Waltz of Roses

.

If they only know, you're my desire, the world would put an end to us. I ride in the night, on the back of your bike, with my hands, my hands to the sky.
― Serayah Ranee McNeill, Starlight.

.

Goodbye Piter

And if the man can't dance, he gets no second chance.
― Alesha Dixon, The Boy Does Nothing.

.

Talking was not his strong suit. Otabek shifted uncomfortably in the creaking antique armchair Yura had shifted toward him. An empty bowl of okroshka lay on the tablecloth in front of Otabek. Yura was on his second glass of Pepsi-Cola: two ice cubes were dying in his tall soda glass, droplets gathered on the outside. The glass was wet, Yura's hand was wet, and the coaster was growing wet underneath it. Yura pushed the ice cubes around with his straw. He looked up at Otabek and smiled.

"What are you thinking of?" he said. He said it easily, as if the answer was a trivial one to give, as if Otabek's present thoughts could all be transmitted by only a few words.

Otabek looked down at his hands. Talking was not his strong suit, but he had so many things to say; he couldn't find the words for them. Instead Otabek looked out the window, down at the yard ― he saw a couple of kids play, their mothers sat on the swings. Yura's knee knocked against his under the table. Otabek did not move his knee away.

Finally, staring contemplatively at the Sirin Bird salt shaker, Otabek said, "You."

A long and heavy silence filled the room. The clocks struck six. A bird jumped out the clock and tweeted obscenely loudly six times. Their knees remained linked under the table, hidden from sight by the long white tablecloth.

Yura raised a fist to his lips and coughed into it. "Still can't believe it's your last day in Piter."

Otabek moved his knee away from Yura's. He stood, gathered his empty bowl, and walked it to the kitchen. Icons of the Holy Mother Mary and of Jesus Christ himself hung on the walls, along with dozens of other saints Otabek couldn't name. He let his bowl slide in the corked sink, and ran the tap. Yura stood in the doorframe, Pepsi glass in hand, watching him. Otabek scrubbed the bowl with a ferocity that made his skin raw. If he couldn't say what he felt he would punish himself for it; punish himself for even thinking it, for dreaming, and hoping.

"Neither can I," said Yura's grandfather, who sat in the small kitchen nearby a window reading the Kommersant. The date stamped on the newspaper was yesterday. "You've been a great help around the house, Otabek, I'm quite sad to see you leave."

Looking up at the old man, Otabek attempted a smile. It came out faintly, and clung like a pained strain to his face, the muscles around his mouth tense and hurt. There were so many things he wanted to say, but all that came out his dried throat was "Thank you, it's been a pleasure staying here."

The man smiled back amiably, then lifted the newspaper to his face again. Otabek placed the soaking bowl in the dish rack. Yashka came in mewling and rubbed himself against Otabek's legs. Smiling fondly, Otabek reached down and gave the cat a soft pat on the head. Closing his eyes Yashka purred.

Yura set his glass in the sink and clapped Otabek on the shoulder. "You've spoilt him. Now he'll never let you go."

Otabek stared back at Yura's face framed by long golden hair, and was lost in the sea-green of his eyes. For the life of him he could not remember packing, carrying his lightweight gym bag down the stairs because the elevator was being repaired for the second time this month, cramming inside Yura's grandfather's ancient Moskvich, and the drive to Pulkovo; then going through customs, the last text from Yura before being told to turn off his phone,

Yuratchka: Some dicty missus just missed the 22:15 to Ufa and exploded in random expletives! XD Learned a bunch of new words.

re: Go home Yura, get some sleep before tomorrow's training.

Yuratchka: I wanted to see your plane take off. Are you on the runway yet?

re: They told me to turn my phone off. Bye Yura, see you tomorrow.

He didn't catch Yura's next text. His phone off, the plane lifted itself into the sky, and Otabek filled the time staring out the window, watching the glimmering lights of St Petersburg get forever smaller. Over these last three months, more things had happened to him than usually did in the scope of years. He yawned and his ears popped painfully.

.

Three months ago.

.

Yuri pinched the bridge of his nose and squeezed his eyes shut. Otabek's skates scraped the ice. His panting breath came closer, closer, until Yuri could feel it blow against his own cheek. He bit his lip, opened his eyes. Otabek stood right in front of him; in those undersized silver pants and a simple black tee. Their eyes met.

"Don't ask me something like that!"

Shocked by how loud his voice was, Yuri took a step back. His words echoed all over the deserted rink. He pursed his lips, and folded his arms over his chest.

Otabek's bushy eyebrows rose. "Why?" His deep baritone sounded hurt.

Yuri gulped before bracing himself, and looked deep in Otabek's black eyes. "Because you might not like my answer."

Otabek scowled. "I can take criticism."

That was true. Yuri deliberated a little longer before sharing his thoughts. It didn't seem the same though. It was not like Yakov or Viktor or even Lilia telling him he'd screwed up; no. That happened on a daily basis, and he really didn't mind, but this... For some reason, when Yuri imagined Otabek criticizing his skating, it felt like a slap to the face. And if Otabek felt the same, ... He couldn't do that to Otabek, no, he didn't want to. Yuri let out a long sigh.

"Honestly Bek, when you skate... it kind of looks like you have a stick up your ass."

Otabek shrugged. "I am not a homosexual."

Yuri's mouth fell open. His knees wobbled, his grip on the ice faltered, and he struggled to remain on his feet, drifting closer to Otabek. Yuri could feel his cheeks heat up.

"What? I'm not implying you are ―"

Otabek leaned forward. He towered over Yuri, their chests so close Yuri could smell his hair gel.

"Then what do you mean?" Sweat dripped down Otabek's forehead, spattering on Yuri's nose.

"Your, your back. It's stiff as a rod when you skate," Yuri said in a small voice. "You, you don't have to be good at ballet to show a bit more fluidity. You have... danced before, right?"

Otabek's narrowed eyes went wide and open like a child's. "No," he said, "no, I haven't."

Now it was Yuri's turn to look surprised. "Not even at school?"

Otabek shook his head.

"With your relatives? They never made you do any folk dances?"

"My family's not big on tradition."

Yuri stared at him, frowning. "And you've never been to any wedding receptions?"

"I've been to my brother's wedding. I just didn't dance there."

"Are you telling me that outside of skating, you've never moved in sync with music?"

"Pretty much."

"Bek, that's really bad. We have to change that pronto."

"Huh?"

"You can't go on like this. If you wonder why you're losing against meatheads like JJ and Pork Cutlet bowl, then do something about it. Change your routine. Make it look more natural."

"Are you seriously saying that ―"

"Yes! Yes a hundred times over. They've got nothing on you. You executed all your jumps flawlessly, without a single error. The only reason why that JJ clown ended up ahead of you was because he makes those fancy dance steps and sways his hips to impress the ladies, nothing else. You're better than him. Your jumps are cleaner and more athletic."

Yuri stopped talking when he realized he'd said too much. A cheerful smile had lit up Otabek's face; his eyes looked soft, half-lidded. Yuri coughed, and skated away from him. Stopping a few meters away, Yuri crossed his arms over his chest, and tapped his foot on the ice.

"Okay, show me that routine again."

If there was one thing Otabek truly hated, it was dancing. Now, braving the blizzard along with dozens of other teens who claimed they were 21, he waited in line to be admitted inside club Kiska. Darkness steadily fell over the city of white nights. Otabek rubbed his gloved palms together. His ears tingled from the cold. Yura, who was presently grumbling something under his breath, hands stuffed in his pockets, had dragged him out here 3 hours ago. He'd said that Mila knew a person, who knew a person, who knew a person who could get them in club Kiska without prior reservations. But Mila had been gone for over an hour now, after she'd slipped past the bouncers and blacked-out doors. Since then, Yura had let out a string of curses, and nervously checked his phone every 5 minutes; now he was relatively calm. Otabek raised his head and stared at the rising crescent over the dusky canal. He closed his eyes in silent prayer, hoping he would not have to dance tonight.

He had lied to Yura at yesterday's practice ― he had danced before, and was pathetically bad at it. With a grimace Otabek forced himself to look at the flashing neon sign above the doors. The icy wind stung his eyes. Otabek couldn't shake the image of himself at 5, surrounded by aunties and his mom, while a cassette tape played Kara Jorga, and failing miserably next to his older brother's flawless performance. Things went downhill from there. His prom date in middle school had laughed at him, when he placed his arms on her shoulders during the slow dance. At his brother's wedding 2 years ago, he ripped a tendon in the back of his leg while attempting to dance the Serpin together with his brothers and sisters in law. So what good could come of this?

"Hey, over here!"

Turning, Otabek spotted Mila, her fur trimmed coat off, beckon him to a back door. She sounded slightly out of breath, and the wind blew her red curls between her lips. Yet she was smiling.

Without a second thought Otabek grabbed Yura's wrist and strode to the back door.

Yura yelped. He tugged his hand free and glared. "Bek, what the fuck?"

Otabek lifted one shoulder in a half-shrug. Wordlessly he inclined his head to the back door; Mila was still standing there, looking rather chilly with her long legs so exposed. The icy wind had turned her cheeks bright red.

"Baba! About fucking time." Yura stomped past him, disappearing inside the dark hallway.

When they were all inside, Mila quickly shut the door behind them. Otabek shivered and rubbed his palms together. It had to be at least ten degrees warmer here. The music was muted, to the point only faint sounds reached his ears. In the gray darkness he could just barely make out the shapes of Mila and Yura's bodies, and the subtle dent of Mila's nose and dimple of her cheeks as a stray neon light was caught between them.

"Is this your idea of a joke?"

Mila laughed. "Sorry, couldn't come sooner." She winked. "I got side-tracked."

They followed Mila through a series of dark corridors, before she made a sharp turn and thrust a door open. Otabek had to shield his eyes from the light. Suddenly all his senses were on full alert, an overwhelming brightness washed over him. The music was loud. Real loud. Otabek could feel his ears ringing and his head pounding with the rashness of it, his heart thudded in his chest. He felt like his stomach had been ripped out of his body and tossed down a great flight of stairs. Vaguely he noticed Yura and Mila argue, but couldn't make out what they were saying. Overpowered by the pounding bass, he staggered off to the men's room, using the wall for support.

He shivered ― it was sub zero temperature in the john. The window was thrust wide open; one guy leaned against the glass, smoking. The guy drunkenly waved at Otabek.

"Come here for a man-to-man chat."

Otabek walked straight out the men's room. The noises assaulted his ears again. He gulped it down and did his best to remain calm.

"There you are. Finally. I've been looking all over for you." Yura's voice sounded coarse as he put a hand between Otabek's shoulders, and pushed him to the cloakroom.

They disposed of their jackets, Yura talking loudly over the music. Otabek merely nodded; this place tired him, with sleepy eyes he watched the crowd. There was Mila, she waved at them, the brilliant white of her teeth accentuated by the bright lipstick she wore. Otabek rubbed his hand: a cat's silhouette and letters spelling 'Kiska' had been printed on it. Walking further inside the club, Otabek saw fewer and fewer people. When they reached the dance floor where Mila stood at a bar, it was curiously empty. Some men hung around the edges of the room, leaning on barstools, sipping drinks. Nobody was dancing ― what a relief.

To be sure Otabek decided to check with Yura. "Where is everyone?" he said, but his words got swallowed by the music.

Otabek twisted his mouth. He didn't want to raise his voice. So instead he leaned up close to Yura and whispered in his ear, "Can you tell me where everyone is?"

Yura recoiled from him like a cat from the bathtub. His blond hair flashed green under the disco lights. Shoulders raised, Yura stomped off towards Mila without a word. The only thing left for Otabek to do was wearily follow, feet shuffling over the dance floor.

"Hey," he nodded at Mila, attempting a half-smile.

She pushed herself off the bar, stretching her arms out; one hand landed on Yura's shoulder, the other on Otabek's. When she winked and started chatting rapidly, her words too got swallowed by the sound, so Otabek leaned in closer to hear.

"...prefer? I'm fairly good at hip hop, but if you want to breakdance, Yuri's the master! So, what shall it be?"

Otabek shrugged. "Anything's fine." He didn't want to be here or learn any dance moves anyway; this was so unnecessary. As an afterthought he whispered in Mila's ear, "why are there so few people in here?"

"Kiska is a very exclusive club," one stray curl of Mila's hair gently brushed Otabek's cheek as she whispered in his ear. "They don't just let anyone in. You have to know people."

Yura shoved Mila's hand off his shoulder. "I'm going to get a drink," he barked at them.

Otabek winced; his ears stung. Why was Yura being this loud?

"Do you want one?" Yura screamed over the music.

Both Mila and Otabek shook their heads, and Yura was off.

"Okay, we'll start with basic hip hop moves." Mila took Otabek by the hand and led him to the dance floor.

The guys hanging around the sides of the room watched them move over the floor: they were the only ones on it. Otabek felt so foolish. He wanted to fall through the floor; anything was better than being here. Mila stopped and smiled sweetly at him; she let his hand go.

"Listen up, this is the first move you'll learn. It's used in many different routines, including advanced ones, so pay attention."

Otabek nodded firmly; apart from the ringing headache and the searing pain in his ears, he was all attention.

"It's called the step touch, and goes something like this."

Mila pressed her legs together. She made a sidestep with her right foot, parting her legs. A beat later she moved her left foot to the right, joining both feet and pressing her legs together. Otabek repeated after her as well as he could. It felt kind of stupid. They moved like that for a while, to the right and to the left, opening and closing their legs.

"Very good Otabek, you're getting the hang of this."

He didn't quite feel like he was getting the hang of anything ― and what did that expression mean, exactly? Mila leaned in to whisper something again.

"Okay, now try to make your movements a bit less stiff, sway a little to the music."

She began waving her arms around enthusiastically. Otabek froze. He watched the guys that hung around the sides of the room: they were all drooling at Mila, and glaring at him. Fuck.

"Um, Mila," Otabek whispered into her ear, which made her stop shaking her ass ― thank god. "Can you show me another move? I think I got this."

"Oh, oh okay. I learned this move right after the step touch, it's real smooth, it's called happy feet!" She cracked a laugh at her own joke. "Or, well, some people call it the heel toe ― that's basically what it is: you put your weight on the heel of one foot and the toe of the other foot. Then you switch."

She demonstrated. It did look rather neat ― when she did it. When Otabek tried doing it however... it looked more like someone trying to murder a moving cockroach in their bathroom. Otabek simply wasn't getting it. And no matter how many small encouragements or nudges in the right direction Mila gave him, all he got was more exhausted. Otabek checked his watch: it was well past midnight. He groaned.

"Yes! Feel the music, let it move you."

He didn't want to disappoint Mila by telling her that the only thing he felt right now was dizziness from a lack of oxygen in the club ― she was trying, after all. But he really wanted to stop. He weakly held Mila's hand; the room was spinning around him. In the haze of flashing lights he spotted Yura, plastic cup in hand, saunter over to them. Yura's head bobbed to the music; his movements were sluggish and languid, as though Otabek were watching a video of him played in slow motion.

Yura gazed back at him; then looked down at Otabek's feet, set his drink on the bar, and wacked his palm across his own face. Glaring through his fingers with an expression of pure agony, Yura yelled "You're doing it all wrong!" He turned on Mila. "What have you been teaching him?"

Mila put both hands on her hips. She raised her voice as well. The whole thing devolved into a shouting match between Mila and Yura. Otabek let out a long breath.

"Well excuse me, Mr. Know It All, this is how I learned hip hop."

Yura cursed at her in Russian. Mila cursed back. Otabek looked from one to the other, without comprehending a word of what was being said.

"Bek," Yura growled at him, "you put too much weight on your outer foot. Make lighter steps ― on your toes, like this."

Yura did a few step touches.

"He's doing the heel toe, Yuri, not the step touch."

Yura stopped dancing. He stared at Mila for awhile, eyes growing wider and wider.

"The heel toe? That looks nothing like the heel toe." Yura pointed at Otabek's feet. "Why are you teaching him advanced techniques when he hasn't learned the basics yet?"

Mila rolled her eyes. "I can't help it if Otabek is a faster student than you."

Yura flung himself at Mila like a wild tiger ready to pounce. But Mila easily side stepped, she even made a sort of dance out of it. One of the men lounging nearby came over and asked her in a low voice, "is this man bothering you?"

"Oh no," she laughed, "I'm perfectly fine, thank you!"

As a precaution the man remained at Mila's side. Yura's hands were twitching: he stood between Mila and Otabek, eyes flitting between them.

Otabek extended a hand toward Yura. The music was dying down, shifting from the fast and heavy to the welcome soft slow dance song. "Yur, are you alright?"

"I'm perfectly fine." Yura's eyes flashed with anger.

Otabek's arm dropped between them; stopped in motion, uncertain where to go. Yura was scowling at him; Otabek frowned ― apart from completely sucking at dancing, what had he done wrong? He wanted to make it right, but he didn't know how. He must have screwed up somewhere to have Yura react like this, but what had he done? Otabek fumbled through the dark corridors of his mind, lost, when Mila touched him on the shoulder. Otabek turned his head to look at her.

"This is my favorite song," she whispered, lips close to his jaw. "Come dance with me, this dance is easier ― I promise."

"Do what you want! I'm out of here," a very angry Yura shouted at the top of his lungs and stormed off.

Otabek blinked. He could see Yura's thin form haggardly stomp about in the dark; there was nothing graceful about it, when normally Yura was all grace. He looked... was he drunk? The dots began to connect in Otabek's mind: the drink, the irrational anger that seemed to come from nowhere, the loose-tongued gratuitous swearing that would have already alerted Otabek had it been anyone else.

"Come on, don't be shy." Mila tugged at his arm. Her eyebrows were arched coyly, lips turned up in a playful grin. Otabek couldn't help but smile back at her.

"Wait one sec," he said.

"Okay!"

Otabek lurched toward the bar where Yura's empty cup was still standing. He sniffed at it. And scrunched up his nose: it smelled. It positively reeked of strong liquor. Were the bartenders here insane?

"Yura is drunk," he announced, returning to Mila.

"What? No!" she stared at him, eyes wide and astonished.

"...Yeah,"

"The idiot!" She looked cross for a moment. Seconds later the anger was wiped clean off her face like a cloud passing over the sun. Now she just looked tired. She heaved a long arduous sigh. "Go after him," she told Otabek.

He blinked at her, then smiled; the smile turned to a grin. He leaned in and whispered in her ear, "What about our dance?"

Mila smiled back ravenously: "I'm trying to be a responsible adult."

Otabek burst out laughing.

"Go," she said, winking at him. "We'll have our dance later."

Having said his goodbyes, Otabek hurried to the illuminated exit sign. The icy air outside cooled his broiling headache down; he felt a lot better breathing in the crisp night air. The line to get inside club Kiska had only gotten longer. Bewildered, Otabek stared at them all with owlish eyes...what was wrong with those people? The blizzard had let up, although a howling wind still whooshed by every now and then. Tiny icicles were swept against and stung Otabek's shaved cheeks.

Then he saw Yura. Nearby a frozen drainpipe, Yura paced in circles. His jacket was thrown open, and he was not wearing his cap with earflaps. He was talking to himself. Good ― that meant he was not that drunk yet. Otabek had feared to see him hurling or leaning against a wall. This was not so bad. He walked over to his friend.

"Let's get out of here."

Yura looked up. He seemed genuinely surprised to see Otabek.

"Did you get all your stuff?"

"Yeah," Yura grunted in a nasal voice.

Otabek could tell that Yura had left his earflap cap at the club, but Otabek did not bother to retrieve it. The last thing he wanted to do now was go back inside that hell hole. So instead he fell in step with Yura and said, "so, what did you order?"

"Huh?" another angered glare.

Otabek was skating on pretty thin ice here. Undeterred, he went on: "what sort of drinks did you have?"

"Oh." Yura stared straight ahead as they walked in silence. Otabek had already surmised that their conversation had ended, when Yura said "two whiskys and one martini."

What? The kid wasn't even sixteen yet. "You're kidding, right?"

"Dead serious."

How could his alcohol tolerance be so high? Otabek couldn't even drink that much in one night without doubling over. He stopped still in his tracks. "Yur,"

Yura walked on ahead of him.

"Yura!" he called out again.

Yura stopped and looked over his shoulder. "What do you want?"

The question was disarming, Otabek did not quite know what to say. I want to know how you're feeling? That did not sound quite right. I want to make sure you get home safely, without hurling or falling into a frozen canal along the way? Drat! What was he trying to say here?

"You should eat something," he meekly offered.

Yura snarled at him. "I'll eat when I'm hungry, now get off my back. We're going home, da?"

"Yes," he sighed deeply before catching up to Yura who had already resumed walking.

After waiting around for nearly twenty minutes at an unlit bus stop, they took a cab home. The whole ride, Yura did not speak a word; upon arrival he tossed some bills at the driver before Otabek could reach for his wallet, and quickly sprang out of the car. Otabek thanked the driver and got out of the car. He followed Yura through the yard; snow covered swings and a children's slide were hauntingly vacant as their feet crunched over the narrow path.

Otabek circled around Yura, stopping in front of him. "Hey, what's bothering you? Do you want to talk about it?"

"What is there to talk about?"

Otabek shrugged. "You've been awfully quiet all the way here."

Yura snorted. He was smiling now but certainly did not look amused. "Why? What did you want me to talk about? How sexy Mila looks in her tight black dress, that it? Really, Otabek? I did not arrange this so you and Mila could go out on a date!"

Otabek was stunned. He watched in silence as Yura shouted and shouted, cheeks turning red, air escaping him in white puffs. Gesturing wildly with his ungloved hands, Yura tried regaining his breath.

"I only asked her if she knew any good clubs. And then she invited herself along. That bitch!" Yura spat on the ground.

A tense silence reigned over them as they walked inside the building, and later when they stood on opposite sides of the small 4 person elevator. Yura's apartment keys jangled in his shaking hands; both his nose and his ears were tainted pink. Not looking back at Otabek, he pushed the door open, and walked in first. Yura threw off his jacket, kicked off his boots, and marched inside the living room. Ending up at the center of the Turkish carpet, right under the crystal chandelier, his shoulders trembled like a single blade of grass under the assault of turbulent winds. Otabek sighed. He took his boots off slowly, disposed of his coat, picked up Yura's jacket and folded it neatly inside the built-in closet. Then he entered the room; the Turkish carpet felt warm under his socked feet. He checked the cuckoo clock: past 2 am, Yura's grandfather must have gone to bed. The apartment was eerily quiet save for the ticking of the clock and Yashka's faint mewling as he rubbed himself against Yura's legs.

Softly Otabek crossed the Turkish carpet to the other end of the room, and placed a record on the turntable. He raised the needle, and looked over his shoulder. It would probably be fine if he put the volume on low. He set the needle on the record. Faint soft harmonious tones started playing on the gramophone. Yashka quit mewling. Otabek turned around slowly to look at Yura. He swallowed thickly when their eyes met. The look Yura sent him was so intense; mixed with hurt, and anger, and a wild, animal ferociousness. Otabek took a step forward. The music went into another whirl ― somehow, listening to it, Otabek imagined a skater spin on the ice, hands raised up high in the air.

"Well, will you teach me how to dance, or not?"

Yura's shoulders dropped, he looked even smaller now, as he stared up at Otabek with those wide green blue eyes. Otabek didn't know what to do. The music played on, and in his peripheral vision he saw Yashka sneak off to the kitchen. Something in there did smell nice. Perhaps 2 am in the night was too late for taking dance classes, but Otabek knew that after the disaster at the club tonight, he had to calm Yura down somehow, and this seemed to be working.

Yura blinked at him. "Odd pick. You really want to dance to that?"

"How is it a strange choice?"

"Eugen Doga's piece Waltz of Roses?" Yura stared at him. "Are you kidding me? Why would you want to dance to that? Only nostalgic old grannies and lovesick teens dance waltzes."

Otabek shrugged. "It seemed like a good place to start." He looked over at the gramophone. The music was coming to an end.

A sigh. "Okay, I'll dance with you."

Surprised, Otabek turned his attention back to Yura.

Yura swiveled around him, stopped the gramophone, and shifted the needle back to the record's edge. The music began to play again. Yura moved closer.

"Place your left hand on my shoulder."

Otabek did as he was told. He felt Yura grab his right hand ― Yura's hand was so cold.

"I'm leading," Yura said sternly, brows furrowed, face up close to Otabek's.

It felt strangely intimate when Yura held his waist. Otabek peeked in the dark opening to the kitchen ― Yashka stared back at him ― two luminous eyes in the dark.

They moved through the living room. It was tough practice dancing in such a small room: they had to watch for all the furniture. But somehow they made it alright. Otabek found it strangely soothing ― no one was there to judge him. It was just him and Yura, them alone. And Otabek found he didn't have to do much with Yura in the lead, just go with the flow.

The only thing Otabek didn't like was that Yura would not look at him. Yura looked this way and that; his eyes scoured the living room in search of a free path to move, to avoid bumping into the furniture. He barely even looked at Otabek, and when Otabek spoke to him, Yura would look for a millisecond, then quickly look away. For some undefinable reason, Otabek didn't like that. He wanted Yura to look at him, only at him.

"Yur,"

Yura turned his head up. But his eyes were so focused, serious, the eyes of a soldier. The whole point of this soothing music and the calming rhythm of their motions was lost on him.

"Has anyone ever skated to this music before?"

Yura looked away. He swiveled Otabek around the dining table, narrowly avoiding certain collision with a Lomonosov porcelain vase filled with freshly picked white crocuses.

"What kind of a question is that?"

Otabek shrugged. Yura's hand had gotten warmer. "Seems like good music for a routine." Otabek stepped in time with Yura, finally sort of getting it ― his toes just barely brushed Yura's heel. "Every time I hear the violins, I imagine a skater spinning on the ice."

Yura grumbled. "Well duh ― you're at the rink every waking moment of your life. Your imagination is limited to skating."

"Could be."

"It's true." Yura's severe growl told Otabek there was no room for argument.

Otabek leaned backwards; Yura's arm caught him, pressing down the center of his spine. Their faces came close together; Otabek felt Yura's breath on his lips ― it still reeked of alcohol. Without warning, Yura spun him around. Otabek nearly lost his balance, nearly crashed into an antique dark wood bookcase, before Yura caught him, centimeters off the furniture, and led him to the other side of the room.

Yura froze. Wide eyed, slack-jawed, he gaped at something behind Otabek's back. Frowning, Otabek turned around to see.

He was a bit surprised to see Yura's grandfather already up and standing in the living room, close to the corridor. There was a gentle smile on Nikolai Plisetsky's face, and he looked at them both with a touch of pride.

"Oh, hello Mr. Plisetsky," Otabek started when it was clear Yura was not going to say anything.

Yura's grandfather beamed at him. "You can call me Kolya."

"Ah right... Kolya," Yura's grandfather had long since given Otabek permission to call him by name, but Otabek could not quite picture him as 'Kolya', so it never stuck. "Sorry for the noise, we didn't mean to wake you."

Kolya dismissively waved his hand. "I was already up."

"You were?" said Yura.

Kolya simply nodded. He put a finger to his lips and frowned a bit, smile widening, then fondly told them, "Yuratchka, you and Otabek look very good together. Why don't you skate together as a pair next season?"

Yura turned red in the face. His shoulders shuddered with rage. "Don't make fun of me Grandpa!"

Kolya's brows rose. "But I'm serious."

"What? How is that even ...? Listen, I'll explain it to you one last time: there are no male pairs in figure skating." Yura made an X with his arms. "The ISU would never have it. That's too gay!"

A deafening silence followed ― the music had stopped playing.

"I haven't said anything about gays..." Kolya looked bewildered. "Do you understand what he means, Otabek?"

Yura groaned. Breathing hard and livid with anger, he stalked out the living room, down the corridor, and slammed his bedroom door in Otabek's face.

"Fuck this. I'm going to sleep."