This had to stop.
Or rather, the stopping had to stop.
Yuri checked his shoes, finding them free of any unexpected contents (aside from the traces of glitter that, after months, had yet to fully disappear). The rest of his locker was likewise untouched, aside from a few scattered wrappers Mila had left after raiding his secret emergency chocolate stash. He'd bitch about that later, even though he knew from experience that they'd be replaced with a better quality package by the next morning; it was the principle of the thing.
Last month, paranoia would have begun creeping up on him as the days passed without incident. Three nights after the end of what Yuri had begun referring to, in the privacy of his mind, as That Thing, he'd caught Otabek staring into Yuri's freezer, the mischievous gleam in his eyes tempered by hesitation and lingering anxiety.
The worst part was that Yuri couldn't just say that he missed the pranks, that he hadn't realized how much they'd bled off his stress over his hellish train wreck of a season (thank you, growth spurts), because that would be losing, and a Plisetsky did not lose prank wars.
There was only one course of action.
"Hey, Zhibek," he said into the phone. "Your brother is a fucking moron."
"You need me to kick his ass?" She giggled. Yuri found himself smirking at the mental image of Zhibek, three years younger and a full twelve centimeters shorter than her brother, turning her undeniably terrifying glare on Otabek. The poor boy wouldn't last a second.
"You know that photo you showed me last summer? At Aisulu's wedding?"
Yuri's first time in Almaty had involved meeting not only Otabek's mother, father, two sisters (though one was admittedly a bit preoccupied with her own marriage), but a staggering array of grandparents, great-grandparents, uncles, aunts, cousins, third-cousins-twice-removed, as well as various in-laws and family friends, all of whom seemed to know Yuri, Yuri's cat, and his favorite foods. He'd ended up clinging to Zhibek when Otabek was dragged off by his mother, and they'd spent half the evening swapping stories about how damn ridiculous the Hero of Kazakhstan was behind his stoic expression and steady voice.
"If you mean the photo, yes."
"I need it."
She sighed. "Yuri, that picture is prime Altin blackmail. I can't just give it to you."
"Zhi," Yuri whined, "It's important."
If this were anyone else, he would break out the threats, but some niggling bit of conscience told him he couldn't cuss out his best friend's (and maybe almost another word that started with b- and ended with –friend's) sister and likely had enough material on him to fill an album.
"How about a trade?" The gleeful edge to her voice informed him that he wouldn't be getting the better end of this deal, but sacrifices had to be made. "I was gonna put it on t-shirts, but…"
"Goddammit, you make me glad I don't have actual siblings. I'm texting you something."
"I'll take that as a compliment," she replied. "Okay, check your email."
"Got it." Yuri grinned as a notification from his inbox popped up. "Great doing business with you, Zhibek."
He hung up and, on impulse, played the video he'd sent to Zhibek.
"Zoyenka went to the vet today." His own voice crackled through the speakers, barely comprehensible through an onslaught of giggles. "Beka's trying to cheer her up." The frame blurred as the phone poked around a corner, revealing Otabek sitting cross-legged on the floor, nose to nose with Yuri's cat.
"Mon petit chat," Otabek sang quietly. Zoye stared at him, nonplussed. "Pourquoi es-tu si trist?"
The video shook harder as film-Yuri struggled to contain his laughter.
"Miaou, miaou!
Mon petit chat,
Faut pas pleurer comme ça- Yura, stop that!" He was blushing, unable to hold back a small grin as he noticed Yuri lurking in the doorway.
"Make me," Yuri replied, and the video cut off as Otabek rose from the floor, raising an eyebrow at the challenge.
Part of him was loathe to share the video, which even Mila hadn't been allowed to see, but Yuri knew that Zhibek missed her older brother; the two were close even though Otabek had moved from Almaty when she was only ten years old. Besides, he told himself as he downloaded the attachment in her email, it's for a good cause.
:: :: ::
"Yuri?" Otabek opened the apartment door a crack, nudging the curious cat gently away from the forbidden hallway. "I brought food."
Yuri's flat was, as always, a mess of strewn clothing and abandoned dishes, the secondhand sofa coated with a light veneer of cat hair. It smelled of lemony soap and fresh bread – a sure sign that Yuri was stressed and had probably spent a good part of the night baking and scrubbing stains from the cramped kitchenette, the only part of his living space that was kept relatively spotless. Otabek couldn't blame him. Europeans were coming up in only a couple of weeks, and Yuri's indomitable drive to win had been tempered by frustration as his long-awaited growth spurts hit with the force of a steamroller.
He wanted to distract Yuri, make him laugh instead of scowl and curse, but he didn't want to distract him by going too far, crossing a line that was several meters closer than he'd thought. Jokes were only fun when they were just as amusing to the victim, and that… hadn't quite happened. Otabek also wasn't ready yet to breach the subject of exactly why he'd taken it so far, because that meant discussing the soft smiles and casual touches, the eye contact that sparked across the rink. With their training schedules that were becoming ever more intense and all-consuming as the end of the season approached, they'd silently agreed that this was a thing for later, something to grow with the spring flowers and talked about when the change in seasons brought warmth and space and time.
"Yuri, I'm going to eat your syrniki," he called out.
"Touch my cheat food and they'll never find your body," came the shouted reply. "In my bedroom."
Yuri was curled up on his bed, headphones tossed aside and an ice pack on his knee. His feet, like Otabek's own, were covered with bruises and bandages.
"Lilia got to you today?"
"She said my oversplits were lacking," growled Yuri.
"I thought you liked oversplits."
"I also like being alive."
Otabek winced in sympathy. His own flexibility was decent enough that it didn't hinder his skating, but Yuri was regularly twisted like a rubber band to prepare for his more ballet-focused routines.
He tossed Yuri the paper bag of syrniki and flopped down on the bed. His breath caught in surprise as he glanced up at the ceiling and came face to face with… himself.
Staring down at them was one seventeen-year-old Otabek Altin, leaning against an expensive motorbike (that was, to his eternal regret, not his), breathing out a cloud of white fog.
"Zhibek finally decided to take over my PR campaign?" It was, if taken out of context, a good photo; his eyes lacked their usual deer in the headlights expression he couldn't suppress when faced with a camera (everyone else insisted that his face was as blank as usual, but he knew), due to the simple fact that he hadn't realized his younger sister was taking a picture. And the bike… he held back a sigh of longing. Maybe Yuri didn't know-
"Tastes like smoking fruit loops," Yuri said, around a mouthful of pancake, and Otabek's ears started to burn.
"It's cool in Almaty," he insisted, silently cursing his friend Marat for insisting he try it, just once, no one will ever find out.
Yuri snickered. "What, vaping? Or stealing motorcycles? Did the owner know who you were when she called the police?"
"Remind me to disown my sister," groaned Otabek, pulling one of Yuri's pillows over his face.
"Nice of the officers to give you a lecture about how nicotine isn't good for athletes."
"I thought you were my friend, Plisetsky."
"Hmm." Otabek could hear Yuri's grin even as he did his best to smother himself with the pillow. "You did send Grandpa a picture of me saran wrapped to my bed."
"Over a year ago."
"A Plisetsky never forgets. Besides, he got it framed."
Otabek stuck his hand out blindly. Yuri dropped two syrniki into his palm.
"This is war, Yura."
"Come at me, Altin." He could hear the smile in Yuri's voice. Wheels began to turn in Otabek's mind as he remembered that the cabinets in Yuri's kitchen had just enough room to fit a person, as long as they were relatively small. But…
"Are you going to take the poster down?" Even if he couldn't see it, he could feel his own teenage face staring down at them.
Yuri hummed, contemplating. "I dunno, I kind of like it."
"Yura."
"All's fair in love and war, Beka."