ONE
There was sunlight, and it blocked out the screen. Yuri laughed, a pearl of noise muffled by movement and wind and the image shifted, blurred, "No, Bek...Bek-a," he dragged the last vowel out and suddenly they were filling the screen.
A younger Beka, familiar undercut hair and deep eyes, shot the camera one of his infuriating half-smiles and held it out of Yuri's reach. The blonde snarled and reached for it again, but the older boy hooked a hand around his waist and dragged him back, "Just one more, you like selfies."
"Last one I let you take was horrible. You couldn't even see our foreheads." Yuri crossed his arms and pouted, looking away. They were sitting on a bench in a park, the sun high in the sky leaving little shadow on them other than Otabek's extended arm.
"So let me redeem myself. What?" He turned his head and talked into Yuri's hair, "Something on the phone you don't want me to see?"
Yuri's eyes widened and he turned, mouth partially open. Otabek looked as nonplussed as ever. An arm shot for the camera again and Otabek clicked his tongue, "Come on, one more. Just for me."
Any argument the smaller boy had left him and he shot a dark look at Otabek, "Fine. Last one. And then dinner. I swear, the shit I put up with…"
Otabek looked pleased with the results and settled back a little bit, bringing the camera back down to a more reasonable level, moving his arm from around Yuri's waist to around his shoulders. Yuri grumbled something under his breath and missed the look on the older boy's face as he said "Okay, three...two...one."
The camera moved like he was pressing a shutter button. On the screen, at the same time, Otabek turned his head to kiss the top of Yuri's head. Yuri didn't move, didn't breathe. And then unleashed a string of Russian curses and shoved an open palmed hand over Otabek's face and pushed him away, reaching with the other to steal the camera. Otabek curled over, laughing, and let him take it without a struggle.
The image flipped and showed Yuri's leopard-print skechers, "What the hell...did you take a fucking vid-"
The screen goes dark. Pale hands clutch the edges of the phone like a lifeline. It's dark around him, and he's sure his seatmate is probably happy for the sudden darkness. The earliest flight he'd managed to Almaty left at two am and he hadn't slept at all. Instead, he's been staring at photos. Rehashing Instagram posts and replaying conversations over and over in his mind. Clinging to everything that's keeping him sane.
He tried to sleep, but that hadn't worked, so here he was, ignoring the sounds of business class people trying catch a nap before their busy days doing what-the-fuck-ever when they landed.
He presses the back button, drags up his skype, and stares at the last conversation he'd received. Words he'd memorized minutes after he'd read them, minutes after he'd completed one of the best performances of his 19 years of breathing. 'Yura', At first, he had assumed it was Beka, but then, in English, 'there's been an accident. Otabek is in the hospital.' The time stamp for the next message is three minutes later, 'They don't know if he's going to make it.'
It comes to him later it's Otabek's younger sister, the only other family member that knows English as well as Beka does. Eventually, he forced himself to reply. Forced himself to find what little details she knew. An accident. His goddamn mother fucking motorcycle lost against a drunk driver. He'd thrown his phone, watched it hit the wall of his hotel room, then scrambled to rescue it. But she couldn't give much more to him.
So here he is, sitting in business class of a plane, switching back to his media player, mumbling curses under his breath occasionally and causing his seat partner to shift away from him uncomfortably. He's hoping maybe they'll move and he can have the extra space, but there aren't any empty seats, so it's a small hope.
He tugs the hood of his jacket closer, readjusts his earbud, and hits the replay button.
༺༻
Almaty is a stark difference from where he's been. It's summer here, and a million degrees and he realizes everything that's in his suitcase is heavy, warm clothing and will be absolutely useless to him here. It's a distraction he welcomes. Another distraction occurs, he hasn't planned anything past this very moment. No place to stay, no transportation. He'd barely even told Beka's sister he was coming, but she seemed to get the message from his rambling, incoherent messages.
His phone vibrates when he activates its data and connects to the airport wifi and there's a single message. It unnerves him that he's getting messages from Beka's skype account that he knows isn't him, but he's immediately grateful for the words. 'Almaty City Central Clinic Hospital' and an address. He punches in a heart emoji and sends it to her, he doesn't think he can manage any more words right now.
"You can do this, Plisetsky." He encourages himself, then grabs the handle of his bag and goes to find the taxi stands.
༺༻
It is literally an eternity (about half an hour) between the airport and the hospital, and Yuri spends the entire time in the taxi tapping his foot, staring blankly out the window, not actually absorbing any of what he's passing. The driver speaks no English and his Russian is a butchered version of the language, but somehow they struggle through the bill and he escapes to stand at the entrance of an intimidating building that plummets his heart into his stomach.
"Yura?" A female voice, rolling the 'r' of his name harder than he's used to, he drops his head from gawking and is greeted by a young woman who smiles sadly at him. She has black hair like Beka and the same glint in her eyes. He's seen a few pictures of her, but Otabek doesn't share much about his home life, so it's odd to be standing here.
"Alina?" She gestures for him to come inside with her, "What's going on? Is Beka okay?" She doesn't answer and heads for the elevators. He's pretty sure he sees her bite her lip as she moves to walk ahead of him, and that feeling in his stomach just gets worse.
They press into the back of one of the elevators with a bunch of other people, and she says something, probably the floor they need, to someone towards the front. Her shoulder presses into his bicep and she waits until they are stopped on the next floor, letting people off, to reply, "No, Yura. It's bad. The car…" she trails off, taking a breath, "it ran a light, hit him straight on from the side." The hand holding his travelbag wraps tighter around the handle, knuckles turning white, "He broke a lot of bones, he...he won't wake up." He watches the numbers on the wall rise, unseeing but trying to ignore when she turns her head to look up at him, "The doctor says for now it may be a good thing, considering the injuries, but the longer he's unconscious, the harder it is to assess the damage to his brain."
The doors opens and the girl unpresses herself from beside him and clears the path for both of them. The hall is too brightly lit and he follows the shadow that is her, trying to focus on the sound of the wheels of his bag, like it will be something important. She goes to the end of the hall, turns, and takes him down another, then pauses outside a door, looking in through the window on the door before she looks back at him, "Mama and Papa will be here in an hour or so. I'll be out here, if you need anything."
He manages a weak, "Thank you." and she touches his arm before she leaves him. He stares at the handle of the door for a long time before he can force himself to move, to reach out and touch it. It's even longer before he can make his way inside. It feels like forever, but he knows he's only got an hour.
༺༻
The lights are dimmer, the walls a cold, dark blue color, nothing like the hospitals he's been in before. There are machines beeping around the occupied bed furthest from the window, and they ring in his ears. He leaves his bag by the door, fingers slipping from the handle, and then he's moving across the small space.
Beka.
Beka.
There is no reaction when he touches the tan hand. It feels too cold, so wrong. He bites his lip to stop whatever emotion he wants to push out. An anger he can't swallow, that gets stuck in his throat and comes bubbling back up as sadness.
Beka is covered in bandages and tiny cuts, the left half of his head and cheek padded heavily, his left arm and entire left leg, hip to toe, are in casts. He's too quiet, even for him, too still. Yuri hates it. He wraps a careful hand around Beka's right index and middle fingers and squeezes gently, before choking out a soft, "Hey, dumbass. What's going on?"
The patterns on the machines don't change, and pieces of him wonder if Beka is even there. He releases his hold to drag one of two chairs closer to the bed, and sinks down in it with a sigh, reaching out again, picking up the entire hand and pressing it between both of his.
"I told you that thing was going to get you in trouble, but no one ever listens to Yuri." He manages a weak smile, leaning forward to put the hand back down and folds his arms on the edge of the bed, putting his weight on them, "There are safer ways to get me to visit, you know." He tilts his head, "Wake up, Beka."
He shifts his feet, one squeaking too loud, and tugs his jacket closer. It feels too cold in here, and he's legitimately worried if it's warm enough for Otabek. But the other man has already been here several days, and Yuri is most definitely anything but a doctor, so he focuses on chewing his lip for several minutes, eyes tracing the planes of his best friend's face. His phone buzzes in his pocket several times in rapid succession, a call that he doesn't bother to look at. He can dread the phone bill for that later, but the only important person right now is here, in front of him and so out of his reach.
"Beka," He tries again, "Please. Laying in this bed hasn't done you or anyone else any good. Your sister is worried, and I haven't met them, but I'm guessing your parents are scared, and I'm fucking terrified." He reaches for the hand again, covering it carefully, "Please, I need you to wake up."
The machines keep him company until Alina knocks softly and lets herself in. He turns in the chair, but doesn't move his hand. At least, now, Otabek's hand, is warmer, even if it's a false warmth, Yuri hangs onto the lie. Alina moves across the space quietly, her walk is similar to her brother's, he can see it in the hip movement and he wonders if it's hereditary or because of where they grew up. And then he realizes she's holding out a brown leather bag to him. Beka's leather bag. His fingers slip and he tilts his head to meet her eyes, mouth opening to question.
She shrugs, "Some stuff in here has your name on it. I thought maybe you should take care of it, if you're going to stay."
He nods, reaching out, the leather is warm and when she lets go, it's surprisingly heavy. It strikes him, "Is there a hotel nearby? Can you help me get a room? I sort of didn't do it before I came, I just…" He trails off and looks back at Beka.
He hears the smile in her voice when she says, "He wouldn't like that at all. If it's alright with you, I'll bring you to his place. You can stay there."
Yuri hesitates. Otabek's new apartment. His sanctuary. He's seen it in pictures and Skype calls, but Otabek had only just moved in recently. Would he be okay with Yuri being there? The blonde worries on his bottom lip again, he shouldn't, but if he doesn't move anything, he could really use the free bed. He looks up at her again and nods, "Thank you."
She smiles carefully at him again, it breaks a little on the edges, "You're welcome. Our parents will be here soon, come get me when you're ready to leave."
He will never be ready. But he waits for her to shut the door behind her before standing up and carefully putting the chair back where he got it from. Returning to his best friend's side, he shoves his hands in his jean pocket, then pulls them out again. This is all so wrong. They should be practicing, sending each other stupid jokes and insults. He touches Otabek's hand again, and it's gone cold.
"Please, Beka." He says again, "Don't leave me like this." He leans over until he's so close to Otabek's face if he wasn't so terrified of hurting him he could touch their foreheads together, and his hair cascades around them both like a veil. Wetness stings the edges of his eyes and he squeezes them tight, "You're all I really have left."
He carries the sound of the heart monitor with him when he leaves. It weighs him down heavier than Beka's leather pouch and his own suitcase combined.
༺༻
Afternoon shadows have the apartment in almost complete darkness, it makes Yuri hesitate just inside the front door. Alina offered to come with and help him, in case anything needed to be done, but he'd shaken his head and taken the keys she'd offered and fed the address to another taxi driver. The claws in his chest tighten as he flips a switch and the front hall illuminates in soft white light. Everything in this place is exactly where Otabek had left it, expecting his return.
He toes off his shoes and left his own bag by the front door, bringing Beka's bag with him down the hallway. It opens up into a small living room with a single black couch and coffee table. To the left are two open doorways, one to a bathroom, he knows, and one to Beka's bedroom; to the right is a small kitchen with a bar dividing it from the living room with two stools leaning against it and another door. Otabek called it a spare bedroom during his Skype tour, but Yuri had opened his fat mouth and claimed it as his own.
He sets the bag down on the bar beside a stack of mail and trails his fingers along the edge of the surface, slowly taking everything in. It's so mundane, and it's so home, but it's so quiet. There are boxes littering the floors in both rooms, some still sealed, several partially open and he peeks in a few in the kitchen, but it is just dishware, so he leaves them be and goes back to the living space.
There are bookshelves surrounding a corner TV, the left one almost full with the top two shelves still empty, and the right one half full from the bottom up. Beka has probably been painstakingly organizing his collection as he goes, and it would probably take him months to get it just right. Feeling vindictive, Yuri swaps Hamlet and Sherston's Progress, and is almost proud of himself until he realizes Beka may never actually see what he's done.
The thought gives him pause, and he stays where he is for several minutes, listening to the sounds of the apartment and wondering what he's actually doing there. But it's been nagging him, so he returns to the bar and grabs Beka's bag, bringing it with him to the couch and spilling the contents onto a worn cushion.
There are two small paperback books, of course, because Beka loves books, because he's a dork like that, and an MP3 player with earbuds, which Yuri pockets. There is a notebook that Yuri instantly recognizes the tiger on the front as his and he wonders how in the world it got into Beka's possession, and a small pipe-cleaner figure that's horribly disfigured that Yuri vaguely remembers from being sleep-deprived and slightly drunk for a birthday party.
There's also a Netbook, a tiny laptop with a blue cover and a sticker of the Kazakhstan flag on it that Yuri doesn't recognize. It makes him pause, because Beka's regular laptop is very clearly sitting on the coffee table, open and turned off. He sets it in his lap and carelessly shovels everything else back into the bag, setting it all aside. When he finally pushes at the power button, it boots loudly, like it's working too hard for the task. It takes several moments, and then it's asking for a password.
Well, fuck.
Otabek isn't supposed to be that smart with computers. He's supposed to use them for his music, Skype, and checking Yuri's Instagram and that's it, he shouldn't need a password. So Yuri tries a few different combinations and starts to grow frustrated when nothing works. He's about to throw the thing across the room, when he wonders. Y. It really wouldn't be that simple. U. Would it? R. Beka wasn't that stupid. A.
Maybe he is, and maybe Yuri should question his friendship, because the screen goes black, then blossoms to life with a basic home screen. He sits and stares and knows he should stop, but this is a piece of his friend he doesn't recognize. There's an Untitled folder on the home screen, next to the Recycling Bin, almost like it was guilty to be there.
It calls to him in his best friend's voice. He knows he shouldn't, he says it out loud. But it's only him in this apartment, and his voice sounds foreign, even to himself. He thinks he'll apologize to Otabek later for what he's doing as he double clicks on the folder icon.
He knows he's lying to himself, when he sees all the files inside and tells himself everything will be alright.