A/N: Prompt fill for an ask from an anon on tumblr. Feel free to send me more on there, and enjoy!
Otabek blames the sun.
There must be something purposeful in it, in the way the rays seem to thrive in the immediate area around Yuri Plisetsky, forming a halo of light that definitely shouldn't be there when it comes to mere, common mortals.
Of course, Yuri Plisetsky is neither of those things.
As if to prove this point, he extends his right left upward, up and up until it's parallel to his head and to the perfect golden hair Otabek had been admiring from afar. It's grown to the point where Yuri keeps grumbling about cutting it off before he resembles Viktor in his younger years; Otabek fervently hopes he keeps putting it off.
"Beka," Yuri scolds, catching Otabek's gaze. "You're supposed to be stretching."
It's a good thing he's generally a quiet guy, he contemplates as he leans further towards the ground. It saves him from answering when his mouth has gone dry: it's a tendency that's only been growing with the proximity of his best friend in these kinds of moments.
"Ugh," Yuri says, and Otabek looks up once more. His friend is running a hand through the messy ponytail he had drawn his hair into, a good portion of the strands falling out already. "I need to cut my hair. I can't keep it out of my face like this."
To speak up, or to see the shiny golden mess on his best friend's hair gone forever? It's not a hard decision to make. "Let me braid it," Otabek blurts out before he can think twice about it. It's only when Yuri raises an eyebrow in his direction that he realizes that he might have sounded a little too eager for the cool, quiet persona he generally doesn't deviate from.
There might be a bit of light pink dusting both their cheeks, but he chalks it up to exercise.
"Let me braid it," he repeats, calmer this time. "I do it all the time for my sisters. It'll stay in place, I promise. No need to cut it."
Yuri sucks on his lower lip hesitantly, lowering his leg from where he had been holding the position. "You can try, I guess."
Otabek motions at him to come closer.
Yuri splutters. "You meant now?"
"No," Otabek says in a deadpan tone. "In a week, when I'm back in Almaty. When did you think?"
"I– No. Wait, that came out wrong." Yuri hesitates, and the angry colouring on the tips of his ears let him know that he's embarrassed. If this had been anyone but Otabek, with the notable exception of Nikolai Plisetsky, Yuri would have been bursting into an angry rant to hide his embarrassment - but with only the two of them he is… softer. Unwilling to burn a bridge. "My hair is all sweaty and gross from training. Let me finish up and take a shower first."
Otabek doesn't argue out that the main point of it was to keep his hair out of his eyes during practice; his hands are already itching to bury themselves in the soft strands, and they remain that way until they're both sitting in a sunny park bench after practice, hands folded awkwardly into both their laps.
"So," Yuri says, and this time the flush on his face isn't from exercise. "Are you going to braid my hair or not?"
Otabek tries to swallow past his dry throat. "Yeah," he says. "Come closer."
Yuri does.
There's a moment when Otabek's hands hesitate - the moment just before they touch the silken strands, blown dry so that Yuri wouldn't catch a cold regardless of the sun outside - and he's suddenly glad Yuri isn't facing him anymore so his burning cheeks aren't in sight. This is– well, this is awkward, and has all sorts of potential for embarrassment, but the urge to do it eventually wins out and Otabek finally, finally, buries his hands in Yuri Plisetsky's golden hair.
It's so soft. Otabek doesn't think he will ever come back from this. All of his life has been leading up to his moment, and Otabek can see the clear divide between the two parts of his life: pre-Yuri Plisetsky's Marvellous Sun Hair, a and post-Yuri Plisetsky's Marvellous Sun Hair. Yuri lets out a pleased sound at the light caresses, and both of them immediately turn red.
"Right," Otabek croaks out. "I'll make this quick."
The last thing he wants to do is to make this quick, but if he doesn't he might yet do something stupid. Like bury his face in the silky locks and attempt to stay nestled in them forever, or confess his feelings for the admirable person who has quickly become his best and most favourite friend.
The tight fishtail is done fast, fast enough for the threads of lingering regret to be cut as close as possible before he ties up the end with the hair tie Yuri had offered. The blonde runs his hands admiringly across the dips and groves of the design before snapping half a dozen photos and saving them on his phone for future social media posting.
Yuri doesn't meet his eyes when he turns to him again, cheeks still flushed. His hair catches and reflects all the colours of the afternoon sunlight; Otabek is dizzy and pleased just by looking at it. "You should braid my hair again," he murmurs, ears red, and it sounds like a confession.
Otabek leans close, eyes catching Yuri's defiant green ones as the other boy turns his head up. "I'll braid your hair for as long as you ask me to," he promises. Neither of them look away - not as both their breaths become heavier, not as their noses nearly bump together, not as the first faint brush of lips against each other forces a gasp out of his lungs.
Yuri meets him halfway, and Otabek blames it on the sun.