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“We don’t have to do this, you know,” Otabek says, and although his tone is impossibly soft, although the room is raucous with jeers and whistles he knows Yuri can hear him, the blond leaning nonchalantly against the doorframe, arms crossed.
They stand mere inches apart, Otabek still cold from the outside, the leather of his hockey jacket framing his broad shoulders. Yuri is in all his usual dizzying beauty, white blond braid brushing his exposed shoulders, patches of slender calves visible from the fishtights he wears under a netted black miniskirt that graze his thighs. They’ve only just stepped inside the chaos that is Viktor’s Christmas party, after having spent the first hour on the lawn, Yuri refusing to enter despite the shivering cold, unearthing a joint that Otabek had leaned forward to light. Now they’ve picked their way through the hallway, Yuri scowling at the ostentatious chandelier, and they’ve just stepped in the main dining room when Viktor accosted them with a delighted cry and pointed at the mistletoe above them.
Yuri tucks a strand of loose hair behind his ear, piercings flashing. “Is he watching?” He asks, and Otabek doesn’t miss the tug at his earlobe, the way he chews his bottom lip.
Otabek’s gaze sweeps the room: Viktor with his arm around his boyfriend, who attempts to calm down the crowd, throwing a pitying glance at the pair. Christophe’s lot, clapping on beat as they yell “Kiss! Kiss!”. A few of his teammates have joined in, and Seung Gil raises an amused eyebrow, nursing a bottle of beer with Guang-Hong looking around with bright eyes. And there, in his usual turtleneck and glasses getup, is Fredrik. Not an athlete, like the rest of them, but a guest of Juliette, Yuri’s French ice skating partner that Fredrik had cheated on Yuri with. He’s frowning at Yuri, an arm around Juliette, puffing his chest when he catches Otabek’s glance.
Otabek always had the sense that Fredrik was jealous of him, always flinching when he’d enter Yuri’s apartment and Otabek would already be stretched out on the sofa, or making some flimsy excuse when Yuri attempted to arrange hangouts with the three of them. Yuri’s post-breakup anger sessions usually involved midnight rink sessions where Otabek would watch him whack pucks into the net with startling accuracy; Otabek would always say he should ditch figure skating and join his team, and Yuri would always scowl and go on a rant about how hockey is a brutish sport and a waste of Otabek’s skills as an okay skater.
“He wasn’t jealous of me, was he? Fredrik. I always got that vibe,” Otabek confessed that night, passing Yuri a towel.
“Course he was. They all are,” Yuri shrugged, wiping his collarbones that shone with sweat. “It’s not my job to nurse their fragile egos.”
“So why do you date guys like that? Lanky nerds with a semi-present skincare routine.”
Yuri flung the towel at him. “Why do you date emotionally detached social science majors that wanna see if you cry when you fuck?”
“Touche.”
If he had known that Fredrik, and all those before him that he’s known of since befriending Yuri the year before, was jealous of him, Otabek would’ve directly assuaged their fears. It would’ve been a lie, of sorts: it’s no secret he finds Yuri attractive. He had known of Yuri beforehand, in Yuri’s first year, and Otabek’s second. The new figure skating athlete that had a temper and a mouth as filthy as a punch jam. Being in winter sports, their circles had crossed, but it was only at the start of the following year, when Otabek had nearly run over Yuri’s cat, did they truly become friends. Yuri hadn’t been affronted in the slightest, had just scowled and told him that if he was going to run amok on campus on his motorbike he might as well take him to and from the rink that semester. They’d been, in Mila’s words, joined at the hip ever since, and although he’s seen Yuri with others, Otabek is pretty sure he’s Yuri’s only real friend. He’s only sure because Yuri had gotten drunk on his birthday and had sprawled himself over Otabek’s lap with a slurred, “I think you’re my only real friend.”
Otabek had looked at him then, blonde hair splayed against flushed cheeks, the dark of his irises swallowing the blue of his eyes, and had, not for the first time, wanted to bend down and kiss the vodka off Yuri’s tongue. Despite how decadent Yuri had looked, Otabek had taken his words to heart: as Yuri’s only friend, it would be too messy to get involved with him in that way, no matter the way his lungs feel as if they’re righting themselves in Yuri’s presence, as if suddenly remembering to breathe again.
“He’s watching,” Otabek comments, and his arm rests on the wood above Yuri’s head, framing him from the majority of the crowd. “So?”
Yuri’s shoulders square, a determined jut in his chin as he looks up at Otabek, the type of fierceness in his eyes he only gets just before his skates touch the ice. “Let’s do this.”
Otabek isn’t shaking when he cups Yuri’s jaw, which he’s grateful for, his body not caught up to the enormity of the situation, even when his mouth finds Yuri’s, the hard line of his mouth delving into its pliant warmth. He can feel Yuri’s pulse under his fingers, fluttering under the curve of his neck, his skin vibrating with each soft sound that slips out between them.
It’s a testament to how well they know each other, that they find a rhythm this fast, Otabek tilting Yuri’s head just so, their mouths sliding against each other, slow and heavy like treacle. Yuri muffles his moans against Otabek’s tongue, so receptive to the minute way Otabek’s mouth takes him in, holds him in place with his lips. They’re barely touching, Yuri’s fingers curled around Otabek’s elbow, nails dug into the flesh of his bicep, sending shockwaves down Otabek’s spine, his hips twitching towards Yuri.
Here is where he lets go, gently pulling them back to reality, with his lips trailing to the side of Yuri’s mouth, thumb rubbing at his bottom lip. The world rushes in, a roar of sharp whistles and claps, but Otabek is watching Yuri, who sways against Otabek’s arm, still in his grip, tongue darting out involuntarily, brushing the tip of Otabek’s nail, a jolt of electricity that numbs the bones in his hand. He looks like he did when he first came out of the cold, pink blooming across his cheekbones and nose, slick lips moving wordlessly.
Otabek’s eyes slide to the crowd, his hand dropping across Yuri’s shoulder as he turns him away. Giving them all the finger, he propels Yuri towards the kitchen, turning back just once to give Fredrik a hard stare. Not for the first time does Otabek wonder how he had given Yuri up, how he had managed to cleave Yuri from his blood, his skin. After this kiss, it infuriates him even more.
The kitchen is empty, and the music is a low din here, where bottles and bowls of alcohol clutter the island. Yuri somehow manages to find a free space to hop onto, resting on his palms and tilting his head to the ceiling, eyes closed. Rounding the corner, Otabek opens the fridge and pulls out vodka and a liter of Fanta, relishing the sharp cold air that lowers the heat fizzling in his stomach.
“Don’t touch the second shelf,” Yuri says, and Otabek glances up, at the pomegranates in bunches. He isn’t deathly allergic, only breaking out in uncomfortable rashes, but Yuri’s concern is a familiar kick in his stomach, grabbing two cups from the cupboard as the fridge swings shut.
Yuri accepts the finished rum and coke, and Otabek leans against the island next to him, his hip bumping Yuri’s knee. One gulp in silence, and then Otabek, in a hushed tone: “Do we need to talk about it?”
Sniffing, Yuri leans towards him and pulls the lighter out of Otabek’s pocket, spinning it between his fingers. “Do you?”
“I’d like to.”
“So. Talk.”
Otabek stares into the dark depths of his cup, tilting it from side to side. He’s not nervous, he’s never nervous in front of Yuri, even when he first came to watch one of Otabek’s matches, although there had been this niggling, jittering need to impress him. There’s only the hard lump in his throat, and that flame that tickles his stomach that refuses to die out. “I don’t want to make this awkward between us. But I have thought about kissing you before. It’s not something I’m proud of, but I’m not gonna lie to you about it.”
“I appreciate your honesty,” Yuri replies dryly. “So have I.”
Otabek blinks, lets the world right itself around them. “Okay.”
“It’s not like it isn’t obvious. We’re two objectively attractive people, who’ve spent a sufficient amount of time together. I’ve seen you shirtless.” The click of a lighter, on and off. “Why is it something you’re not proud of?”
“Are you? Proud of it?”
“Proud isn’t the word I’d use. You make it sound like something dirty. Like I’d be your mistress or something.” Yuri wrinkles his nose. “You’re not a whore for wanting to kiss your best friend, Bek.”
“Am I a whore for wanting to fuck you?”
The words are out of his mouth before he can stop them, and the clicking sound stops. There’s a sound in the hallway, and they watch as a girl tugs another up the stairs, the laughter fading as they slip away in a cloud of glitter and perfume. Yuri shifts where he’s sat, teeth caught on his bottom lip. “Is that all you want from me?” Yuri’s voice is soft, a thread of a threat in the tremor that comes from his throat.
Otabek turns, and he has Yuri between his forearms, clutching the ends of the island. “I’ve wanted everything, Yura. For a long time.” A hand rests on Yuri’s knee, rubbing at the exposed skin there, and he feels Yuri tremble. Slowly, the blond’s finger rubs the side of Otabek’s jaw, then jams itself right in the middle of Otabek’s forehead. Otabek scowls. “Ow. The fuck?”
“Idiot,” Yuri mutters, face in a scowl, despite the growing pink of his ears. “I could’ve told you that from the start.”
It’s Yuri who kisses him this time, arms lacing across Otabek’s shoulders as he crowds into his space. He’s demanding, sucking at Otabek’s bottom lip, dissolving into those pretty little whimpers as soon as Otabek’s tongue finds a home in his mouth. Otabek grasps at the harsh jut of his hipbone, tugging Yuri forward until they’re flush against each other, until he can feel the heave of Yuri’s ribcage against his chest. Yuri tastes like cherries, and it sticks to the roof of Otabek’s mouth, sharpens his senses to the citrusy scent of Yuri’s skin, the goosebumps that form under Otabek’s fingertips, the sound of his name between strained sighs.
“Do I need to touch you?” Otabek asks behind Yuri’s ear, his teeth scraping a harsh line down his neck that makes Yuri shiver against him, thighs flexed.
“Do you—oh,” Yuri hisses as Otabek sucks at his collarbone, like a priest eager for something holy, a desire to worship in the way he rolls his hips upward into Yuri’s crotch, his cock hard against the flesh of Yuri’s thighs.
Otabek thinks of kneeling down, of kissing his way down Yuri’s abdomen to taste him, but his mind, although quickly fading, reasons that it’s easier to hide a dick in his hand than a dick in his mouth from anyone who happens to walk by. His hand is shaking when it snakes up Yuri’s skirt and closes over the damp fabric of his underwear, palm up and rubbing at the shaft. Yuri chokes back a moan into Otabek’s shoulder, head lolling forward as Otabek jerks his hand upward.
With his free hand, Otabek tugs at Yuri’s braid, blue eyes spilling into brown. “Look at me,” Otabek says, his voice low and gruff with each thrust he takes into Yuri’s hip. Yuri’s eyes are dilated and dark, and he huffs a whine when Otabek’s hand slips underneath his boxers, grasping at salt slick skin. He leans in close, close enough to trail his lips down Yuri’s cheekbone. “Do you need me to make you come?”
“You already know that fucking answer,” Yuri grits out, hips jolting into Otabek’s fist, a frantic but fluid pace.
Otabek huffs a laugh against Yuri’s lips, attempting but failing to hide the desperation in his own rhythm, and Yuri smirks as he slides his leg between Otabek’s crotch, who rolls his hips obediently. The flame in his stomach is a fire, and his body is full of pine needles that catch alight with every inch of Yuri on him. “I want to hear you say it.”
He thinks Yuri will put up more of a fight, will snap his teeth against Otabek’s neck, but the whimper he lets out is at a higher pitch, and the pattern of his movements are reaching an erratic pace. “Bek, I need—” Yuri shakes over him, muscles tense and nails scratching. “Oh, oh, I’m fucking close, Bek, I n-need you, need you, please Bek, oh—”
A full body shudder, and Yuri is coming, cock hot and pulsing into Otabek’s hand. His thigh jerks underneath him, and Otabek can only one last drag of his own cock before he’s coming too, struggling to hold himself up. His mouth finds Yuri’s, swallowing the last of his whimpers, his hand pumping Yuri through the last of his orgasm.
When he’s sure Yuri can sit on his own, Otabek slowly extracts himself, his hand first, reaching for a tissue and wiping it down. Yuri manages a tired laugh. “I think I’d lose respect for you if you’d licked that off.”
“I’m not an animal. Well, not when my teammates can see me.”
“Fuck, I forgot about that.” They clean themselves up in the most discreet way possible: Otabek watches Yuri wipe the inner side of his thigh, and he ties his hockey jacket around his waist to hide the fact there’s come in his pants and he hadn’t even unzipped. As he’s readjusting his jeans Yuri flicks the lighter on again, his index finger passing through the flame with his usual disinterest. This time though, he glances at Otabek with hesitation, tongue curling against the corner of his mouth. “We should probably greet the others.”
Otabek hums, distracted by the strands of hair that have escaped Yuri’s braid, plastered against his brow. “Come home with me, Yura.”
Yuri raises an eyebrow. “Right now.”
“Maybe. But I mean for winter break. Come with me to Almaty.”
Yuri scowls, but he ducks his head, clicking the lighter faster. “You move fast, Altin.”
“I know what I want,” Otabek shrugs, reaching his hand out. “Do you?”
Yuri stares at him, that unnerving glare a mirror of the first one he ever gave to Otabek, the September sun deepening the scowl on his chest as he cradled a cat in his arms. Slowly, Yuri jumps off the table, and places the lighter in Otabek’s palm, brushing past him. A few steps in front of Otabek, he swipes it away again, replacing it with his hand, their fingers interlaced.
“I have everything I want,” Yuri mumbles, and when they step outside there is the pink of Yuri’s cheek, the green of the tree he kisses him under, and the red swell of his heart.