Yuri didn't like travelling.
As an athlete, he would spent most of the year out of home, participating in sports event all around the world. For ten years already, he'd been living out of a suitcase, sleeping in the hotels, cursing the boredom of the airports and suffering during long flights. At the very beginning of his career, every departure to the international competition had seemed a wonderful and exciting adventure - new places, new photos to post in Instagram and, above all, an occasion to detach himself from his daily life in Russia. However, it hadn't taken long that he'd started to feel tired with such a lifestyle; the places he'd visited had ceased to be attractive, and the more sensible option would be staying in the hotel instead of going out. Sure, he couldn't do a thing about it; such was the reality of the sport, and people who wanted to be on top just had to accept it. If he hadn't enjoyed to compete - and everything else that related to skating - and if winning hadn't been so incomparably satisfying, he wouldn't have thought twice, only put his skates away and tended to what Victor had once called 'Life and Love'. He supposed it would happen sooner or later anyway - maybe the next season, maybe two years from now, or three, at the very latest. For now, he would clench his teeth after yet another sleepless flight from Canada to Russia - he could hardly bear with the long-haul flights, regardless of the direction - and comforted himself with the thought he would soon be home.
Homecomings were as pleasant as winning.
Nevertheless, when waiting for his luggage - and for his phone to get a signal - he would always feel anxious. He feared that this time he wouldn't be picked up. That the plans had changed at the last moment, that something unexpected had happened... That he would have to take a taxi and return to the flat, where no-one waited for him. Half-conscious state of exhaustion - both physical and psychical - made him susceptible to such defeatism and evoked a feeling of a total loss. It would haunt him and gnaw at his nerves until he emerged into the arrivals hall and see the familiar figure. And when he looked in the eyes of the man he loved more than anything else, all his fear would vanish as if by magic.
If not for his fatigue, he would have ironically smiled at the memory of old times when he had been called a fairy.
Whenever he returned home, Otabek would leave early from work or even take a free day. He would always come for him, always wait in the same spot by the pillar to the left. The sight of him made Yuri's heart beat faster, despite the overwhelming tiredness, and filled him with warmth. It didn't cease surprising him. They'd been together for so long, and yet their mutual feeling seemed to become deeper with every passing year. No, with every parting.
Incredible.
Yuri came to him, unable to see anything else, for his whole world would narrow to Otabek and to the words, "Welcome home". They embraced, not caring a bit about the journalists and fans that would always be near whenever he arrived in Sheremetyevo after the skating event. Everyone knew the two of them lived together, although the nature of their relationship might not be clear to all, not in this country. Not that they performed any public indecencies; at the moment, Yuri's fatigue made it impossible, and usually... Well, there was no need to bother himself with it now. They would just stand in the embrace for a longer while, to delight of at least some female fans who, for some reason, persistently supported their relationship as if it were the best thing under the sun.
It was.
Then Otabek, like always, took his luggage, and they went to the car. The journalist let them be, for Yuri had long since announced that, regardless of the results and importance of the event, he would give no interviews nor talk to the media after the long-haul flight, due to his physical condition. They respected it, although every now and then a reporter oblivious to that gentlemen's agreement would appear. Soon, they were on their way to the flat, Yuri in the front seat, although his body and mind would demand that he lie down on the back seat, but he didn't want to yield to it. Neither of them would say anything, but it was a safe silence, so unlike the long, cold and alien quiet of the business class. Yuri struggled with his drowsiness, regarding the well-known suburbs of Moscow and musing chaotically over what he and Otabek had lived through, how their relationship had changed and how they had changed themselves over those ten years.
Sometimes he thought they'd changed a lot; sometimes it seemed to him they hadn't changed at all.
Otabek had retired a longer while ago. After a nasty knee injury he'd never regained his previous fitness. He hadn't dramatised over this - it was never his custom - only had accepted his fate. He'd graduated from the school of physical education and currently worked as a figure skating instructor in the rink that Yuri often visited and was very popular amongst the kids there. In his free time, he would still enjoy mixing the music in some nightclubs. Physically, he'd hardly ever changed since they'd become friends, but he had face of a person in his late twenties now. He was always calm, always matter-of-fact. For Yuri, he was an anchor and foothold, keeping him from being swept by the wind.
Yuri turned from a child to a man - although now, he realised, he had much less self-confidence than as a teenager. He outgrew Otabek by a few centimetres - fortunately not more, and the height difference didn't really stand out, for Otabek would always wear heavy boots with the thick sole. His shoulders were broader now, but he was still slender. When he didn't really try, no-one would mistake him for a girl any more; yet, paradoxically, the experts were unanimous in the opinion he'd became much more feminine as he'd grown older. As for himself, he knew only that he'd turned more quiet and would mind the people's feelings when interacting with them. He no longer hid behind his hair, only regarded the world with both eyes, now entirely green - only Otabek would still insist he could occasionally see blue sparks in them.
Otabek had always see more in him, and yet he had wanted to be with him.
Their relationship had went through many stages. First, it was friendship that had started when they'd been still kids. Those years had been a total madness that would still make them laugh hard. Bungee jumping from mountain bridges and illegal motocross races. Going for a trip into taiga and returning a few kilos lighter, bitten by the mosquitoes and nearly devoured by wild animals. Participating in a silly quiz show and winning the main prize: one year's worth of ecological food. Whatever they'd been doing, they would've had a hell of fun, although, in retrospect, Yuri couldn't quite comprehend why Otabek had acceded to such a stupidity - only because he'd wanted to do it himself. Maybe it was how he'd understand the meaning of being friends.
Later, there had been the excesses of young adulthood, like celebrating Yuri's eighteen birthday in Bali. The next day they'd waked up with a terrible hangover and a complete amnesia. Soon, they'd realised they'd lost all cash and credit cards and, a bit later, that they'd gained the clap. They had solemnly sworn to each other that they'd been through with the whores and alcohol of an unknown origin. Well, there had been many vodka parties afterwards, but in a familiar company and places. After all, the medals had required celebration, right?
Later, there had been their first experiments with each other. It'd started from those conflicting signals, from those hesitant gestures, and from that mutual captivation they'd finally dared to admit. Actually, it was an amazing truth and unusual mystery in and of itself: Otabek would always adjust himself to him, would always engage in the relationship that Yuri wanted, and would be satisfied with each of them. Yuri could still remember that feeling of anxiety whether they wouldn't ruin something between them, as well as that feeling of trust, enabling them to do it. And once they'd learned everything would go well, another madness had followed - much more refined that those foolish things before, although as much fierce. They would have sex in every position and location, with Otabek's motorcycle being really one of the less hardcore. That passion would never burn out, and they still would make love with an ardency of their first - or last - time.
Then a crisis had come to continue for nearly one year. Yuri could barely remember its cause, but it had something to do with his becoming an adult, his fear of commitment and his utter stupidity; that much was clear to him now. What he remembered all too well was those months of emptiness and insecureness, filled with feeling that he'd lost his hold, as if he'd jumped up and could no longer land. No matter how he'd tried to focus on anything else, he couldn't quite deaden the thought it'd been all pointless. No-one would receive him at the airport, and his home was empty, with no-one waiting for him. A stroke of fate had helped them to return together - maybe Otabek had felt they could no longer be apart, too? - and now it'd been more mature, more responsible, more... serious.
The memory of their visit to the Altin family in Kazakhstan still made him smile. Otabek had introduced him as his boyfriend, only to be corrected by his father that he must've meant 'girlfriend'. When Otabek had insisted he'd known what he'd meant, he had received a right hook punch in the face. He hadn't objected nor defended himself; maybe he'd decided that he'd either deserved it or that it had been the easiest way to settle the matter. His mother and sisters had appeared to be much more understanding, so their stay in Almaty, despite its terrifying start, had passed in a rather nice atmosphere. By its end, Otabek's face had healed, and he'd reconciled with his father, although it'd required quite an amount of vodka. In the end, no external help was needed, although Yuri had seriously considered calling Grandpa and begging him to contact Mr Altin and convince him there were worse things in the world than one's child being homosexual.
Personally, he couldn't resist the impression that in their case it was the best thing.
The intensity of their relationship - of what they'd experienced over those ten years - would sometimes make him dizzy. Otabek Altin was a person that didn't say 'I love you'; he would express it with his whole being twenty-four seven, with his gestures, his look and his behaviour. And he would never be half-arsed about it. Yuri knew that love was enough for several people.
It was somewhat ironical that what delighted him the most were those homecomings after long-haul flights. Those moments - like now - when he threw off his shoes and coat in the hall, left the bag on the floor and fell on the couch in the living-room, and Otabek sat down next to him. He was able to spend hours like this, so tired he didn't feel like saying anything. If anyone had told him he would be happy doing nothing with his beloved person, he would have sent that someone to a psychiatrist. Now he wouldn't trade those hours for anything, and he even, reluctantly, admitted it was worth to fly to America or Southeast Asia in order to return home. He would fall asleep, resting against Otabek's shoulder, head on Otabek's lap or even in Otabek's arms, accompanied at least by one of their cats. When he would wake up, all three of them would lay on the couch. It was quiet and soothing, warm and soft, and so very, very safe.
There was nothing more wonderful than to be able to curl up or stretch himself next to Otabek - and to know he simply could be here. That Otabek didn't mind his fatigue or his dirty clothes, even though he should at least change his socks and brush his teeth. That Otabek let him remain silent and didn't ask anything, although they hadn't seen in other for several days and would part again, soon; that he didn't require any activity of him, although he must have missed him. That Yuri Plisetsky could just be, and it was enough. He didn't have to do anything, he didn't have to prove anything, yet he was still loved - there was no need to fight for it. Those moments, more than anything, convinced him of Otabek's feelings - although, in truth, he didn't need any proof - and were the most precious. In those moments he loved Otabek more than ever before.
Himself, he would often feel guilty about giving so little and being given so much, especially in situations like this. Otabek, however, could nip this guilt in the bud with just one look, saying clearly 'Don't be foolish'. Yuri promised himself that, once he rested and recovered, he would try to return at least a bit of what he got from Otabek. Sometimes he couldn't believe all that had happened to him - and felt extremely grateful. The fate had given him a man who was his friend, lover and partner, and who proved himself great in each of those parts.
"Thank you for choosing me," he muttered with his eyes closed. He'd never forgotten those words he'd heard so long ago in Barcelona, 'Do you want to be friends or not?' He'd never regretted his answer, either.
"Thank you for staying," Otabek replied in a low voice, his nose in Yuri's hair.
Yuri leaned his head back and stared up in the dark eyes. "May I stay another ten years?" he asked, uncertain of the response.
"Stay longer," Otabek said, laughter hiding in the corner of his lips.
Yuri smiled and said no more, and only stared bravely with his both eyes at the man, knowing that without him he wouldn't have achieved even half of his successes, both in sports and outside it. The intimacy of that gaze they shared gave him overwhelming pleasure he could feel in every part of his body. He wondered whether, once he retired, he would still be able to experience that unique closeness of homecomings. He realised that being able to share every day with Otabek was a fine compensation for that. And that the next decade wouldn't be worse than that already behind the two of them.
He knew that, if only Otabek let him, he would spend those ten years rather giving than taking. What filled him with the greatest joy was the thought that one day he would be able to say, 'Welcome home', himself. He knew perfectly well there was nothing better than returning to the place where someone waited.