he hated it. All the more as the fucking maple leaf reminded him of JJ all the fucking time.

He sat down on the floor, as far away from the door as possible, his knees tucked under his chin, with the tiger plushy pressed tightly against his chest. Not even that one could offer any comfort today; tears streamed down his face no matter how often he tried to wipe them away with the end of his sleeves they kept coming; kept coming still when he contently rocked his body back and forth. Yuri still wore his skating costume, with the jumper of the Russian team over it, both not really warm. If he was trembling from the cold or if the sobs shook his body, Yuri couldn’t tell nor could he bring himself to care. He didn’t fight the tremors that shook him, either, having learned the hard way that fighting them only made it worse. He glowered at the door, fingers curled childlike into fists as frustrated tears streamed down his cheeks.

Sobs easily turned into helpless cries as time became an endless blur around him, spent in contemplation about his problems; they were countless, ranging from growing too fast, to overwhelming anxiety attacks which left him restless for days to see love all around him when he was so terribly lonely. In this moment, Yuri felt like dying, having not a glimpse of strength or inspiration left.

Minutes had easily blended into half an hour without Yuri even bothering to control his emotions, something with which he had always struggled, although usually it were different emotions entirely: angry and rude, often outright hurtful towards those he loved to insult. The cheerful humming in the corridor went completely unnoticed by Yuri, drowned out by those heartbreaking sobs of helpless misery. Not a moment later, the door to the room where he was hiding flew open, and JJ burst through it with his fucking smile on his fucking face.

Gold, thought Yuri, before shouting at him with his tear-stricken voice. “Get out you asshole!”

Of all people, JJ – smiling, humming, good-humored JJ was the one he least wished to deal with right now. Phichit would leave him be after a while, so probably would Chris. About Victor he wasn’t so certain. Well, for JJ – needless to say, JJ didn’t leave him be. Instead JJ closed the door behind him, locking it from inside.

“Yura,” he said, trying to add something, which drowned in Yuri’s furious yells

“Get out!” Yuri shrieked, then glowered in JJ’s direction, throwing the tiger plushy he had been holding onto all the while right into JJ’s face. “Get the fuck out!”

JJ tried to catch Yuri’s gaze but Yuri refused to meet his eyes, looking away as soon as he noticed. Instead he buried his face in his hands again. To have his worst enemy witness his mental breakdown, JJ seeing him like this in all the helpless misery just made everything worse for Yuri: to admit that much – well, no, basically all of it: the Russian tiger image, being strong, fear- and reckless, was a carefully woven façade to protect the kitten he truly was proved yet another tremor, which shook Yuri’s body.

JJ didn’t move an inch, only bending down to lift the tiger up from the floor. “You may not have noticed it, Plisetsky, but you ended up in my changing room.”

Fuck! Yuri didn’t say that, contemplating his bad luck. Whatever could go wrong, actually did go wrong today.

JJ took advantage of Yuri’s momentary distraction and stepped forward, stopping right in front of him, shuffling his feet in a way Yuri had not seen him doing it, before he gave Yuri a smile and offered the plushy back.

Yuri looked startled at him, then glaring, snatching the tiger out of JJ’s hand, pressing it towards his chest where it had been before. “Get your stuff and leave me be!”

For a second there was silence, on both sides, each of them looking startled at the other in surprising insecurity. “Nobody should be alone in such a state,” JJ finally said, squatting down in front of Yuri so that they were on eye level. There was some truth in JJ’s words, Yuri figured, but didn’t say it. Agreeing to something JJ said was – still – simply beyond the imaginable, no matter how true it might be. Yet still, the sincerity in JJ’s word struck him almost physically. What game was JJ playing, he kept wondering, and more importantly: why did he play it? Was one victory for the night not enough?

“Remember last year, Yuri?” JJ asked rhetorically, shifting his body awkwardly until he was able to sit down beside Yuri, his back leaning against the row of lockers. Gods, he was so persistently annoying, Yuri thought, edging away from the arm, which touched his own. “When I performed so badly in both of my programs when it mattered most? If it hadn’t been for all those who still supported me afterwards, I wouldn’t be where I am now – again.”

“I’m not you,” Yuri sneered derisively, feeling envious. JJ had friends, had a loving family who always supported him, has had a wonderful fiancé at that time. Basically just everything Yuri lacked in his life, all he dreamt of during those lonely nights.

“This doesn’t mean you don’t need it,” stated JJ, placing his arm casually on Yuri’s shoulders in a way Yuri never would – or could. He envied that, too, wondering how JJ could be so quick, so casual in his touches, giving affection even to those that did not matter to him.

Yuri had always been desperate for attention, having it rubbed right into his face by JJ however was completely unnecessary. “You can’t be serious,” Yuri snapped in the process of forcing out yet another hidden insult, face grimacing just to keep pretending to be somebody he was not, now less than ever. “Your arrogance is even worse than I assumed when you truly think you’re the one to comfort me.” The words showed little effect as JJ’s arm remained exactly where it was, offering the comfort Yuri craved so badly without ever admitting it to anyone, least alone JJ.

JJ sighed, head bumping against the locker. “I could at least try?” he offered, strangely calm and not sounding arrogant at all so that Yuri was briefly tempted to turn his head to catch a glimpse of his face. He didn’t. “Who else is here?” JJ asked, rather to himself. “Victor? He probably has not even noticed that you are missing.”

Most obviously not, Yuri had to agree slightly hurt, with Victor having eyes only for that damn Katsudon. He knew it, had always hated it; hearing it from JJ only hurt all the more.

JJ went on. “Yakov?”

Yakov probably was missing Yuri, but Yuri was in no mood to deal with Yakov. Not today, tomorrow probably not either. “Hell no!” Yuri snapped, glaring into the emptiness of the room.

“See? Your options are limited, Plisetsky.”

For the first time, Yuri turned his head, looking at JJ’s face in bewilderment from under tear-stained lashes. “Don’t call me that,” Yuri said barely audible, shifting a few inches away from JJ, so that JJ arm slipped off Yuri’s shoulders.

JJ immediately moved after him. “Yura? Yuri? What would you prefer?” He sounded strangely sincere.

It was the first time they were talking with each other, like really talking with each other, Yuri thought, not throwing insults and teasing remarks at each other’s heads just to win the competition of this year’s greatest asshole.

“Both is okay,” Yuri sobbed, wiping the dampness from his face, nevertheless surprised how he had managed to choke out a word at all.

“It’s not only the ranking that bothers you,” JJ observed, and there was nothing Yuri could argue against that, because it was so painfully true that fresh tears ran down his cheeks again. His shoulders began to shake, guilt and misery shadowing his eye until JJ reached out again, carefully and with a good amount of hesitation as if he tried to touch a frightened dog.

Yuri nodded, allowing the strange yet comforting touch this time, too weak to fight the touch; too exhausted to pretend to be the greatest asshole alive; too tired to struggle against what felt wrong yet so incredibly right at the same time. Talking did help, Yuri had to agree, even if right now it meant talking to JJ.

What had he to lose, after having lost everything that was dear to him – and so much more tonight already?

Not much.

After that painful realization Yuri confessed everything, the words spilling from his tear swollen lips like a waterfall restrained by artificial walls way too long. He told JJ about not being able to sleep anymore, suffering from anxiety attacks late at night, that he had dreamt of all the failures, even of those which had not yet happened. “It is place eight, isn’t it?” he mumbled some when in between, never having heard of the final ranking down here. Unashamed he continued to speak about the problems he had with Katsuki and Victor being that special, gross way in front of him, told him how much he hated the world itself, about pain, and loss, and heart-break, his fingers twisting with the cords of JJ’s hoodie back and forth all the while he spoke. For the sake of completeness he didn’t even leave the struggle with his own sexuality out; being an underage minor, a famous underage minor who was openly gay was out of question in Russia. He wasn’t even entirely convinced if he was gay, or rather bisexual, or pansexual, and figured it actually did not quite matter. Not for himself at least. JJ, who was openly bisexual, agreed. By the time Yuri was done, he was a quivering mess in JJ’s embrace, streaks of tears staining JJ’s sweater.

“I’m sorry,” Yuri mumbled, observing the mess he had created.

“Sometimes we all need to remind ourselves that we are humans,” JJ answered, pulling Yuri close.

Realizing that JJ’s arm now somehow rested around his waist, Yuri tensed out of reflex. He hated people touching him. “Hush,” JJ said softly as if he was speaking to a frightened animal, interpreting Yuri’s thoughts correctly. Instead of letting go, he tightened the hold he had on Yuri with one arm, whilst he wiped the tears away with his other hand, using the sleeve of his jumper. “It’s fine. We all have these moments.”

Yuri doubted that Victor ever had these moments, doubted that Chris had them too, kept wondering all the more that JJ openly admitted to him that he had them occasionally. JJ, with all his breathtaking confidence, a mess plagued by anxiety? It was hard to imagine. Well, if Yuri was honest he truly had no idea who JJ was outside the rink, having never even bothered to talk to him when they met on some event after the competitions. All the years it had been a mutual agreement between them both.

Tentatively, JJ reached out. “May I?” he inquired, his voice sounding strangely insecure. His fingertips brushed against Yuri’s back, touching him in a way that made him shiver.

‘Damn it, why did something so wrong feel so incredibly right?’ Yuri asked himself, then glared at JJ. He simply had to, even if it did not quite match how he felt just before he nodded, lowering his eyes; JJ wasn’t going to eat him alive, he kept telling himself, nor was he playing with him, and that realization came as a surprise.

Yuri didn’t speak after that, neither did JJ. Perhaps JJ spoke, but not with words. Yet another surprise for Yuri: he hadn’t thought JJ was capable of shutting up for even a minute. Apparently he was.

JJ’s fingers trailed along Yuri’s spine, up and down, drawing straight lines or circling motions until Yuri began to relax visibly to the touch. What JJ did made him think of was his grandfather, thousands of miles away, who never grew tired to hold him just for comfort, touched him in just the same way as JJ did right now. Yuri sniffed, memories mingling with the present, making everything worse. Fuck, what he would give to have his grandpa around now. The tremor came with no warning, shaking him to the core despite the soothing motions of JJ’s hand. He loved his grandfather, had always loved and cherished him, and damn it, he terribly missed him. In fact, Yuri always missed him, yet now more than ever. Unsurprisingly, JJ stopped, questioningly looking at Yuri with his impressive eyes – a dark blue, appearing to be almost black from the weird angle Yuri looked back at him, holding his gaze. Tiny streaks of silver disrupted the monotony, just as the silver streams of moonlight pierce through the starless night. They were beautiful, Yuri realized, and with that his own eyes grew wide.

“I’m sorry,” JJ mumbled, “do you wish me to stop?”

Yuri blinked in confusion, mostly because of his own weird thoughts, then glanced at JJ again just before he shook his head, face glowing red from embarrassment. He didn’t want JJ to stop; saying so was close to the impossible, and therefore Yuri was grateful that his gesture was encouragement enough for JJ to continue.

Regaining control of himself after tonight’s disaster was hard for Yuri. It took a good while, and he was convinced his sobs would have never ceased without JJ being around, without being comforted by the soothing touches and the warmth emanating from JJ’s body.

As odd as it might be, and as much as he hated to admit it, for once JJ’s voice did exactly the contrary to what it usually did – it didn’t spark an argument, no, it didn’t make him hiss like an angered cat. Instead it soothed Yuri, bone-deep and persistently, although he did not understand a single word of what JJ said. JJ talked in his strongly accented French to him, susurrating whispers against the crown of his head, strangely beautiful. It lured Yuri’s mind into a world of peace. Maybe it was for the better he did not understand it, because usually only nonsense came out of JJ’s mouth, or subtle insults. Yuri had to keep telling that to himself each time the gentle touches felt too intense, just to keep his pretense alive. There had not been an insult, not a single one this day, and Yuri knew he perhaps should revise his opinion on JJ.

Holding his breath, trying not to let JJ hear how fast his heart was beating, Yuri feigned disinterest, although his thoughts swirled in his mind like snowflakes through the frosty night. But he did not move, nor did he flinch, not even when JJ’s fingers flattened and ran over his golden hair, down his ears and neck, withdrawing only to repeat what he was doing. It felt good, it felt incredibly good, so good that Yuri’s eyes closed in the process of it.

Eventually, Yuri’s sobs trailed away to normal crying against JJ’s shoulder, and even that ceased and he fell completely silent. Until then, he had not realized how cold he was, fingers already stiff, being so occupied to fight his internal misery and his conflicting thoughts. It was cold in the room, no wonder he was freezing, basically wearing nothing.

“You’re shivering,” commented JJ, leaning away from the lockers to free himself from the zipped hoodie he was wearing, blood red with an ugly white maple leaf stitched on it right over JJ’s heart. A moment later, the hoodie was placed around Yuri’s shoulders, with JJ’s scarf around Yuri’s neck to follow. Why he let it happen, Yuri couldn’t say, mesmerized to discover yet another new side of JJ, burying his nose deep in the fabric of the scarf, letting go of the breath he was holding all the while.

Why he even allowed JJ to move his body until he was sitting on JJ’s thighs, Yuri could not explain, either, but with ease JJ repositioned him. “All the hoodies will not help if the floor is cold,” commented JJ absently, focusing to shift Yuri’s lithe body in his lap until both seemed comfortable with the position.

“True,” Yuri muttered, half glaring at JJ for moments, unsure about what else to do, before he decided to settle against JJ shoulder again. It had felt okay-ish; with okay-ish being Yuri’s way of saying he liked it. Not that he would ever say so aloud. No. When he stopped to wriggle his body until he was comfortable enough, JJ’s hands resumed what they did earlier.

Yuri hated what JJ did, truly.

No – not really. He wasn’t good at lying.

That it felt good Yuri hated all the more, he thought to himself.

He wasn’t good at thinking, either: not when such conflicting thoughts made his head spin like a Ferris wheel, with bursts of colors dancing across his closed lids as Auroras dance across the northern sky as JJ kissed the crown of his head.

A day ago Yuri wished to wrap his hands around JJ’s throat and watch the life drain out of his eyes.

And now? Rather not.

Yuri felt conflicted. It was so weird, and Yuri knew it was weird, but he just couldn’t help it?

It somehow felt unnatural to pretend to be unmoved by such kindness, even if it meant to acknowledge the fact that it was JJ’s.

He sighed, burying his face deeper in JJ’s shoulder, his nose still hidden in the scarf which smelled so intensely of JJ’s perfume, pretending that his left arm wasn’t resting on JJ’s back. Admitting it would mean to move it, and so Yuri didn’t. Actually neither of them moved for long moments, until Yuri’s occasional sobs turned into rare hiccups as he relaxed under JJ’s hand, which persistently stroked his golden curls.

With a sonorous sigh of exhaustion, Yuri closed his eyes again. Everything JJ did was for pure comfort he kept telling himself, kept telling even as his free arm sneaked around JJ’s waist to complete the perfect embrace. For once, JJ had the dignity to remain silent, although Yuri would give everything to be able to read JJ’s thoughts right then.

Instead of speaking, JJ returned to place kisses to Yuri’s head just as he had done before, with the little difference that now his lips began to wander; from the crown of Yuri’s head towards the side, close to his ear, way too close to his ear.

For comfort.

The way JJ breathed, soft and comforting, completely at ease with everything he did, warm air hushing along his skin made Yuri shiver; the way JJ spoke to him in those words Yuri didn’t understand but came to love nevertheless; the way his fingers wiped another stray tear from his burning cheek.

For comfort, because I’m freezing, because I am an emotional mess.

“Why?” The word was out before Yuri knew it, and in the process of being awe-struck of having found his voice back somehow, he looked up just in the moment as JJ decided to move his face down. Their mouths, both half opened in surprise, brushed together for a split second, noses nudging due to the awkward angle – and then the moment was gone, leaving Yuri’s mind flying in a way he had never felt before.

The contact had not lasted more than a split second, a quick and awkward press of mouths, entirely accidently that is. Still Yuri felt the taste of JJ’s lips linger, recalled the dampness he had felt.

They stared at each other in bewilderment, equally flustered, with eyes wide and mouths hanging open, both being at a loss of what to say.

“Sorry ‘bout that,” JJ said at last, watching Yuri closely.

It appeared to Yuri as if JJ tried to decipher the look on his face, hoping he didn’t manage with all that was dear to him. Yuri, arms still tangled around JJ’s body even tried to don his most annoying face. For nothing, as he soon found out.

JJ quirked an eye-brow at him, and Yuri saw how JJ’s face transformed. “Oh good lord. Boy, you liked that.” JJ sounded genuinely surprised, smiling a smile that was so unlike everything Yuri had ever seen on JJ’s face. It was neither arrogant nor cocky, it was honest – and incredibly beautiful.

“No,” Yuri stated out of reflex even if he didn’t feel like it, the words emanating his lie. He was deduced easily, he knew, as JJ’s smile only grew. Embarrassment crept up Yuri’s head; he had to look away.

Unfortunately, the vagueness of his answer only seemed to spark further interest on JJ’s side. “Want me to do it again?” JJ asked in that voice that was so typical for him, fingers sweeping across Yuri’s burning cheek, before they came below Yuri’s chin, lifting Yuri’s head until their eyes met.

On any other occasion, Yuri would have batted JJ’s hand away. “No,” repeated Yuri, running a shaking hand through his golden hair as he always did when being nervous.

Then Yuri fell silent, wondering why he always had to fight, even when he did not feel like fighting. Because hell, JJ had offered the comfort he so desperately needed, his lips against his own had made him feel as good as he hadn’t felt in months. Still caught in his inner conflict, Yuri swallowed, blinking at JJ in confusion. What was he supposed to do? At the age of 16 Yuri was still a virgin in every imaginable way.

“Don’t tell anyone!” Yuri couldn’t put into words just how much he wanted JJ to do it again, something akin to ‘properly’ following under his breath. It was insane, really; just thinking about it again made his stomach go squirmy, and he was glad that this time JJ didn’t answer him, at least not in his ordinary way.

Without hesitation JJ leant forward and closed the gap between their faces, his mouth pressing against Yuri’s, careful at first, perhaps too careful in the fear to scare Yuri away. When Yuri didn’t flinch, JJ opened his mouth just a little bit to experimentally lick along Yuri’s lip, and good gracious! That made Yuri squirm, in a good sort of ways. Despite that it felt – well, strange – Yuri didn’t back out, rather wondered what he was supposed to do with his own mouth. He had no idea, not quite at least, so he simply mimicked JJ’s movements, opening his mouth to him so insecurely that he hated himself for it. The angle was a weird one, true enough, still, damn it! It felt good. Incredibly good. As Yuri parted his lips further, JJ’s fingers trailed from his collar-bone along his throat, until Yuri’s head tipped backwards, resulting in an angle of their faces that was by far more comfortable.

Fuck! The intensity of their tongues touching for a second made Yuri almost jump in JJ’s lap, withdrawing his mouth accidently.

“You liked that?” JJ asked, holding Yuri’s gaze.

It was so fucking intense that Yuri felt as if his entire body was set on fire.

Yuri nodded, shifting in JJ’s lap until he straddled him and they were truly face to face. Though he hoped to radiate confidence instead of nervousness he didn’t, biting his lower lip as he always did when nervous.

“You liked it that much?” JJ’s voice was humorous, but not mocking as probably Yuri had it expected to be. JJ was beautiful, had always been beautiful in his annoying arrogance, yet to Yuri it appeared as if he truly saw him in an entirely different light. He was even more beautiful, when he dared to look closely, losing himself in the starry night JJ’s eyes resembled.

“Much unhappiness has come into the world because of bewilderment and things left unsaid, Yuri.” (*)

It was so painfully true! And more importantly, it was a quote his grandfather often used, hearing it from JJ was yet another surprise. Yuri never knew, never suspected that JJ could hold an interest in classic Russian literature.

Again, Yuri found himself nodding, then smiled, for the first time today. Faintly, yes, but it was unmistakably there. “You don’t seem surprised? By me… liking it?” he asked, finding his voice again, still being short of breath.

“I am, Yura,” JJ confessed, lifting a hand to Yuri’s face, adding “and I feel honored.” JJ’s eyes held Yuri’s own, almost fiercely, and it provoked a sensation that stole through Yuri so unlike everything he had ever felt; it left him strangely vulnerable – and aroused.

“Shut up,” Yuri said, taking the initiative this time by arching his back until their lips were upon each other again. JJ’s hands wandered down to the small of Yuri’s back, pulling him close against him as carefully as if he was made out of porcelain.

“Just because I’m young doesn’t mean I can’t be handled like a man.” The words sounded strange to Yuri’s ears. Better not to talk, then, he decided before he sucked experimentally at JJ’s lower lip, wondering from where that weird outburst had come from. He had zero experience with kissing, being quite soon at a loss of what to do.

“Oh boy,” JJ sighed against Yuri’s lips, fingers now tangled in Yuri’s hair, then added, chuckling, “just let me make up for my mistake.” For once, Yuri was okay to deal with a touch of JJ’s usual cockiness, because to see his eyes spark in excitement was exorbitantly beautiful.

When JJ caught Yuri’s face between his hands, his mouth upon Yuri’s own, Yuri nearly fell backwards from the intensity of how JJ kissed him, then; hard and rough, and full of unspoken promises, in a way Yuri had never imagined it in his wildest dreams, just before he slowed down a bit, giving Yuri the time to catch his breath. It felt good; it actually was good, so good that his eyes closed, although Yuri might have killed if anybody said he would find solace in JJ’s arms.

A broken moan echoed from Yuri’s mouth as JJ let his tongue slide against Yuri’s lips before their mouths moved against each other and Yuri’s hands sneaked around JJ’s neck in a fit of boldness, then into JJ’s hair. The longer strands felt soft between his fingers, but it was rather the short undercut JJ had that piqued Yuri’s interest; experimentally he brushed his fingers back and forth against the razor-sharp edge, smiling when quite obviously JJ reacted to his touch. For Yuri it was all – or nothing. When he hated, it was with every fiber of his being, and he wondered if it was the same with love. He wished to be protected, wished for somebody who would take care of him, and make him happy, erasing the loneliness of his life full of troubles. But JJ? He just didn’t know, and he wished he wouldn’t be thinking at all.

Fucking weirdo.

The thoughts were wiped from Yuri’s mind when JJ’s hands twine with Yuri’s own, still splayed somewhere against the back of JJ’s head; it was sensual, and hot, and – so affectionate? Arousing all the more. Now, Yuri couldn’t think. Could barely breathe as JJ devoured his mouth so obscenely, just the way Victor always did with Katsuki. He hated to see that, and yet, and yet… he kissed JJ just the same way, pressing his body against him. For goodness sake, perhaps he should bring himself to care if JJ noticed what was going on with his body – most likely JJ did, as hardly a sheet of paper fit between them, however, Yuri could not be bothered as little streaks of color, bright pink and green and orange, danced across his eyelids. Was this what it felt like to let down your last defenses? To trust somebody? Yuri mused instead, letting his tongue explore JJ’s mouth, much to JJ’s vocal delight.

They kissed for a little while longer before Yuri pulled back slightly, his lips and cheeks flushed red, both from arousal and embarrassment. He couldn’t quite believe that JJ had kissed him, that he had kissed JJ back – that he had actually initiated it, and now was straddling him.

“Hold me?” asked Yuri, torn between what he wanted. “Please?” He was quite certain that JJ had never even come close to hear that word from him; he was even more certain that without his recent failure they’d still go about their normal business, at best ignoring each other – which would be a pity, Yuri admitted. In the process of his thoughts, Yuri curled himself up in JJ’s lap again, head falling against his shoulder just as it had been before. Still it was different with JJ’s hands running up and down his sides, with his own fingers ghosting against the skin which wasn’t covered by JJ’s costume; with Yuri glancing upwards every now and then, begging for a kiss in silence.

“I need to go,” Yuri said after a while, apologetic to disturb the peaceful silence. He had to, being afraid to make everything worse with Yakov by hiding much longer. Truth was: he didn’t want to. He didn’t want to let go of JJ, not at all, because for the first time this year he felt truly at peace with himself and the world.

“I know,” sighed JJ, carding both hands through Yuri’s hair a last time before he let go of Yuri. As much as he did not want to, Yuri entangled himself from JJ and stood up, legs stiff. Almost shyly he bent down again to kiss JJ on his lips, wondering if that was it now, before he turned around and made for the door. There was nothing Yuri hated more than goodbyes; despite his young age he had had his fair share already.

“Yura,” JJ said, waiting for Yuri to turn around again, adding when Yuri did, “my scarf. And my hoodie. I doubt you want to wear it in public when it’s so obvious to whom it belongs.”

“Oh.” Yuri sounded surprised. Actually he was surprised, because a couple of hours ago he had thought JJ would let him waltz out into the crowd like this for the simple fact to humiliate him. He was glad he was proven wrong, because rumor was something that thrived in any closed environment, especially when there was, like here, the slightest bit of truth to it. He didn’t need the gossip as a cherry on top of the cake of failure.

Yuri shrugged out of the jacket, walking back towards where JJ still sat on the floor, smiling and looking up at him. “Thank you,” Yuri said, meaning it in every way the words could be interpreted, handing the hoodie back to JJ whilst the scarf was still wrapped around his neck.

“The scarf .. may I keep it?” Yuri asked, hands twitching at his sides.

JJ’s eyes went wide, Yuri observed, regretting he had asked, and then JJ smiled all the more, “Yeah, sure. Keep it as long as you want.”

There was silence with both of them staring at the other yet again, not knowing what to say. Apparently JJ wasn’t good at such things either, Yuri noticed, genuinely surprised. JJ being at a loss of what to say was not something he had ever thought to witness, and when a day ago he would have rubbed his hands in glee, right now, he did not.

“Do you want me to come over later?” asked JJ after a pause stretching too long to be casual. He tried to sound as calm as possible, when it was obvious to Yuri that he wasn’t at all, something working behind those astonishingly blue eyes.

‘Yes, please. I don’t want to be alone.’ Yuri didn’t say that. “No.” It was one of those special no’s Yuri was infamous for, those translating to “Yeah, go ahead. But don’t tell anyone.”

“Are you staying at the Olympic Village, tiger?”

He should probably be annoyed about the tiger, at least pretend to be annoyed. It was inconsiderate. Instead, and despite the stupid anxiety washing over him, Yuri found himself looking forward to meeting with JJ again later.

“Yeah,” Yuri said, blinking, “complex C, room 304. After 9 pm.” That would leave him enough time to deal with Yakov.

“’See you, then,” JJ said, smiling that flawless, incredibly beautiful smile of his.

Without looking back once more, Yuri opened the door and peeked outside, making sure nobody saw him before he hushed out the room, JJ’s scarf wrapped around his neck like a trophy, tiger plushy in his hand.

‘Sometimes, losing does mean to win,’ Yuri thought as he went back from where he came, rubbing his eyes until sparks of colors seemed to explode behind his eyelids the same way it had been when he had kissed JJ.

And then Yuri smiled. Properly this time.

NOTES: 0. written for the pliroyweek on tumblr, day 2 "self-confidence" - thx @the mods for organizing this event :) 1. I wrote this for the simple reason because I need more attentive JJ in my life and I am a self-indulgent writer + a sucker for h/c - bear with me. 2. The idea didn't leave me for an entire week. 3. I have no regrets. 4. Also: Yuri in maple sweaters is my kink. 5. No regrets for that, either. 6. I just thought that quote of R. Dahl perfectly fitted this scene - that's why it is here. 7. In regard to (*), "Much unhappiness has come into the world because of bewilderment and things left unsaid", which is a direct quote from Fyodor Dostoyevsky. Seriously, I never saw JJ quoting Dostoyevsky coming. NEVER. Yet it fits so well? And the more I think about it, the more quotes I come up with that fit for JJurio 8. Thx to my beta reader @avengercastiel 9. Thx for all the gorgeous fanart on twitter that cheered me up. 10. Also: THANKS FOR THE SUPPORT I RECEIVED ON TWITTER <3. You probably know who you are 11. Feedback would be lovely and totally awesome <3

#pliroyweek2017 #pliroy #jean jacques leroy #yuri plisetsky #pliroyweek #my writing #well .. it's SOON 2/3 .. and i have to post it today bc i think i won't be home tomorrow #basically at all

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thepoetsarejust · 8 years

Text

if Aphrodite gives a shit (and We created you in pairs) - ch2

Rated: T

Chapter: 1/5

Relationships: Otabek/Yuri, mentions of Victor/Yuuri, Mila/Sara, Leo/Guang Hong

Summary:

When Yuri met Otabek, his timer had been showing him zeroes since he was ten. His Soulmate didn’t come and find him. Cursed, people call him. Fuck off, Yuri tells them.

Otabek still has years before he’s due to meet his Soulmate.

aka the soulmate timer au with a twist

ch1 | ao3

ch2: 2016, or: puberty strikes again, Yuri finds out about Otabek's secret hobby, injuries happen, and Yuri has to deal with the fact that things are ephemeral.

2016 opens up with an injury Yuri sustains at Russian nationals. From there on, lying on a thin hospital bed as figures in white poke and prod at his leg, Yuri knows 2016 is going to be a shit year.

He can't make it to European, and Lilia threatens to burn all of his leopard print jackets if he dares to do anything but lay on his bed like a kicked little dog. It's not ideal and Yuri is already stressing over the bills he would have to pay with money, money that he doesn't have right now because he is bedridden with a fucked-up knee.

His grandpa, with an earnest, determined look on his face, ensures him that he will pay for Yuri with his pension money. Yuri vehemently refuses. Half of the reason why he skates is because he wants to avoid using Grandpa’s pension money as long as he can. The other half is because he wants to spite whoever says boys aren’t supposed to be gentle and graceful.

After three weeks of absolute torture, Yuri is released from the hospital and finally given permit to use his legs instead of treating like it's made of the thinnest glass in the world. He is not allowed to be on the ice yet, so of course he immediately goes to search for his custom-made skates, only to find that Victor and Yuuri have confiscated them. Knowing reasoning with them will end in vain, Yuri considers renting a pair at a local ice rink, then remembers the Yuri's Angels that always lurk in St. Petersburg and in the end, decides it absolutely is not worth the trouble. Staying home is the most tolerable option he has right now, until Lilia lets him back at her studio.

He spends most of his time doing light stretches and exercise, helping his grandpa around the house, and complaining to Otabek through Skype. He's going insane with boredom and antsy with his lack of income. It infuriates him to no end, that the one thing he knows he is fucking stellar at is the one thing that he is forbidden to do. Otabek suggests that maybe it's time to get back on that school work he's been neglecting in favor of his skating career.

"Don't remind me about school," Yuri groans. "You are bad at giving advice."

"It's good advice," Otabek defends. "You just don't want to do it."

Their conversations cover a wide range of topics, from skating to bees to Mickey's latest attempt to thirdwheel Mila and Sara's date, things that Yuri usually doesn't care much about, but now he finds crucial, coming out of Otabek's mouth.

Otabek tells him stories about his new coach—he always seems to change coaches—who is, in ten various ways, better than his last, but also the current bane of his existence. She is relentless and strict, iron-fisted and incredibly disciplined, and requires Otabek to spend no less than six hours on the ice. Otabek feels like he's being destroyed after training’s over, but he also feels like he's finally living up to his potentials. Yuri is glad to hear it; a lot skaters truly have the potential to become worthy of his attention, unfortunately, they always seem to lack the resources or simply stuck with the wrong coach.

Otabek's new choreographer has him excited, though, as he has worked with Virtue and Moir in the past and helped them with Carmen. Yuri points out to him that it might mean he has to do ballet again, and the sheer horror on Otabek's face is so priceless, Yuri has no regrets at all screenshotting it. Otabek threatens to block his Skype if it emerges the next day as a meme.

With this new program, Otabek effortlessly dominates nationals and snags gold at Four Continents, defeating JJ by a wide margin. Otabek’s truly beginning to shape up to become Yuri’s equal—not that Yuri doesn’t consider him as a worthy opponent before. When last year he had been intense and powerful, this year he’s still those things, but also graceful and simply mesmerizing. Yuri’s instincts say he should start regarding Otabek as an enemy, but he couldn’t find anything but happiness for the way Otabek has improved. If anything, it motivates Yuri, though in a distinctly different way that Yuuri’s skating moves him.

Otabek goes MIA for the rest of the night (well, afternoon, in Taipei’s case), but pictures of Otabek in a club, out of all places, surge up on Instagram. It wouldn’t have been all that scandalous if Otabek’s not wearing one of those sleeveless t-shirts with arm-holes so wide, anyone can take a peek at his nipples, if Otabek lets them, exposing his awful biceps and an honest-to-good tattoo just above his elbows. Even more than that, Otabek is positively DJ-ing, like some weird hybrid of the world’s most earnest person and a complete fuckboy.

Phichit posts a shaky video of Otabek’s impromptu setlist. It’s surprisingly good, even if Yuri’s not the type to venture into rave songs, if they can be classified as songs at all. Yuri’s horrified that he doesn’t know of this secret talent of Otabek’s even after one year of friendship, or his damn tattoo, and even more so at how much fun Otabek looks like he’s having. He’s smiling freely, and Yuri feels an irrational burst of jealousy that something else can make Otabek smile like that other than him.

Otabek calls his Skype in the evening, the next day (morning, probably, for him) and apologizes for disappearing.

Yuri rolls his eyes. “It’s okay, Mr. DJ, it’s not that your hidden hobby and tattoo are a surprise for me,” Yuri says, “who, if anyone’s counting, have been your best friend for over a year!”

Otabek’s wince is almost audible. “It isn’t hidden,” he says. “I only remix stuff, usually at home. I would need a bit of, um, liquid courage to do it in front of people.” People that are not him, Yuri supposes. Ugh.

“How come I never knew, then?” Yuri crosses his arms on his chest.

“Because you never asked?” Otabek says.

Yuri scoffs. Well, fair enough. “And that tattoo?”

Otabek hesitates. He looks like he’s swallowing cotton as he says, “I got it two years ago—“

“TWO YEARS?” Yuri shrieks.

“—after my first medal at Four Continents, with my parents’ consent.”

Yuri cannot believe what he’s hearing. “Of course you had to ask for your parents’ permission,” he grumbles. Otabek Altin, human hybrid of a bad boy and grandpa’s dream son-in-law.

“I didn’t tell you because I don’t want to give you any ideas,” Otabek says after a while. “Getting a tattoo isn’t as cool as it sounded. My parents tried to talk me out of it. Now, I kind of regretted it.” Come to think of it, Otabek almost never wears anything but jackets or long-sleeved shirts outside of the rink. Even during public practice, Otabek is always bundled up in his Team Kazakhstan jacket. Yuri never wonders why, thinking it’s just his friend’s preferred fashion choices, but now he knows why: Otabek is ashamed of his tattoo.

Yuri considers his response. “It’s decent,” Yuri offers truthfully. Otabek’s tattoo is three black rings around his bicep, one slightly thinner than the two, positioned in the middle. “It’s not, like, mind-blowing or fantastic, it’s just okay. I’ve seen way more regretful tattoos.” Otabek looks strangely relieved at that. “Also, what do you mean by giving me any ideas? I’ve always wanted a tattoo, and it absolutely has nothing to do with you.”

“Let me guess,” Otabek says dryly, “A tattoo of a tiger?”

Yuri’s face flushes. “Obviously not,” he lies. Okay, so he maybe sees where Otabek is going.

“Sure,” Otabek says skeptically.

“Alright, don’t think you’re off the hook yet! You’re a DJ—what the hell, Otabek? I thought you only listen to classical music!” Yuri demands.

“I don’t only listen to classical music,” Otabek explains. “I like all kinds of music. I told you, I don’t really DJ seriously. My friend’s private parties, birthdays, weddings… It’s nothing serious.”

“But you look like you were having fun,” Yuri grumbles.

“That’s exactly the point,” Otabek laughs, then does a double take. “Are you pouting?”

Yuri splutters. “I don’t pout. People like Victor pout. Guang Hong pouts. I—I glower.”

Otabek doesn’t look convinced. In fact, he looks amused. Thankfully, he makes no further comments. “I’m sorry I never told you about my hidden talents,” he says finally.

Yuri doesn’t feel so inclined to forgive him that quickly. “Action speaks louder than words, Altin,” he states.

Otabek shakes his head. He still looks so damn amused. Yuri has no idea what the hell is so amusing, but figures asking Otabek about it will only make him more amused. “Alright! Would a mixtape please Your Highness?” Otabek asks mockingly. Yuri sticks his tongue at him. “No, no, don’t be mad! I’m serious. Your birthday’s coming up, right? I won’t mind giving you my music as a gift.”

Yuri relents. “Alright, but seriously, no more surprise hidden talents.”

Otabek smirks. “No promises.”

As Worlds rolls close, the frequency of their Skype calls starts to wind down. It doesn't bother Yuri at all. Nope. Not at all. Really, he has his own work to do—getting his body up to the level he was when he got injured, regaining his balance and flexibility, and try not to fall every jump like a baby tossed on the ice for the first time. It doesn’t help that he seems to gain an extra ten inches since his last season, and his gangly legs feel so foreign and unmanageable on ice.

It’s humiliating, seeing the pity present in Mila when he meets her eyes, the whispers junior skaters share between each other, but Yuri refuses to give in and ask Yakov to move him to a smaller, private rink in the facility. He grits his teeth and keeps on trying.

Now retired, married and living with a dog and Victor, also known the human version of a headache, Yuuri enrolls himself as a coach and immediately takes Yuri under his wing. Victor isn’t officially listed as a coach at the rink, but he remains Yakov’s favorite apprentice even after retiring, so he gets to do what he wants. Lilia is still his ballet instructor, but Yuri trains more often with Yuuri—or Coach Katsuki—these days.

It takes Yuri four days to realize that the confident skater Yuuri puts on is not a façade. Rather, he is a multi-faceted person with layer underneath layer, and Yuri can’t, for the love of Aphrodite, figure out how many layers are buried underneath him. Though their dynamic doesn’t shift all that much (meaning Yuri yells at Yuuri and Yuuri sighs self-indulgently), there are things Yuri does that he didn’t use to do before, like yelling back at Yuri whenever Yuri yells at him in increasingly inappropriate Russian cuss words. He thinks Yuuri is trying to balance out the fact that Yuri swears enough for ten people.

Yuuri’s style of coaching is similar with Yakov in the sense that he won’t let Yuri rest until he gets every single detail right. He is strict without being unkind, thorough without pushing Yuri past his limits, minding his injured knee respectfully.

He’s also probably committed to have Yuri six feet under ten years earlier. Yuri is red-faced and bone-deep tired after every session, a sensation that he hasn’t felt in a long time since he was thirteen. Every day is discovering new ways to tame his body only to have to do it all over again by the time the sun rises the next day. It’s a never-ending loop of falling apart and putting himself together, and in between nursing his bruises, cursing himself for being a late bloomer, and getting destroyed by Katsuki Yuuri, Yuri has absolutely zero time to check his phone every hour for any new texts from Otabek, or any news at all.

He definitely doesn’t cave in after three days of radio silence and googles Otabek’s name, just to see if there are any news of him being found dead on the ice. Definitely not. He is a professional figure skater with the training from hell hot on his trails. He has no time to be thinking of a certain other skater, even if said skater is his only best friend. So when it’s break time, Yuri definitely doesn’t pull out his phone to scroll through Otabek’s one and only post on Instagram, wishing that it would magically conjure up a dozen more posts.

Yuri sighs. Otabek’s status on Skype remains stubbornly offline. He balances his phone on his thigh, downing a large bottle of water as the screen of his phone screen goes dark. The rink in front of him is still occupied by Mila and Victor, going through the last parts of her short program. Yakov assigns Yuuri to him and Victor to Mila, probably /for good reasons because Yuri would have buried Victor alive within the first day.

Victor perks up visibly when he sees Yuuri skating past, and hurries to catch up to him. Yuuri smiles when he sees Victor, squeezing his gloved hand gently before skating off to the side. He unlaces his skates expertly and sets them next to the bench Yuri’s sitting on.

"You're a little bit distracted," Yuuri observes.

Yuri immediately pockets his phone, denial on the tips of his tongue, then—oh, yeah, okay, Yuuri has a point. Still, he grits his teeth and says, "No, I'm not."

"Is your knee bothering you?" Yuuri asks, looking at him sharply.

"No!" Yuri shakes his head vigorously. He is being truthful—well, this time. Yuri had tried to lie before, and Yuuri—no, Coach Katsuki—had gotten that scary-intimidating look on his face and told him exactly how early his career could end if he keeps lying.

Coach Katsuki—fuck it, he's still Katsudon in his eyes, what the hell—narrows his eyes. "Then there's no reason you for you sit on the bench looking sadly at your phone like someone just kicked your cat when your triple axel is barely passable."

Yuri couldn’t believe that those exact words had come out of Yuuri’s mouth at first. Meek, kind Yuuri saying anything borderline mean is unheard of. Yet here he is, gaping at austere-faced Yuuri, humorless and absolutely serious.

Yuri stands up, satisfied to see that he almost towers over Yuuri.

"SHUT UP, KATSUDON," Yuri yells. Katsudon should feel damn lucky that he's not currently holding anything, because he would have hurled it at his ugly face. He jabs the older man on his chest forcefully and yells, "I AM TRYING MY DAMN HARDEST, YOU ASSHOLE, IT'S NOT MY FAULT I HAD A SECOND GROWTH SPURT EVEN THOUGH I'M ALMOST SEVENTEEN AND MY LIMBS FEEL AS USEFUL AS NOODLES."

Yuri’s pretty sure he hears a camera phone go off. It’s probably Mila.

Katsudon doesn't budge even a millimeter. "Then what are you doing now, mooning over your phone like a pathetic loser?”

Yuri reels back like he's been punched, and launches himself on the ice angrily. If Victor were his coach, this wouldn’t have come as a surprise. But Yuri never expects to feel so… belittled under Yuuri Katsuki’s words, kind and good Yuuri Katsuki who, more or less, intrigued him to the point where he won a gold just to keep him from retiring. His blades feel like knife under his feet, and his rage bleeds onto the ice as he prepares himself for a jump—

He nails his triple axel for the first time since his injury.

He hears a resounding "yes!" coming from somewhere in his left, and whips his head around to see Katsudon skating towards him excitedly, hands spread wide like he's about to—oh, fuck. Here it comes. The big damn hug.

Yuuri wraps his arms around his shoulders and lifts him off his feet, because it doesn't matter than Yuri has easily three inches on him now, Yuuri remains a cuddle monster.

"I'm still pissed at you for calling me pathetic, you ass," Yuri says, cheeks squished against Yuuri's neck and arm.

Yuuri laughs openly, and releases him immediately. "Come on, let's go over it one more time.”

Grandpa's house is a one hour drive away from his rink in St. Petersburg. When Yuri decided to move to St. Petersburg from Moscow, Grandpa simultaneously sold his childhood manor to purchase a smaller, two-bedroom house in the rural part of St. Petersburg. It’s the hardest decision Yuri had ever let his grandpa made, and it’s the only thing that he would admit he’d cried over.

Victor usually drives him, with his over-the-top pink convertible (who the fuck has convertibles in Russia? Victor Nikiforov), bugging him to rap along to Nicki Minaj’s Monster. However, with the training now in full-swing, Victor has his hands full with Mila, and since Yuuri doesn't have a license, Yuri has no other choice but to take the train, which is not ideal when he's had a rough day at training.

Lilia suggests that Yuri stay in her empty apartment. It's five minutes away on foot, full-furnished, and usually stocked with vodka. And it has wifi, the greatest invention of humankind. Yuri is instantly in love, then considers if he can spare more money to pay for rent.

Lilia is straight up offended when Yuri brings up the matter of lease to her, and declares indignantly that she doesn't take money from little brats, which Yakov assures Yuri is her own way of saying she cares for Yuri like her own child. Yuri is grateful, but can't help wondering furiously why he always ends up being the one getting adopted.

These days, it's where Yuri spends the night.

Living alone gives him more privacy, not that his grandpa doesn't. He knows when to leave Yuri alone, when to let Yuri work through his problems on his own, little things that Yuri is eternally grateful for. Sometimes, though, it can be challenging to unwind when someone else is in the other room, watching late night shows. Yuri, for someone so outspoken, regards silence with a massive relief. The quiet is hard to come by, when he spends nearly seven hours a day on a busy ice rink.

It's a good perk, but on a night such as this, he wishes he was home, with grandpa cooking late dinner in the kitchen and making him hot chocolate.

Yuri knows how to cook. Grandpa is very adamant about teaching him, getting him to help him around since he was five, telling him that it's an important life skill. Yuri used to complain, as a child, that it's a girl's work, and Grandpa would shake his head and tell him to keep cutting the potatoes. It's one of those things that don't make sense to you as a kid, one of those things that, patiently, adults will tell children, "you'll understand when you get older."

Looking back, Yuri is glad for Grandpa's cooking lessons. Cooking is indeed a necessary life-skill, and Yuri learns the importance of it whenever he comes over to Yuuri and Victor's apartment (much to his disbelief) to see Victor annihilating the entire kitchen trying to replicate the Katsukis' authentic katsudon recipe.

On nights that he's not too tired, he cooks in the meticulous kitchen of Lilia's apartment. It's a good way of relaxing, the sizzle of meat on the pan and the sound of boiling broth almost therapeutic.

Still, as much as he loves it, cooking takes energy. After landing his first triple axel in months, Yuri is both mentally and physically worn out, and cannot bring himself to even boil water for instant ramen. It’s probably for his own good; Lilia will add an extra gym hour if she finds out he even considers ramen as a suitable dinner.

Yuri's face hits the pillow and he immediately drifts off to sleep, sweaty clothes and shoes still on. Absently, he knows that he will feel gross in the morning, but his tired muscles protest when he tries to get up, and in the end, the mighty ice tiger is simply human.

He jostles awake when he hears a creak at the door, self-preservation instincts kicking in. He runs to the door, ready to clock a robber in the face with his fists (for interrupting his sleep! The fuck!), and sags with relief when he sees Katsudon behind the door, wide-eyed and bewildered.

"Nobody taught you how to knock?" Yuri snaps. His voice is scratchy from the sleep he's been so rudely jerked out of.

Yuuri brandishes the key he used to open the door. "S-sorry! Lilia gave me the key, told me to check up on you," the Japanese stutters. Yuri is perplexed yet again by how puzzling Katsuki Yuuri is. How is this scared-y cat the same person who insulted him just hours before, at the rink?

Speaking of hours. Yuri glances at the huge, antique grandfather clock in the living room. It's ten pm, which means he's slept for about twenty minutes.

He hears the rustle of plastic, and looks back at his coach. "I, um, I brought dinner?" he says, holding the plastic bag in front of his face. The unmistakable smell of katsudon wafts through the air, and his stomach groans in appreciation. Yuri realizes that he's starving.

"Well, then what are you doing, standing there like an idiot?" Yuri says petulantly. "The kitchen's that way."

The katsudon tastes amazing, though even hard-boiled eggs would taste like a five-star meal at the state of hunger he's in. Yuri is not ashamed at how fast he devours it.

"If I didn't know that katsudon is the only thing you know how to cook, I would've thought you're a good cook," Yuri says in between bites. Lilia doesn’t keep chopsticks in her kitchen arsenal, so they’ve settled for spoons and forks.

Katsudon laughs. He actually covers his mouth when he laughs. He’s about the only person Yuri knows to do that. "That's what Victor thought. After three days, he realizes that it's my only specialty and decides to cook himself."

Yuri snorts. "How many kitchen utensils were burned?"

"About a dozen,” Katsudon snickers.

Yuri shakes his head, exasperated. It’s practically insulting how helpless Victor is in the kitchen. For someone who’s lived alone since the age of ten, Victor is unbelievably useless when it comes to household chores. Yuri won’t be surprised if he’s never eaten anything homemade until the katsudon at Yu-topia. "You should try spaghetti,” Yuri suggests. “It’s easy to cook. If you want the easy way, you can buy one of those ready-to-eat packages from the market, but honestly you'd be doing a great crime to the world of culinary everywhere."

"I'm allergic to tomatoes,” Yuuri says.

"Like, for real?" Yuri gapes. "You were rid of the most wonderful things in life."

"Not really," Yuuri says. "I had pizza with pineapples, so I've basically discovered heaven. Also, truffles beat everything."

Yuri scrunches up his nose. Fruits do not belong on pizza, and he tells Yuuri as much. "The hell? You like pineapples on pizza? What kind of monster are you?"

"The kind who still has his liver intact after a dozen flutes of champagne, apparently,” Yuuri jokes. He’s gotten less horrified at that fact and acted more amused at the mention of the Banquet since he started living with Victor.

Yuri makes a face at the memory. "Don't remind me of the Banquet."

Yuuri grins unabashedly. "Afraid to get your ass handed to you in a dance battle again?"

"Alright, watch your mouth,” Yuri points at the Japanese’s chest with his fork, “I can throw you out if I want."

After dinner, Yuuri orders him take a shower while he washes the dishes. When Yuri emerges, hair dripping water on his shoulder, a clean t-shirt and pajama bottoms on, Yuuri is lounging in the living room, watching TV with a bowl of ice cream.

"Not holding back now that you retired, huh?" Yuri says. He tries to ignore how bitter that word feels on his tongue—retired.

"Want some?" Yuuri asks. "I know you're not supposed to, but I'm your coach and I allow you, like, three spoons."

Yuri shakes his head. "I'd rather not have Lilia kill me.”

Yuuri shrugs. "Suit yourself."

With a moment's hesitation, he plops himself down next to Yuuri.

"Yurio," Yuuri suddenly says. "I didn't mean anything that I said earlier at the rink, okay? I know how hard you've worked. It wasn’t fair for me to say you have been slacking just because you haven’t succeeded in landing any jumps. Puberty is super troublesome, I know.”

With his baby-face? Yuri wouldn’t have thought.

“If you’re going to tell me you’re proud of me, I would actually barf all over this sofa,” Yuri threatens. Something in heart traitorously swells at the smile Yuri sends his way. Yuri crosses his arms in front of his chest, looking away. “Is that why you brought me katsudon?”

"Victor and I made it a tradition to eat katsudon whenever we both accomplished something," Yuuri explains. "You did well with your triple axel today, and I want to reward you."

"You know that I'm not actually your son, right?" Yuri grumbles. “Why am I always babied? There are junior skaters four years younger than me at the rink!”

Yuuri shovels the ice cream into his mouth, pinches his chin like he’s thinking hard. "You're more like a little brother to me."

"Oh, hell, I don't want to be related to you in any way,” Yuri promptly scoots away to the other end of a couch.

Yuuri chuckles. "Still, don't take it to heart, okay? You’d hate it if I tell you, but I was actually... testing a theory."

Yuri sits up straight. "You were... experimenting on me?"

Yuuri grimaces. "Alright, when you put it that way, it sounds way worse. I just—noticed that you become very motivated when you're angry about something. Like when you broke Victor's record in 2014, you were mad that your grandpa couldn't make it to the competition. In 2015, a personal best because you were pissed at Victor. Today, you nailed your triple axel because I called you pathetic."

"You know that it requires at least three incidents before you can conduct a scientific experiment, right? You know, one is an accident, two is a coincidence, three is a pattern,” Yuri says, reciting what his science teacher taught him.

Yuuri smirks. "Glad to see you paid attention at school, Yurio.”

Yuri smacks him across the head with a cushion. "Shut up, you pig."

Yuuri dodges him expertly, extending his arms to put the bowl of half-melted ice cream away from Yurio’s reach. "No! Don't do that! The ice cream!"

"Who cares about the ice cream!"

"I care!" Yuuri shrieks.

Yuri scoffs, crossing his arms over his chest, cheeks puffed out. Yuuri puts the cushion between them, like a barrier. As if that stops Yuri from kicking him. Carefully, Yuuri places the bowl of ice cream on his lap. Yuri glares at him, considering if knocking over his precious ice cream bowl would be worth the reaction he’d incite out of Yuuri when he has to clean it up himself in the end.

Before Yuri can make a decision, Yuuri speaks up again. "Yurio, have you ever thought of making love your motivation instead?"

Yuri makes a pained sound in the back of his head. Is the pig serious? "Dear Aphrodite, go home, pig."

Yuuri searches his eyes. "I'm serious. Anger is not reliable. It comes and goes.”

No, it doesn’t, Yuri wants to tell him, but Yuuri beats him to it. “What happens when you can’t find anger? It’s not ever-present, but love—love is reliable. It’s not ephemeral, you know. You can count on it.”

Yuri almost laughs at how ridiculous Yuuri sounds. "I skated to Agape last year, Yuuri, I think I know plenty when it comes to love."

"Yet anger is still what motivates you."

“By Aphrodite’s name—what the fuck do you want?” Yuri can’t help but shout. “So what if it’s my motivation? I still won gold, didn’t I? Why are you complaining?”

Yuuri doesn't understand, and there's no reason why he would. He grew up surrounded by love, parents who married because they're Soulmates, parents who fell in love, a sister and a ballet teacher who willingly flew out to foreign countries just to see their baby brother perform in a competition that's not even the most important event in a season. The entire population of Hasetsu loves him. Phichit adores him to death, and so do his millions of followers of Instagram, probably.

Victor met him when he was on his worst—a major defeat at the Grand Prix Final, drunk off his ass on sixteen flutes of champagne, half-naked, and slurring his words. Hell, Yuuri hadn't even realized that his timer had gone off. Yet Victor fell for him anyway, and tossed away his career so mindlessly after one video that wasn't supposed to go online, put everything on the line in the name of love.

It’s offensive that Yuuri would even suggest it. Yuuri doesn't understand that for Yuri, anger is easier to find, always in the back of his mind like a bad childhood memory, like the cold touch of his distant mother's lips on his forehead, so long forgotten, so long buried in the darkest parts of his brain. Anger was there when his father came home swinging his bottle at the wall, anger was there when his mother left him to face his father’s wrath to marry an old, rich guy, anger was there when he found his father unbreathing on the blood-soaked carpet, anger was there when his grandpa picked him up and took him in, and it took years until that anger dissipated in the warmth of Grandpa’s embrace.

It resurfaced when his timer went zero, clawing at his heart at the realization that he, out of eight billion people in the world, doesn’t have a Soulmate. Since then, anger stays under his skin like an itch he can never rub off. Anger overpowers happiness when he sees Victor and Yuuri, or Mila and Sara, or Phichit and Seung-gil, and he’s angry at Leo, for abandoning his own Soulmate for his own selfish desire. For his illicit affair with Guang Hong. He’s angry that he can never escape the topic of Soulmates even when he’s working—the ice is his occupation, it had been since his first competition—that Otabek looks at his timer so reverently, that Otabek isn’t fucking answer his texts.

Yuri doesn't seek out love because anger has always been easier to find, and Yuuri doesn’t get it.

Rather than a stab wound, the flash of wedding ring around Yuuri’s finger feels like a million little papercuts.

Yuri's done crying himself to sleep, praying to Aphrodite to forgive him, though he knows he never did anything wrong. So pity turns to resentment.

Yuuri backtracks. “That’s not what I meant, Yurio—“

"It's easy for you to say," Yuri cuts him off. His voice shakes with how much anger burns underneath. He'll blame it simply on puberty later, when he gets a chance to reflect on what he’s done and proceeds to die from the embarrassment of oversharing. "You have love all around you, everyone and their mother in Japan fucking loves you, you—you have no right to tell me I have to find love when this fucking timer told me I'll never find it. Your timer went off and you found Victor. My timer went off and I didn't find anyone. I don't have a Soulmate, Yuuri, how the fuck am I going to find love?"

Yuuri’s mouth hangs open. It’s obvious that he didn’t expect Yuri to have a meltdown like that. Fuck, now Yuri feels so inadequate. Yuuri sets down his bowl slowly, as if he’s afraid of making a sound. "Yurio,” he starts, and here come the apologies, Yuri thinks. “I’m so sorry—“

"Stop apolozing,” Yuri snaps.

“Sor—“ Yuuri catches himself. He hesitantly puts his hand on Yuri’s knee. Yuri jerks his hand off, and pulls his knees close to his chest, refusing to meet Yuuri’s eyes. He hears Yuuri sigh. "There's so much love around you, Yurio. Your grandpa, Yakov, Lilia, Mila—me and Victor, Otabek, we all love you. You're wrong if you think you're not surrounded by love."

Yuri doesn’t want to think about it, doesn’t want to think about the shift in his chest when he thinks about Yuuri’s words. What does it matter, anyway, when none of them has a timer to match his? He winds his arms around his knees. “I can’t,” he puts his forehead on his knees, “I told you, anger is easier.”

"Then find a place, somewhere between rage and serenity,” Yuuri says resolutely.

Yuri laughs. “I don’t even know what serenity is.”

Yuuri has nothing to reply to that, so he continues eating his ice cream in silence.

Despite making great progress, he doesn't make it to Worlds. That means Yuri will have no choice but to wait for the next season to make a comeback. Again, it’s not ideal, and as much as he wants to disobey his coach, he knows he can’t go to the ice with the state that he’s in. He’ll be humiliating the entirety of Russia, and possibly the sport of figure skating. It pains him to admit, but his body is transforming in ways that he can’t yet control, and he needs more time to relearn it.

Yuuri texts him livestreaming links and about a dozen emojis. Yuri purposefully ignores it before he realizes he has to watch Otabek perform. Yuri expects him to win an easy gold; his only real threat is JJ, and it's not even his skill, but his tendency to rob Otabek blind. Besides, Otabek beats JJ by a wide margin at Four Continents, bringing home gold for his country. JJ goes home shamefully with a silver and his tail beteeen his legs. Meanwhile, Phichit, finishing third, throws a party and posts about a dozen pictures of Seung-gil wearing his gold medal like the lovesick fool he is. It's truly a study in perspective. He also keeps posting pictures of hamster hats with cryptic captions, which Yuri supposes is his own way of hinting people at his ice show project, Phichit on Ice.

Yuri is positive a repeat of Four Continents will happen again at Worlds. If not the exact same order of the podium, then Otabek winning gold, because he has to.

Otabek hasn’t contacted him in almost three weeks now. Their last conversation is of Otabek telling Yuri he’s so damn tired, he will completely and utterly die in a minute, and then nothing. The only indication that Otabek isn’t actually dead, just being overdramatic as per usual, is the double checklist sign near his speech bubble that confirms that Otabek has read his text, just hasn’t answered. Yet. It bothers Yuri more than it should, so Yuri keeps sending him stupid posts on Instagram and Snapchats his misadventures training under Katsuki, even when Otabek never opens them.

Because he can't be here physically to yell davai at Otabek, he sends Otabek a Snapchat video of him yelling, "Davai!" at the top of his lungs. The red arrow almost instantly turns white; a sign that Otabek has received and seen Yuri's message. Yuri sits up straight, excited beyond belief to finally hear from Otabek.

Otabek sends him a thumbs-up emoji in reply.

Otabek still wears his ugly short program costume. Yuri tweets, someone needs to burn that faux pirate costume, not caring if it pisses Otabek off because the asshole deserves it for the unannounced radio silence. Through the entire program, Yuri texts him his thoughts and comments on the program, and doesn't even feel a little bit embarrassed at the twenty-something messages he's spammed Otabek's phone with. Otabek finishes at third after the short program, after—Yuri hisses in disgust—JJ and Chris, followed by Phichit and Seung-gil.

Otabek replies his texts— fucking finally—when Yuri's about to fall asleep.

Sorry, just had a chance to reply.

Don't you ever worry about your phone bills?

Yuri scoffs. Bitch, I made my own money

Yuri sees three dots on his screen, a sign that Otabek is typing out a reply, then they’re gone. Yuri huffs. Otabek is so busy these days. Yuri is mad, but he also knows his anger is irrational. Otabek is at the peak of his career, winning medals left and right. He must be swamped with meetings with potential sponsors, on top of his usual deadly schedule of practice and interviews and photoshoots and party appearances. It’s understandable that Otabek is too busy to check his phone, and with the added timezone, Yuri should, out of everyone, understand how difficult it must be for Otabek to manage his time.

Yuri sighs. He’s getting tired, and he has practice tomorrow. Maybe the only way to bridge their distance is to keep himself on the same level of busyness as Otabek. That way, he won’t be obsessively looking at his phone every hour for a reply.

Good luck on your free skate tomorrow, he types, and falls asleep.

He feels strange when he wakes up. It’s an unpleasant sensation under his skin, like something is crawling up his bloodstreams. He accidentally drops his bowl when getting cereal and barely misses getting punctured by the shards. He exchanges his bowl for a plastic one and eats out in the balcony, thinking that maybe he just needs some fresh air. Crows fly up above, a rare sight, and he angles his phone to take a picture, only to find it out of battery. Oh well.

That aura of strangeness keeps following him, even when he arrives at the rink. People stare. He inspects his face in the locker room—maybe he’s grown another two monster pimples—and finds nothing out of the ordinary, except for the length of his hair. But people couldn’t be talking about his hair; Victor had his down past his butt. His hair shouldn’t be weird.

He figures he’s just exhausted. He did, after all, stay up to livestream Worlds yesterday. Otabek must be starting his free skate by now. Mila always records the livestreams; he’ll bug her for the link later.

There's a stricken look on Mila's face when Yuri skates to Katsudon, already waiting on the ice with an expression that mirrors hers. Yuri frowns. Maybe people truly hate his hair.

"Yurio..." she says.

"What is it?" Yuri demands. The strange feeling is gone, but now it’s replaced by terror, seeping into his bones like poison. Mila wordlessly shows him an article on her phone.

"I'm so sorry," Mila says.

Yuri can pinpoint exactly when his world crumbles.

Mila pulls him into her arms before his legs give out. For a brief moment, the world narrows down to the ringing in his ears. There's nobody at the rink, there's no medal to be won, there's no competition. He closes his eyes and hears the rumble of a motorcycle, laughter that doesn't come easy, a song that sends him to sleep.

Then the ringing stops.

Suddenly, everything becomes too much. Voices become too loud. Everything around him is blinding. Mila still has her arms around him, whispering lies into his hair, whispering empty promises.

Yuri wants to scream, wants to chuck Mila's blasted phone at the nearest wall, wants to go to Boston and wreck every single incompetent referee and medic—

He pushes his face into the crook of Mila's neck and wails.

OTABEK ALTIN SUFFERS A MIGHTY DEFEAT AFTER A TERRIFYING CRASH

11.23 AM | Olivia Wu

This year’s Four Continents champion Otabek Altin and silver medalist Jean-Jacques Leroy were expected to battle in this year's World Championship, but the two collided hard during warm-ups (3/29), leaving both with visible injuries.

Altin was skating backwards at full-speed when he collided with Leroy, leaving both lying on the ice for several minutes. Leroy was able to get himself off ice to seek immediate medical attention, but Altin was knocked unconscious.

Despite the injuries, both refrained from withdrawing. Altin finished last after failing to land three out of the four quads he landed, and Leroy came in seventh. Altin was limping to the Kiss and Cry before he fell unconscious again. Christophe Giacometti, launched from his previous third rank after the free program to first, became the World Champion.

He dropped the following statement at his press conference: “My victory today is only because my dear two friends were badly injured; had it not been the case, the competition would’ve been so much different.” Silver medalist Phichit Chulanont also echoed his statement on an Instagram post.

America’s Leo de la Iglesia, a known close friend of Altin, had also taken to social media to give a statement regarding the accident. He tweeted, ‘Please respect both JJ and Otabek’s privacy. They need our support and prayers more than ever.’

Isabella Yang, Leroy’s fiancé and Soulmate, was notably silent on all platforms of social media.

Altin and Leroy are currently being kept overnight in a local hospital in Boston, it has been reported.

Yuri’s always wanted to visit America. He grows up watching Hollywood movies, like many children with a cable TV, and has always thought of America as the land of dreams. He’s been there when he’s assigned to Skate America in his junior skating career, but being there as a tourist feels infinitely different than being there as a competing athlete. He wants to go there on his own, one day, visit friends that he makes in figure skating, go sight-seeing.

He's doing all that now, just not in the circumstances that he never thought he would be in.

Last-minute ticket purchases are expensive, but Yuri barely even looked at the numbers. He packs his clothes in a daze, that strange cloud of knowing things aren’t a-okay, and unable to do something about it. Victor drives Yuri to the airport for the longest ride of his life. For the first time, Victor doesn’t play music, doesn’t try to initiate a conversation. Katsudon rides shotgun, Mila squeezed with him in the backseat, and no one makes a sound.

Mila sends him off to the boarding room with a hug. Her red hair is shoved haphazardly under a baseball cap, so as to not be recognizable. “Yakov will understand,” Mila says.

“I don’t care about Yakov,” Yuri says.

Mila smiles at him sadly. “Text me when you’ve landed.”

Twelve hours later, he’s in cab in Almaty, watching trees and buildings and people blur past him as the drive takes him to where Otabek is.

Yuri hates hospitals. The smell of death envelops the smell of antiseptic. The pristine white walls and the pristine white floor hurt his eyes. Nurses smile way too wide and doctors scurry past without a care in the world. He can’t stop seeing blood-red against the white shirt that his father was wearing when he found him dead in the kitchen, and he squashes down the image of Otabek’s white free program costume tainted with blood.

God. He should’ve asked someone to come. Hell, even Victor’s overly joyful presence would help him a lot right now.

He doesn’t know where Otabek’s room is. He wants to ask the receptionist, but his English is heavily accented and terrible, and he hates people. God, why are Americans so loud? He hates this. He hates JJ, for crashing into Otabek, his best friend for being a fucking idiot who doesn’t know how to stop even if Yuri spells it out, he hates distance for separating them, he hates his fucked-up knee and his missing out of Worlds.

Maybe if he were there he could—

He almost topples over when someone bumps into him. That someone immediately apologizes. Yuri looks up, miffed, to find an Asian-Canadian woman staring back at him. Isabella Yang, hair a mess and dress rumpled, looking like she hasn’t slept in a year.

“Yuri,” she says.

Rage suddenly conquers him. “What the fuck are you doing here?”

“Excuse me?” Isabelle says indignantly.

“Aren’t you supposed to be celebrating with your dumb husband?” Yuri snarls.

“Excuse me?” Isabella huffs. “I don’t understand what you’re talking about.”

“Your precious JJ succeeded in taking out his biggest competition of the season. Made him lose big time, too,” Yuri says. “Tell him congratulations on a plan well executed.”

Isabella’s eyes well up with angry tears. “You think JJ did this on purpose?”

“He crashed into Otabek. Anyone with eyes can see it. It’s recorded and broadcasted everywhere,” Yuri spits out. “So, yeah, tell him, in the process of killing Otabek’s career, he also has killed his!”

Isabella takes one step forward and slaps him across the face.

“What the fuck—“ Yuri splutters.

“How dare you!” Isabella yells. By now, people have started to gather around them, whispering warily. Nurses hurry over to where they are, but Isabella doesn’t seem to care that they’re making a scene. “If you had eyes, or even an ounce of conscience, you would know that JJ was badly hurt, too. I felt it,” Isabella clutches her chest, “Right down in here.”

“Who cares about what you felt—“

“I care!” Isabella barks, her fists balled at her sides. Tears well up in her eyes. “Do you know what happens when your Soulmate dies, and you’re not there?” It’s probably meant to be a rhetoric, but Isabella tilts her head, mouth turning into an ugly, angry curve. “Right, you wouldn’t know. You wouldn’t know because you don’t have a Soulmate. You’re heartless—that’s why you’re so angry, there’s no room in your heart for love. You don’t know love, and you never will, you son of a—“

“Isabella,” comes a voice that Yuri hates so much.

Isabella’s head whips around. JJ, in a wheelchair, is just a few feet away behind her, and she bridges that gap in three wide strides that transition into running at the end, hugging him close. She cries into his shoulders, sobs wrecking her lithe frame. JJ rubs her hair and kisses her just behind her ear. He has a bandage wrapped around his forehead.

“Yuri,” JJ says once Isabella’s released him. There’s no way he hadn’t overheard his fight with Isabella. Yuri braces himself for another barrage of insults, of how he is a monster incapable of love, but JJ only nods politely at him. “Otabek is in room 317.”

Otabek is, blessedly, awake.

“Yuri,” he says, like he couldn’t quite believe it. “Hi—how—when did you—“

"You were limping to the Kiss and Cry," Yuri says, "and then you passed out."

"I finished last," Otabek says, like it fucking matters when Yuri saw the blood dripping from his chin and onto the ice, a stark shocking red against the translucent-white ice.

"I don't care that you finished last!" Yuri yells. He doesn't notice Otabek flinching from the volume. He grabs Otabek's shoulders and squeezes tightly. He hopes it can convey everything he's feeling right now: relief that Otabek is alive and will recover in no time, anger at fucking JJ, fear of Otabek not making it, leaving him like his parents did, worry, love. "When I heard you got injured, I..."

"I'm okay," Otabek reassures him.

Yuri stares at the cut on his chin and the gauze around his head and laughs mirthlessly. "Fucking say that to the five stitches on your skin," he grumbles.

"Yuri."

"That asshole JJ robbed you twice. First when he robbed you of your bronze in Barcelona, and now—this!"

"Yuri."

"He fucking planned it, I knew it. He couldn't let his loser self suffer alone, so he has to drag you down with him. That fuck—"

"Yuri!"

Otabek raising his voice is as rare as a spotted unicorn. Yuri immediately shuts up. He looks up to see Otabek staring at him with that unreadable look again. So it's not enough that Otabek has to be a cryptic ass, Yuri has to suffer from trying to interpret what his damn look means.

“Can you,” Otabek coughs. “In the bag on the sofa, there’s a gift for you.”

It’s so unexpected, that it takes a few minutes for the words to sink it. Obediently, Yuri rummages through Otabek’s bag. “It’s a small red box,” Otabek describes, and Yuri finds it easily. Among the black hoodies and black everything, the red box stands our starkly like a pimple. Yuri brings it over to Otabek’s bed. “Open it,” the older boy encourages.

Yuri opens the box to find a new pair of earphones and a mixtape CD inside. “Oh,” he says, remembering his request back in February. “The mixtape… I even forgot about it.” He always forgets his birthday. It’s not a big thing in his household, so he grows up never really celebrating it. “Thank you.”

“I’m sorry I missed your birthday,” Otabek says.

Yuri can’t help the warmth in his eyes. He comes here to visit an injured Otabek, yet he’s the one with his dam breaking. “’S okay,” he mumbles. “I love it already.”

“Yeah? What if I told you I put nothing but Careless Whisper in it?”

“Otabek, no.”

“And Never Gonna Give You Up?”

Yuri smothers him—gently, very gently—with a throw pillow. “You wouldn’t dare.”

"I'm tired," Otabek mumbles, falling back to the pillow as if conversing with Yuri takes up all of his energy. "Stay?"

Yuri shakes his head. "You don't need to ask, idiot," he says. He takes Otabek's hand before he loses his guts. Otabek smiles, and fits his fingers in between Yuri's.

"Go to sleep," Yuri says, softly this time.

Otabek must've wanted to reply, but the painkillers took over and his eyes flutter shut.

It's way well into the night when Yuri realizes Otabek hasn't let go of his hand.

Otabek’s family barges into his room the next morning in a flurry of winter coats and rapid-fire Russian, peppering kisses on his cheeks and showing him how worried they are. Yuri stands awkwardly at the door, clutching a vending machine issued coffee, uncertain if he should introduce himself or slowly remove himself from the premises. Otabek’s face is flushed, despite his darker complexion, clearly enjoying the attention, but embarrassed all the same.

“We came as fast as we could,” the oldest woman in the room, presumably Otabek’s mother, says. “But I had an operation yesterday and you know I couldn’t leave it.”

“It’s okay, Mom, I’m fine,” Otabek says.

A woman of otherworldly beauty—who is Yuri kidding, they are all of otherworldly beauty—smacks him lightly on the shoulder. “Oh, like hell you are! You fainted at the Kiss and Cry! And now you’re hospitalized! You need to up your standards for ‘fine,’ little brother, or the next day you pull this kind of shit again, I’m going to have to kick your ass.”

“Sabina, language,” the other woman in the room says. She has a headscarf on.

“Shut up, Katya,” Sabina says.

“Let’s not fight in front of your very sick, very injured brother, okay?” the man who could only be Otabek’s father interrupts. “How are you feeling? You know what, we should move you to a hospital in Almaty. Yeruslan will take better care of you than this sleazy American hospital. Let me get in a word with your doctor—“

“Mom and dad,” Otabek interjects, “and my beloved sisters,” this one’s clearly sarcastic, “I promise you, I feel better.”

Otabek’s mother takes his hand in hers, and pulls it to his chest. Her sleeves slide down in the process, revealing an old-fashioned timer wrapped around her wrist, showing nothing but zeroes, much like Yuri’s. They all wear their timers on their wrist, the traditional way, Yuri notes. “You never gave us a break, Otabek.”

“Oh,” Sabina’s eyes catch Yuri’s. “Otabek, how rude of you to not introduce your friend!”

Yuri’s torso becomes rigid. Suddenly, four pairs of beautiful dark eyes are trained on him, and Yuri finds himself gulping nervously under the scrutiny. Is this how being intimidated feels like? Yuri does not like it one bit. “Um,” he says. “Hi.”

“Yuri, Mom, Dad, Sabina—“

“Hi!” Sabina waves excitedly.

“—and Katya,” Otabek makes a face at Sabina. “Everyone, this is Yuri. He holds the current short program record.”

Sabina nods in understanding. “Oooh, that Yuri—“ Otabek shots up so fast, Yuri’s scared he might get a whiplash, and clamps a hand over her mouth.

“Never mind what she said,” Otabek says in horror to Yuri.

“Sure,” Yuri says, not truly comprehending what’s happening. He is, statistically, terrible with parents. He has no idea how to respond to their kindness, like the Katsukis had been. His coffee is starting to burn his palm, so he switches it to the other hand.

Otabek’s mother smiles at him. Otabek looks, for the most part, like her. His darker complexion, his nose, his almond-shaped eyes that always seem to be searching for an answer. His nose is his father’s, as well his scowling mouth. “Hello,” she greets politely. “Were you also competing?”

“Um, no,” he shakes his head.

“Oh?” Mrs. Altin’s eyebrows raise.

“No, I was in St. Petersburg. Training. I had to sit out this season because of an injury,” Yuri explains.

“Wow, that’s true friendship right there,” Sabina remarks.

“I, um,” Yuri stutters.

“Thank you for keeping him company,” Mr. Altin says. His straight face mirrors Otabek’s default expression.

“It’s nothing, really,” Yuri says.

“Assuming you flew immediately after you heard the news, you must’ve purchased the tickets only a handful hours prior to boarding. It must’ve cost a fortune,” Katya analyzes. Between Sabina and her, she looks more like Otabek. Sabina has lighter skin, matching Mr. Altin, and always seems to be smiling. Katya is the exact opposite. “Seeing as even Tatyana couldn’t manage.”

Otabek’s face darkens at the mention of the name. “Let’s not talk about Tatyana,” he says. “Listen, I’m super hungry and I hate hospital food. Do you mind going out to buy me McDonald’s?”

“You’re an athlete; you don’t eat garbage,” Sabina says.

Otabek looks at her pointedly.

“Oh!” Sabina seems to get his meaning. She immediately ushers the rest of the family out. “Shoo, out we go! I haven’t been in Boston in a long time, I really wanted to go sightseeing!”

“There is, statistically, nothing to see here in Boston that we don’t see in Almaty,” Katya points out as Sabina shoves her out of the room. “And it is very unbecoming of you to shove your parents like this.”

“Later, Otabek!” Sabina yells out, and closes the door behind her.

Otabek sighs. “So sorry about them,” he says. “I didn’t know they’re coming.”

“They’re your family, of course they’d come,” Yuri says. It’s only then that he realizes he hasn’t touched his coffee. Now cold, he downs them in one go. He almost chokes at how terrible it is. Cardboard would’ve gone way smoother. He wants to ask about Tatyana. Remembering the way Otabek reacts (badly), Yuri decides to file it for later.

After that, there’s really not much for Yuri to do. Otabek is released two days later to be transferred to a local hospital in Almaty (that Mr. Altin claims is much better than any health institution in America). Mrs. Altin insists to buy his plane ticket, no matter how vigilant Yuri declines, and on Monday, Yuri boards a plane back to St. Petersburg.

But not before he makes Otabek promise not to disappear online again. “I’ll send you my schedule, I promise,” Otabek says, “So we can arrange our Skype calls around the time we’re both free.”

“We have to be on the same level of busyness,” Yuri says. “But that doesn’t mean I forbid you from being busy! Like, if I have ten things to do today, and you only have four, you better find six more things so you don’t pine over the phone.”

“Me? Pining?” Otabek smirks. “Shouldn’t that be you?”

Distance is hell on friendship, but Yuri is positive they’ll manage.

In September, Victor barges into practice one day and drapes himself over Yuuri excitedly. “Yuuri!” Victor sing-songs, his mouth doing that stupid heart-shaped thing that makes Yuri want to kill him even more than usual, “I know who we should be for Halloween!”

“WE’RE PRACTICING, VICTOR,” Yuri yells. “AND IT’S SEPTEMBER!” Victor should be aware that the only reason why Yuri isn’t kicking him is because he’s wearing his skates. If that weren’t the case, Yuri would have kicked him a thousand times.

“Victor,” Yuuri says, deadpan, “I’m coaching Yurio.”

“Please, please, just take a look at this?” Victor pulls on the puppy-dog eyes, and Yuri could’ve sworn they actually sparkle. What the fuck.

Yuuri sighs, looking fondly up at his husband. He turns to Yuri. “Yurio, why don’t you work on that step sequence while I,” he glances at Victor’s shit-eating grin, “take care of this?”

Yuri stares at his coach in disbelief. “You’re abandoning me for a quickie?”

Yuuri splutters. “N-no! Totally! Absolutely not!” he denies, arms flailing vehemently. “Besides, you do need to improve your step sequence anyway!” He looks back and forth between his student and his husband, and gets a suggestive wink (Victor) and a mock-vomit (Yuri) in return. Yuuri slaps his hand over his forehead. “Seriously, Yurio, just improve your step sequence. And we haven’t even started working on your EX skate!”

Yuuri pushes Victor out of the rink. To Yuri’s absolute relief, they don’t stumble into the locker rooms. Though, rest assured, any flat surface should be good enough for them. God, they’re not even newlyweds anymore. How the hell are they eternally on the honeymoon phase?

Mila skates over to him. “Abandoned by your coach?”

“Always,” Yuri grumbles. “Why is Yakov trusting us with them? At this point we’re going to lose. Miserably.”

Mila shakes her head. “It’s like they never got over the Soulmate high.”

“Soulmate high?” Yuri inquires.

“Yeah, like when you meet your Soulmate and your endorphin levels shoot up to the sky and you feel so inhumanly jolly,” Mila explains. “With normal cases it usually stays for two months, tops.” Ah, another sensation in life that Yuri is never going to experience.

“Evidently, they are an abnormal case,” Yuri states. “Fuckin’ Halloween costumes.”

“It’s probably a code,” Mila agrees solemnly. “Speaking off Halloween! Isn’t Otabek’s a spooky baby?”

“That sounds so ridiculous, I’m changing his contact name to Spooky Baby,” Yuri declares. Otabek will despise it with the entirety of his being. From one of their scheduled Skype sessions, Yuri gathers that Otabek hates being reminded that his birthday is on Halloween. Sabina always finds excuses to turn his birthday parties to Halloween costume parties, and by the time she breaks out the booze, people would’ve forgotten what exactly they’re celebrating. It’s a valid reason, but the mental image of Otabek brooding in the corner in an over-the-top hero costume on his own birthday party is so amusing, Yuri can’t help but tease him about it.

“Did you think of a gift yet?” Mila asks, skating ahead of him.

Yuri easily catches up with her. “I got him a new helmet,” he says.

“But?” Mila prompts.

“I don’t know,” Yuri shrugs. “It just doesn’t seem thoughtful? I know he won’t hate it, but I just feel like it’s a gift that someone who only knew him for five seconds could give to him. I’ve known him longer than that.”

Mila pinches her chin. “What about new headphones? He DJs, doesn’t he?”

Yuri sighs. “Leo beat me to it, the asshole.”

“I’m sure he will like whatever you end up giving him,” Mila assures. “I hate cooking, but Sara took me to her grandma’s house in Rome to spend the whole day cooking for my birthday, and it’s the best experience I’ve ever had to date. It beats even the World championship gold!” she sighs contentedly at the memory. “What I’m saying is, it’s the thought that counts, you know? Sometimes the best gifts aren’t materialistic. Sometimes it’s simply a feeling. A special thing that only you two share. Like that time Sara and I went to Sicily and—“

“Dear Aphrodite, Victor is rubbing off on you,” Yuri shudders.

“What can I say!” Mila squeals. “I love Sara!”

Yuri skates far away from her to avoid hearing any heartsick lovestories. Everyone he knows is fucking in love, and he grows more repulsed by it every day that passes. And he thought Georgi was bad. Thank fuck Anya was just a false alarm and he found his actual Soulmate.

Although, what Mila says gets him thinking…

Sometimes it’s simply a feeling. Well, Yuri is fucking happy when he’s with Otabek. That much he knows. What makes Otabek happy?

Skating makes Otabek happy. Nailing all four of the quads he squeezes in his free program for this year’s season, the crazy bastard. Talking about making Kazakhstan proud, calling Yuri at four in the morning just to tell him he landed a quad axel, I fell down on the ice but I did it, I did the impossible, in a breathless voice, like he ran straight to the phone from the rink, so happy that Yuri can practically hear his smile. It seems that their whole dynamic is based on the fact that they both, more than anything, love skating. Yuri remembers what Otabek told him—you have the unforgettable eyes of a soldier—and wonders if Otabek would’ve noticed him at all if he didn’t start skating, didn’t start doing ballet as a result. Would Otabek still be his friend?

Yeah, no. Skating is the basic principle of their friendship. Without skating, Otabek wouldn’t have traveled to Russia. Wouldn’t have seen him at Yakov’s summer camp, wouldn’t have felt inspired to move to other rinks in different continents, different parts of the world, to finally meet him in Barcelona.

Oh.

Suddenly, it clicks.

Yuri skates to the side, haphazardly putting on his blade guards to run to his bag. He finds his iPod, the playlist that Otabek mixed for him downloaded into the card, and plugs his earphones into the jack. There’s one particular song that’s his favorite.

When Yuuri finds him, he tells his coach, “I know what to do for my EX skate.”

October rolls around, and with it, the assignments for the Grand Prix series are announced. Yuri shares Skate America with Otabek, and his other assignment is the Rostelecom Cup, and Otabek’s Trophee de France. Skate America is the first event of the series, lasting from the 29th to 31st, and Yuri, for all that he pretends to be nonchalant, is nervous about his comeback. Russian child prodigies tend to burn out once they have reached puberty. It’s something that Yuri sees in his former fellow junior skaters, and he knows the press is riding on that theory, backing him to a corner, fueled by last season’s injury.

He browses the internet to distract himself, but it backfires when he finds tweets doubting his skills as a competitor. He writes a long angry rant only to delete it, feeling self-conscious and pissed off. He wants to see Otabek, but he won’t be arriving until tomorrow evening because his flight gets delayed. He doesn’t see Otabek until the public practice, looking ragged and incredibly jet-lagged, and decides that perhaps what Otabek needs the most is peace.

Just before his short program, Yuuri pulls him aside and hugs him. Yuri struggles in his embrace, but the Japanese is resilient. “I know you have a lot of things on your mind right now,” he starts, “which is why I want you to channel all of that nervous energy to your skating. Okay?”

“Okay,” Yuri mumbles, head buried in Yuuri’s chest. The latter is wearing a Team Russia jacket that fits just a little bit loose on him.

Yuri’s greeted with a roaring crowd when he steps into the ice. Otabek yells davai at the top of his lungs, hugging the bear plushie he always seems to get from fans. He doesn’t look as exhausted as he had been, though his eyes are still ringed with dark circles, but his smile is blinding, as if he’s over the moon at Yuri’s sole presence on the ice.

He gives Otabek a thumbs-up.

“Ladies and gentleman, representing Russia, Yuri Plisetsky!”

Yuri glides onto the ice, hands above him, catching the roars of the crowd. His heart is pounding agaist his ribcage, but the bone-chilling sensation is familiar. He closes his eyes and strikes his starting pose.

The music starts.

His theme this season is The Phoenix. His short program costume is black with a touch of sparkling blue on his sleeves, and the story that he’s telling is of death. His long hair is pulled back into a sleek high ponytail, and just a little dust of powder on his cheekbones, making him look ghostly. Yuuri is the one who pushes to renew his image. With his gangly legs and newfound muscles, he no longer fits the role of the Russian fairy. Yuri wants to be the soldier Otabek believes him to be.

He searches for anger, the one and only motivation he can count on. He recalls why he began skating—no, why he began skating professionally, as an athlete with ties to several big companies in Russia. He skates to support his family—no, not his mother, not his dead father—to support Grandpa, who never showed him nothing but compassion, love, and kindness. He skates to support himself, to spite the kids at school who called him names because he grows his hair—who jeers at him, calls him fairy for all the wrong reasons, who mocks him. Yuri won his first junior championship because he wanted to shut them up with a gold medal.

Otabek is the only person who sees him and doesn’t think of a fairy. He calls him a soldier. Yuri remembers how scared he had been when he learned of Otabek’s injury, how angry he had been at JJ, at Otabek for not being careful enough. He remembers the weight of Otabek’s hand in his as he listens to whirring of the air conditioner in a hospital in Boston, miles away from Almaty, from St. Petersburg, and hopes his skating would be enough for Otabek.

His mind goes blank in the middle of it, as it usually does when he truly lives the music, his mind struggling to catch up with his body, realizing he’s done a quad salchow before his mind registers it. He feels strangely… serene, like the edge of the sand that never kisses the waves, though it always comes close.

Oh. That’s it.

The place between rage and serenity, he’s found it.

The crowd roars as he strikes his final pose. Flowers rain down on him like snow, tiny children in tiny skates rushing to pick it up. “Oh, splendid! Truly splendid! It’s intense, it’s theatrical, it’s entirely, and wholly, Yuri Plisetsky! The dance of death, the resurgence of Russia’s new legend and prodigy, Yuri Plisetsky!” the commentators are saying, but Yuri barely pays attention to them. He half-skates, half-runs to Yuuri, waiting with open arms.

“I’m so,” Yuuri shakes his head. “So, so proud of you.”

“Wait until I break your record,” he says.

Yuri notices a pair of brown eyes watching him, and immediately hug-attacks him. “Asshole!” he laughs. “I haven’t seen you in so long, I missed you so much.”

“I do too,” Otabek says. “Yura, you were amazing.”

“You try and beat me now,” Yuri says. He releases the older boy. “Listen, Otabek—“

“Yurio!” Yuuri calls. “Kiss and Cry, now!”

Yuri grimaces. “Shit, gotta go. You’re skating after this, right?” At Otabek’s nod, Yuri gives him another hug. “Davai.” Then he all but runs to the Kiss and Cry, where Yuuri is already waiting, looking expectantly up at the scoring board. He gets 103.8; it’s not high enough to break any records, but it separates him and Chris, who held the first position prior to him, by three solid points. Yuuri hugs him again—wow, he hugs a lot of people today—and really, it’s like Yuuri is prouder at the score than Yuri himself.

It isn’t until he’s sat down to watch Otabek that he realizes Otabek called him Yura.

Otabek wins silver, losing by five points to Yuri’s gold, and looks up at him proudly at the podium. Yuri is taller than him now, and taller still when he’s one step elevated at the podium. He’s wearing his free skate costume, in contrast to the austere theme of his short program, fiery red and gold, the phoenix rising from the ashes, alive again. His free skate is enthralling; that, at least, never changes since the first time he met Yuri. He remains a delight to watch, all elegance and sharp lines. He’s going to goad the champion to pay for him when they go out for Korean BBQ after the banquet; it’s his right, as the birthday boy, and Yuri’s responsibility as a winner.

His EX gala is Ambush from Ten Sides, depicting the perseverance of Kazakh warriors in times of war, and he’s dressed in a long-sleeved velvet blue jacket with gold lining stitched on the back. He loves EX galas as it gives him the freedom to improvise, to enjoy skating as a performance art that he’s fallen in love with as a child without the pressure of the competition.

He passes Yuri on the side, sporting a casual look with black trousers and sky-blue button-up shirt, looking younger than a seventeen years old. “Looking good,” Otabek greets. “We haven’t had a moment to catch up.”

“Still on for that BBQ, right?” Yuri asks.

“Of course,” Otabek says, embarrassed at how quickly he responds.

“Good, I hope you’re hungry because Yuuri is paying,” he says, taking off his blade guards. He claps Otabek on one shoulder. “Also, I hope you enjoy my EX gala.”

Otabek is going to tell him that he would like what Yuri puts out anyway, but Yuri is already gliding on the ice, the lights dimmed.

“Presenting, gold medalist, representing Russia, Yuri Plisetsky!”

The ice bathed in magenta. Yuri trains his hopeful eyes to the domed ceiling, and the music starts.

Otabek freezes.

The happy, poppy beats are a contrast to Otabek’s intense gala music. Yuri starts out with little laps around the rink before launching himself into a sequence of energetic, fancy steps. It isn’t packed with technical difficulties like his programs always had been, it’s less about dramatics and competitions and more about having fun, and it bleeds onto the ice, the positive vibes that Yuri is bringing. Otabek can’t help but laugh, covering his face in his hands as he hears his own voice singing—you only live once—in time with Yuri’s jumps.

“Otabek,” Leo, the bronze medalist, elbows him. “Isn’t this your song?”

Otabek parts his fingers. Yuri is still moving, electric and mesmerizing, and he’s using his own music. He remembers mixing at two am, worrying himself to death over whether Yuri will like it, calling Leo for R&B and electro-pop reference. He feels warm all over. “Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, it is.”

“Yuri must love it so much,” Leo says.

When the song ends, Otabek’s pretty sure he claps the loudest.

Yuri skates off the ice, and as soon as his blades hit the ground, Otabek hugs the shit out of him.

“I take it you love it, then?” Yuri laughs. Otabek can’t fully envelop him in his arms like he wants to. While they’re away from each other, Yuri’s grown about seven inches taller and his shoulders are broader.

“You are unbelievable,” Otabek declares.

Yuri pushes himself off him. “No, seriously, I’d die if you hate it, because it’s meant to be your birthday present,” he says sheepishly. “I just—you know, part of the reason why we’re friends is because of my skating, so I figured—why not try to choreograph a program for you? It’s my first time ever choreographing anything, so it sucks, even though Katsudon helps, but I’m always open to suggestions.” Yuri shyly tucks his hair behind his ears. “So… what do you think?”

“I think,” Otabek says, “that I could—“

Kiss you right now.

“You could…?” Yuri prompts.

Fuck. Otabek is fucked.

“I could cry,” Otabek saves his ass.

“A good cry, right?”

Like it could ever be anything else.

Otabek squeezes Yuri’s hand. It’s still as warm as he remembers. “A good fucking cry.”

Leo claims that Yuna’s has the best Korean BBQ in all of America. He’s taken Otabek here for a total of twelve times during his time sharing a rink with Leo when he was fifteen. This is a rather historical place for the both of them. This is where Leo had come out to him and confessed his quiet rebellion. He hates timers, thinks that love should not be controlled. The year after he meets Guang Hong, he drags Otabek after a competition and told him he’s in love.

Otabek is a traditionalist, born in a family of traditionalists. It has come as a surprise, but the look in Leo’s eyes melts his resolve and he decides he would support Leo, no matter what. There’s been many selfies posted on Instagram of Guang Hong and Leo eating out here at Yuna’s since then. Otabek wishes that everything would work out in their favor, in the end.

Tonight, Leo’s booked the best table in the restaurant for a modest celebration of Otabek’s birthday.

Yuri is sitting next to Otabek, flipping meat on the stove, hair pulled up in a messy bun. Yuuri is with them, conversing with an excited Leo, nodding and ahhing at the right parts of the story. He takes pictures to send to Victor, and also Phichit, who insists on him documenting his food.

“Oh, look,” Yuri nudges him. “Snapchat has a spooky filter!”

Otabek knows enough of Snapchat from Sabina’s adventurous escapades, and quickly removes himself from the line of the camera. Yuri’s mouth curves downwards. “No fun,” he says.

His screen lights up with Yakov’s name.

“Whoops, sorry, gotta take this,” Yuri presses the button. “Hey, Yakov! Aren’t you supposed to be asleep?”

Otabek puts more meat on the stove, moving the cooked ones to a clean plate. The sizzling sound is definitely one of the most satisfying sounds he’s ever heard in his life. His mouth waters just thinking about it.

“—is he—“

Otabek’s head snaps up. Leo’s and Yuuri’s chatter has died down, and they’re both looking at Yuri with a twin expression: worry. Yuri’s eyes are shining with unshed tears, and Otabek feels dread in his chest. Yuri mumbles a few words that Otabek can’t catch, nodding along, and when he finally puts his phone down, Otabek’s appetite has gone.

“It’s, um,” Yuri croaks out. “It’s my grandpa.”

#otayuri #victuuri #yuri on ice #otabek altin #yuri plisetsky #leoji #milasara #fic: if Aphrodite gives a shit

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