Heyyyy. firstly if you're here from/ have read Never Have I Ever and Deep Inside Shallow Out, I've unfortunately abandoned them because i just wasnt connecting with them:~( I might try to rewrite them some time but for now they're Dead

But anyway! This fic has a lot of content warnings including: abusive parents, neglect, child abuse, thoughts of suicide and depression. It will have a happy ending though! I wanted some more angsty Otabek-centred fics soooo here we are. It will also be multi-chaptered and probably quite long/ slow burn.

I've also posted this on archive of our own (ao3) under jadedcrystalide if you prefer that site :) I'll try to update at least weekly but please keep in mind that im Really Super Depressed and i might miss an upload due to not having the energy to write.

Anyway! Pls review if you can etc i hope you enjoy.

Otabek

The boy wore black jeans, a black t-shirt, a black leather jacket. He walked down one of the many dark alleyways of the city wearing black trainers that looked more than a little worse for wear, yet the feeling of stones and grit against his feet that entered through the holes was merely an annoying inconvenience at the back of his mind. Any other time he might have stopped to take them off and empty them, but now there was no time to pause. He had to hurry.

Wearing colour was suicide at this time of night, especially in this part of the neighbourhood, where used needles and broken glass seemed almost beautiful as they caught the light of the moon. And when the moon was covered by a blanket of haze- smog, smoke, ashes, who knew- the entire street was plunged into darkness. The boy was virtually invisible if he remained quiet.

(Making noise was suicide, too.)

Cutting through alleyways was a risk, and he knew it, a dangerous risk that could either cut 20 minutes off the usual route or end up with him in hospital. Any other time he would have played it safe and walked the long way back, through winding streets and up a steep hill that would eventually lead to his home. But this time it was different: every heartbeat was a wasted second of time and he couldn't afford to linger for long. The haze lingered in the sky, the trash and debris lingered on the streets like forgotten thoughts. The boy moved swiftly.

The streets were unfamiliar to him, but not alien. He has been here before. Always in the dark, always before the sun started to rise, always when there wasn't any source of light that would make his silhouette any more distinguishable than a faint outline. They would recognise him, the people who lived around here. Old friends and enemies, people he owed money to, or even just innocent citizens who had seen him on TV. Half of the people here might be taken aback with surprise or excitement to see such a nationally famous figure wandering the alleyways of Almaty. The other half would murder him.

Darkness always scared him, the relentless desert of black that teased and smirked until the sun came up. He had hated it as a kid and continued to hate it as an 18-year-old. No choice though, no choice but to deviate away from the comfortably safe roads he would usually travel on. He had to hurry.

A hand gripped a fabric bag- fabric to muffle the sound of it bumping against the outside of his thighs. Paper or plastic would have resembled an earthquake in the vast silence. Inside the bag sat sacred items, things he needed to get home before it was too late. He was pushed for time already. If only he had left a little earlier, if only he had brought his bike, if only-

A noise! The boy ducked and slid behind a wall, an act that was well-practiced and fluid. Smashing glass, a bottle perhaps, maybe 100 feet away. No-one could see him here, no-one was following him, he was safe. He repeated these words in his head for a short while (whether it was 2 minutes or 20, he didn't know. Time dissolved into the haze.) until he deemed it safe to continue. He gripped the bag handle until his knuckles were white. Losing the contents of the bag would make this mission worthless, and the fact that there were more than a few people around these parts who would happily stab him to take the items made his stomach turn.

Not the time to be sick, idiot. Hurry! You've got to hurry!

Running now, feet pounding on the concrete, no longer trying to be silent as he clumsily threw himself around corners. Once or twice he kicked over a trash can and would probably have winced at the sound if he could hear anything other than the blood pumping in his ears. The boy felt his legs burning and blood bubbling on his cheeks from where he had scratched himself against a bush, yet those unpleasant sensations joined the feeling of rocks in his shoes, cast to the back of his mind. He'd take care of them later, probably. The only thought in his mind now was to run.

And ran he did.

Times like these made him wish he focused more on cardio when he worked out; after what seemed like hours the boy was forced to slow down, and once he did his legs seized up and he fell, gasping, onto his knees. A distant whimper brought him back to his senses, and he wasn't too surprised to find out it was coming from him.

It took a few moments for him to realise he recognised the bushes either side of him and the pattern of tiles on the floor, and a few moments longer to notice that he was no longer in darkness. Streetlights surrounded him and illuminated the street, cast a warm glow of sepia upon his injured body. Somehow, at some point, the boy had broken free from the cold confines of the alleyways and was running up the familiar street that lead to his home. He had made it. He was safe. And the bag was safe too.

A car drove towards him and slowed down as it approached the crumpled figure, as if the driver was concerned, and the boy noticed that he probably looked strange sitting in the middle of the pavement. He forced himself to stand and ignore his protesting knees, nodded reassuringly at the driver, and continued on his way. The car had reminded him that it wasn't as late as it felt- and a look at his watch confirmed that it wasn't yet 11pm. There was still time.

Limping was unavoidable thanks to the throbbing in his legs, but luckily the route was a lot easier, and before long he was walking up the pathway that lead to his front door. His heart seemed to stop as he turned the rusted handle and the feeling of nausea returned. If he was too late, if he wasn't fast enough, if they saw what was in his bag…

No time for 'what ifs'. The door was open, and the boy was half expecting someone to jump out and hurt him, or throw him out, or-

"Beka!"

The soft, excited voice of his little sister banished all fear into the back of his mind and everything was suddenly okay again.

"Hey, baby. Sorry I'm late. Have you been okay by yourself?" He leaned down to wrap his arms around her and she happily melted into his embrace, nuzzling like a cat into his neck.

"You smell funny." She giggled and pulled back to stick her tongue out at him.

"Sorry. I've been…. Running." The boy explained with a small smile and stood up again, took her hand, and lead her into the kitchen.

He placed the bag on the table, a feeling of pride filling his chest. He had managed to get the items and take them home safely without being caught or hurt, despite the panic and the dread that had almost made him drop them many times. And now, even with the headache and the painful knees and the stones in his shoes, he was safe.

"Sylvyan." The boy turned and addressed his sister, asking for her to join him. Sylvyan smiled brightly and skipped over, noticing the bag for the first time. The atmosphere suddenly grew tense.

He lifted it. Turned it over. The items spilled onto the worktop.

To some people, jewels and rubies and valuable pendants filled their dreams of wealth and happiness. But the boy had much lower standards.

Food. Packets of pasta, rolls of cheap bread, a tub of butter, some sugar, frozen vegetables, a couple of ready meals, a rare packet of sweets that had become a luxury to them. Simple items to most people, but to the siblings anything that wasn't out of a tin seemed to be 5-star-restaurant quality now. He tried so hard to provide for his little sister, often neglecting his own health and needs to do so, but gradually the cupboards were becoming barer and barer and it was hard to sleep at night knowing that he was completely stuck. He'd rather die than watch his sister go hungry- he'd promised himself that long ago- and seeing the grin on her face now had made the previous exhaustion and fear so worth it. Seeing the look of joy grace her features banished the tingle of guilt that always came with shoplifting (even though he needed these things).

"We have to hide this though, doll. Can't let mama or papa see it, can we?" He smiled sadly and gathered it up again, ready to shove it under his bed. They'd eat the perishables first and stretch everything else out for as long as they could.

He paused to look in the mirror on the way to his room. The gel in his hair was doing a poor job and most of it hung loose in his eyes, but even through the inky strands he could see the yellow and blue splatters that lay in a faded bruise around his cheekbone. Black circles smudged under his eyes showed the exhaustion that lay bone-deep, and the scratches from the bush were stark white against brown skin. Otabek Altin looked like a shell of the man he once was.

Their parents would be home soon, and he prayed that they wouldn't wake Sylvyan up with their drunken shouting. She was up so late already, silly girl. Waiting for her big brother to return home.

Big brother and protector. It broke his heart that this is what it had come to.

But despite the fear and the exhaustion, despite the anger and despair that lay hidden under a layer of numbness, Otabek and Sylvyan slept peacefully that night, curled up in his bed. At least they wouldn't be hungry for a few days.

Have to take it one step at a time, he supposed. That was all he could do.

Yuri

Viktor was late, like he always was, and a certain blond Russian was trying to contain his rage by pacing across the kitchen. Damn Katsudon had told him to stop about 10 minutes ago, complaining about the repetitive movement being 'dizzying' or some bullshit. Yuri simply glared at him.

"Where the fuck is he! He said he'd be here by noon to take me to get new skates, but surprise surprise, the lesser-spotted Nikiforov is yet again gone incognito."

"What happened to your old ones?" Yuuri didn't bother scolding the teen for his language. They all had given up on that long ago. Besides, Yuri had seemed weirdly on edge these past few days, which had come with an increase in curses and insults, therefore they had all started to become used to it. The Japanese man frowned slightly all the same.

"The blades aren't as sharp as I like them to be, and I cracked the heel slightly when I slammed against the wall a few days back." Displeasure laced his tone, whether it was from annoyance from the question or embarrassment from remembering the dreadful jump, Yuuri couldn't quite figure out. He just nodded and went back to reading his newspaper, leaving the other boy sighing and pacing and checking his phone every two minutes.

No-one knew what had gotten into him. It had begun about a week ago, and they had noticed through the decrease in successful jumps and the increase in mood swings. Surprisingly, Yakov was the first person who said anything and raised the question of "what's got into you, boy?", and after that introduction everyone else suddenly became a lot more sensitive to the changes. Naturally, Yuri shrugged it off and insisted that he was fine, and not even Viktor was stupid enough to push him.

If they did manage to get him to snap, they would find out that it wasn't something that was happening to Yuri, but rather what wasn't happening to Yuri. More specifically: his best friend wasn't messaging him and had barely talked to him in an entire god damn week and the blond was struggling to decide whether to be pissed off or concerned. He ultimately settled on a headache-inducing combination of both and had got into the habit of checking every social media Otabek was on to see if there were any changes.

"Stupid moron." Yuri muttered at his phone, pacing up and down the white tiles still. Katsudon would assume he was talking about Viktor. In reality, he was staring at the 'offline' icon on Otabek's skype and trying to fight down the urge to throw his phone at a wall for the third time that week. How the screen hadn't yet smashed into millions of fragile pieces was a mystery to Yuri, but not as mysterious as the question of where the fuck was Otabek.

Did he not want to be friends anymore? Was he getting bored of replying to the cat videos and complaints that he sent over Instagram messenger every day? Had he found someone new, someone better, someone closer to home who he could actually hang out with in person?

Deep down he knew he was being irrational, knew he was being selfish, that Beka probably had stuff going on. But Yuri Plisetsky was not a rational person- and especially not when he was so fucking pissed off.

"Yurio! Sorry I'm late!"

Viktor's cheerful voice wasn't helping his current mood either.

"Where were you! You said you'd be back by 12 and you're 40 minutes late! Apologise to me right now!"

"Yurio, I said sorry-"

"Sorry isn't good enough! I'm done, fuck you, I'm going to my room."

Viktor and Yuuri shared a confused look as the smaller boy shoved past with undisguised aggression and winced together at the sound of him angrily stomping up the stairs. What confused Viktor most was that Yuri was demanding something he already gave- an apology- but Yuuri, being the more aware person, had already moved on and was trying to understand why his mood had changed so quickly.

Hormones? Something more than that, surely?

"We should talk to him. Later. Something's going on that he's not telling us about. He's an angry kid, but this is just weird."

Viktor hummed in agreement, planning to ask Yurio about it during lunch. He rolled up his sleeves and got to work peeling potatoes.

Lunch was finished by half past one and consisted of potato salad, topped with homemade coleslaw and some green leaves that Yuri couldn't name. Viktor had insisted on eating only organic, homemade things recently, declaring confidently that all the best athletes were eating nothing but vegetables and weird sauces that looked like they might taste good, but it was a risk and a gamble as to whether they'd be a fantastic new culinary experience or make you sit on the toilet for a few days. Yuri and Katsudon exchanged looks of uncertainty, and reluctantly tucked in as the other Russian began to list all of the best vegan ingredients for what he had planned for dinner.

"- and don't get me started on tomato sauce in a jar. How lazy!" The silver-haired man shook his head with disapproval, then turned his gaze on the slouched figure at the opposite end of the kitchen table. "Speaking of lazy, how are you, Yurio?"

"Lazy? I'll have you know I get up way before you every morning, old man!" Yuri snapped. The insult had successfully made him forget about his previous anger at Viktor. Now was the perfect opportunity.

"Yuri, is there anything you want to… talk about? You really haven't been yourself lately. You seem…." Yuuri made an elaborate gesture with the hand that wasn't holding a fork deep in potato and mayonnaise. "-even more angry than usual. We're worried."

The silence stretched out between them for a few moments while Yuri frowned into his bowel. On one hand, it was none of their god damn business how he was feeling and what was going on between him and his friend. If Otabek wanted to ignore his texts, then fine, he could be an obnoxious asshole. Yuri didn't care. All the more time for him to practice and prepare for his next gold medal.

On the other hand... Fuck it. Who else did he have to rant to? If they wanted to know so badly then they were going to be very disappointed by the small matter of him losing a friend.

"Otabek." He offered, surprising the other two men at how easily he told them. Every other time they'd be proud at him for opening up, but now the name of the Kazakh skater just created feelings of uncertainty. "He hasn't talked to me for a while. Not properly, at least. He replies with one-word answers and then goes offline for days. When he does come back on he has some bullshit excuse that he was busy working or taking care of his sister, but who works for 3 days at a time? If he didn't want to be friends, then he should just say so." By the end of the rant Yuri had thrown his fork angrily into the bowl and his voice had risen to a shout, Viktor was leaning forward with a frown on his face, and Yuuri had his eyes narrowed as if trying to calculate something. None of them knew what to say.

"Yuri, of course he wants to be your friend. I'm sure there's a reasonable explanation. When was the last time you spoke to him at all?"

"A couple days ago. I asked him where he was, he said at the rink, and sent me a selfie to prove it. As if he owed me some proof. It was weird." The teen looked as confused as the other two felt, and fished his phone out of his pocket. He had saved the picture to his camera roll into a folder named 'embarrassing photos to blackmail Beka', where he stored all unflattering shots that the Kazakh sent. Not that there were many of them. Otabek was annoyingly photogenic.

"Can I see it? The picture that is?" Yuuri spoke for the first time since his rant and tentatively reached a hand out for the blond's phone. Yuri only hesitated for a second before selecting the picture and handing it over.

The silence that stretched was made worse by the steady ticking of the clock on the wall. Yuuri's adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed and moved a hand to pinch the screen. Zooming in on something, then zooming out again, then swiping left to see the previous photo, then swiping back again. As if he was carrying out an in-depth investigation on the face of Otabek Altin. Kinda creepy, if Yuri was being honest. He was about to ask for his phone back when Yuuri leaned over to show Viktor, who immediately mirrored the frown that had slowly settled on the Japanese man's brow. The whole scene was weird and unsettling and Yuri couldn't take it anymore.

"Look, I know it was taken at an unflattering angle, but you don't have to stare at him. Pretty rude if I do say so myself. Now give me my phone back."

"Yuri, come 'round here."

Something about the coldness and sincerity in Yuuri's tone made his demand hard to refuse, so reluctantly, even though he was annoyed at being told what to do, Yuri pushed himself out of his seat with a sigh and joined the other two to crowd around his phone. All he saw was the same photo he had pulled up previously: Otabek leaning against the wall of his skate rink, looking into the camera that was positioned as if he was taking a picture from above. The angle made his forehead look unproportionally large. His hair fell into his eyes instead of being slicked back like it usually was; maybe that's what they found odd? That the great Hero of Kazakhstan had ran out of hair gel?

"What? You guys are weirdos. Give me back my-" Yuri reached out to grab it, but Yuuri held it further away.

"Wait. Look."

And he pinched the photo again to zoom in on Otabek's features.

"There. You can't see it too well. He left his hair down and took the picture at a weird angle on purpose."

That same silence again. The clocked ticked mockingly. Yuuri assumed that the teen didn't understand what he was getting at, so he thought it might be best to fill in the gaps himself.

"He has a black eye."

Thank y'all for reading! I'm going to 10000% try to avoid romanticizing these topics and treat them as raw and heartbreaking as they are. I'll try to update soon!

Please review if you can, it makes me feel more encouraged to continue:) i lov all of you