Sequel to Rose Dusted (go read if you haven't, especially if you like angst, and /especially/ if you like Otabek angst!) Otabek's POV about what he's been through and telling his stories to Yuri.

Big trigger warnings for: discussion of past suicide attempts and self harm
Possibly upsetting mentions of: cancer (recovered), past abuse from a father, bullying, racism, body image issues

1) Tuesday, 12th October. Age 14.

2) Friday, 14th March. Age 15.

3) Monday, 1st September. Age 15.

4) Tuesday, 12th July. Age 17.

5) Thursday, 25th January. Age 18.

It was dark. Stupid realisation, considering it was several hours before sunrise, but he couldn't help noticing how hard it was to see Yuri's outline in their bed. Couldn't help but notice that his heart rate had increased slightly as the memories threatened to return in the pitch black. He had never liked the dark- too quiet, yet too loud if given the chance. Too black, yet blinding if he tried to force himself to see. Too peaceful, too perfect, always hiding something in its depths. And it always seemed like it was laughing at him. Knowing that he was shifting uncomfortably and trying to ward off the incoming thoughts.

They came to him far less frequently now that he was older. Sometimes he was free of them for a week, possibly two if he was lucky, though they always returned. Each time weaker and weaker, but they were still there. They still upset him and reminded him of the demons from his teenage years.

He snuggled closer to Yuri under the heavy blanket, seeking warmth, seeking comfort, knowing that it was always available as long as they were together. It took a long time to open up about his insecurities that covered his skin, but after he forced himself to it was like a weight had been lifted. Yuri had promised to be there for him. Even after he returned to Kazakhstan and they were nearly 3000 miles away; "call me, whenever" the blond had said, making direct eye contact, palms either side of Otabek's face, "I'll be here. I'll do whatever I can to help you."

It was the first time anyone had ever said that to him and meant it. And in that moment, he realised for the first time that he didn't have to be alone anymore.

Yuri had then cast his eyes to the scars on Otabek's wrists and bent down to brush his lips across them, light as rose petals, pausing to look up again briefly to gauge his friend's reaction. Otabek, naturally, was delighted, though the tears in his eyes suggested otherwise. Yuri brushed them away and smiled before they both settled down to sleep.

He had a nightlight that sat on his bedside table, but he daren't move to turn it on in case he woke the man sleeping soundly next to him. It omitted a calming lavender light. Yuri didn't make fun of him when he nervously plugged it in the first time they shared the bed together. He just understood those things. For all he was sarcastic and loud and brash, Yuri Plisetsky was the most understanding person Otabek had ever met. Didn't bat an eyelid at his nightlight, didn't laugh at his odd quirks and awkward mannerisms. Didn't scowl and run away when Otabek told him about his scars.

(There were five in total. Three on one wrist, two on the other, faded slightly with time but still noticeable and obvious in their intention. He could recall each and every one in vivid detail. His therapist told him that instead of running away from his reality, he should try to embrace it, accept his past and use that to grow and move on.)

2am would be an acceptable time to try that, right? The dark was forbidding sleep, and no matter how hard he tried to push the intrusive thoughts away, they were being rudely persistent tonight, demanding that he think about things he would usually rather push away into the back of his mind.

Yuri's breathing next to him made him feel safe. Calm. Allowed to consider his feelings.

So Otabek lightly ran his fingers up the oldest scar, closed his eyes, and for the first time, didn't cry when his mind began to wander through past tales.

Tuesday, 12th October. Age 14.

He remembered it vividly, the way he always remembered every 'first'. Whether it was the first time having sex or taking a drag from a stolen cigarette, the first time shoplifting with his group of mischievous friends or buying alcohol under his newly-acquired fake ID, the firsts always clung to the corners of his mind and refused to let go. And usually they didn't bother him- after all, only him and that girl from piano practice knew about their underage rendezvous in his parent's basement- but this first was one that he wished he could forget.

It ached to think about. Ironic, perhaps, since it was this unbearable ache that caused him to do it in the first place. Over the years, the ache had burrowed under his skin, no longer manifesting in outbursts and anger, instead lying deep in his bones and making his body hurt. Making his heart hurt. And it was moments when he was lying awake at 2am thinking about that first, that he wished he could rewrite his teenage years and erase these marks from his skin and instead just get a god damn therapist, Altin, for fucks sake.

The crumpled piece of paper lay on his desk, tear-stained and decorated with his borderline-unreadable handwriting, a final farewell to his mom and his little sister and his coach. Don't blame yourselves, it said. I'm sorry, he had lied. Take care of my hamster for me.

Maybe it was cruel and selfish and ignorant. No, fuck that, it was definitely cruel and selfish and ignorant: what kind of person left his cancer-ridden mother with a dead son and a 7-year-old to look after all on her own? Right before his career was about to take off and he would be able to skate for his country.

(Though, that was part of the problem, he guessed. No matter how many hours he spent at the rink, he would never be flexible enough, his body would never be lean enough, his thighs would never be thin enough.)

He just… couldn't take it anymore. Her chemo was working, but no-one knew how long it would fight the disease that wanted to destroy his mother's body. Her beautiful hair had fallen out long ago and now he could barely look at her. School was demanding something he couldn't give ("what do you mean you're dyslexic, you lazy boy? Just try harder!") and every time he made eye contact with any 6-foot-tall man with a beard, he immediately flinched away and thought of his father's rough hands.

All he wanted was a hug to help with the ache. But he couldn't get one of them, so he had to settle for the next best thing.

Nineteen days until his birthday. Well, eighteen days and 6 hours to be precise, since it was 1am and he had been born somewhere around 7 in the morning. But that didn't matter- he didn't want to live to be 15; would it make any difference? Would one step closer to adulthood soothe his fucking sadness? He had figured out a long time ago that it didn't get better. They always said it did, the people in those useless online chat rooms that he used to frequent to pretend he wasn't completely alone, but they were wrong. Maybe it had gotten better for them.

He wasn't them. He was destined for pain. Or something like that.

God, he had been reading too much sad poetry. Stop being a useless moron, Altin, and get on with it.

Tuesday, October 12, 1:21am. A part of him felt bad for stealing a boxcutter from the woodworking room at school, though he wouldn't exactly be around to deal with the consequences, so he shrugged them away and hoped he had left enough food in his hamster's bowl before-

Before…

Well.

He didn't need to think over the details.

Whatever.

Needless to say, he failed, which shouldn't have been surprising considering he fucked most things up anyway. Didn't stop him from feeling like shit, though. Both physically, mentally, and emotionally; he woke up in a hospital bed feeling like he had been ran over, still wanted to die, and was tempted to pull the IV from his arm because his mother's sobbing was just too much. The sight of eight stitches holding his skin together made him wish he had chosen to do something less outwardly damaging.

(That way, when he failed, he could just continue his merry life and no-one would suspect a thing. Having a three-inch scar running lengthways up your wrist was a slight giveaway that he had teenage angst issues… or something.)

"Mama?" He had croaked, forcing himself to meet those wet, sad eyes.

"Oh, Otabek. Baby. My baby boy." He had let her hold him and promised that he wouldn't try something so stupid again.

And so rolled in the school counsellors, then the actual therapists, a psychiatrist or two. They didn't really care, that much was obvious. They just had to ask him questions because he was underage and they were legally responsible to. Kazakhstan wasn't exactly very well-known for brilliant mental health support, which reflected nicely in one guy who grunted and told him that his skin would be forever a wreck, and so eventually he pretty much created a speech to get them off his back. No, nothing's wrong at home. Yes, my childhood was fine. I've never been bullied. I was just stressed because of my mother's illness. That's all. No, I won't do it again.

Luckily, they believed it, and soon he was left to struggle alone again.

"Why am I doing this to myself? Why do I push everyone away who wants to help?" He asked himself one night, staring into the full-length mirror in his bedroom, and was about to answer when he got distracted by a slight wobble in his thighs that needed addressing immediately right now no exceptions.

Mama suggested a change of scenery, and since his coach had contacts with other skaters in America, it was only a matter of weeks before he was packing his suitcase and heading off to the States. In hindsight, sending a mentally damaged teenager to America by himself was perhaps not the wisest decision. Otabek hardly cared about that. He just wanted some time alone, out of mama's paranoid gaze.

She hugged him goodbye at the airport, and this time he welcomed the sensation of her kissing his cheek. The chemo was working nicely and she was sporting a rather flattering pixie cut. He said it made her look younger. She knew he was lying to make her feel better. They didn't talk about it.

"Call me every weekend, my dear. Take care of yourself. Me and your sister love you."

"Yes, mama. Love you too."

Then he was on the plane, heading for California or Michigan or wherever the fuck, hoping and praying that it wasn't as hot as rumoured over there so he could get away with long sleeves all year round.

The thoughts were still there. Of course they were- those kind of thoughts didn't just go away. He knew he would be taking them to America with him, along with updated medical records that probably illustrated how he was a 'special case', as his old coach had worded. Hopefully his new rink mates wouldn't notice- he didn't fancy being bullied in yet another country, especially not in a country dominated by English-speaking white people. Getting called names concerning his height or body in Kazakhstan was bad enough. Getting called names for his race was something that he hadn't experienced, not properly at least, and it wasn't something he was eager to be a part of.

Now, though, the thoughts had at least subsided slightly. Spending the better part of a month either in hospital or being interrogated by professionals had put him off trying anything so drastic for a second time. He had the scar to remind him that it hadn't even worked in the first place, so no point trying again, surely.

A change of scenery might dull the pain. Away from school, the watchful eyes of therapists, and- even though he loved them to pieces- even spending some time away from mama and his little sister could help him recharge.

For a brief second, Otabek embraced the sensation of optimism swelling in his chest.

Next to him, Yuri groaned in his sleep. Otabek glanced over with a smile and brushed away a stray tear that had made its way down his cheek. He could look back at the memories now with an air of nonchalance, maybe even pride for getting through it all if he was having a good day, yet they never stopped hurting. They never would. He just had to take it all in his stride.

That slight glimmer of optimism as he sat in that plane was a feeling that stuck with him throughout the years. At the time, he wasn't aware that it was futile, that things would do downhill again and he'd be left with many more scars. But it was nice to humour. Nice to think that for a second, for just a small moment in time, his heart was full of strength and hope and courage.

When recalling his stories to Yuri, he had addressed them in chronological order, starting with this first scar. Yuri had listened throughout with a small frown, holding his calloused hands and nodding in all the appropriate parts. Afterwards, he didn't say anything, except to ask about his mother's illness and if she was okay.

"Cancer free for three years now. She's doing great."

"Oh, thank fuck. She sounds like a lovely woman."

"Yeah. She is. I don't tell her enough."

"Do you want me to get you a tissue?"

"Yes please. Sorry for crying."

"Don't you dare apologise for crying, Altin."

Lying in bed now, he smiled lightly at the happier memory and reached his fingers out to stroke Yuri's hair. The darkness didn't seem quite so punishing anymore, after he had let some feelings out, explored his thoughts somewhat. But there were still many more to sort through, and he knew that his brain wouldn't shut up until he entertained the ideas and ran through his other stories. Stories of the other scars.

Otabek kissed Yuri's outstretched palm and rearranged the pillows to make himself comfortable.

thank yall for reading! please leave a review if you can spare 30 seconds, it makes my gay lonely heart feel good. Love yall and I'll try to update when I can.