Scratch the Surface
I wanna know. Am I losing my mind? Never let me go.
― Alan Walker, Alone.
.
Baranovskaya's impeccably waxed ballet floor gleamed under harsh morning light. They were alone in the ballet practice room, just him and Otabek, practicing their lifts. Yuri placed his right hand on the barre. Extending his left leg, he bent his right knee, and lifted his leg high above his head, reaching and catching his foot with his left hand.
"Okay ― now," he murmured, looking at Otabek through the mirror that lined the entire wall.
Taking small steps, Otabek approached him from behind. A moment later Yuri felt Otabek's hand close around his right waist.
"Like this, Yur?" his deep baritone rolled the Rs in a soft purr.
"A bit lower."
Otabek's hand slid down, trailing over Yuri's side, and stopped at the waistband of his dance pants; fingers gripping him tightly at the front, thumb digging into his hip at the back. Yuri nodded. The distance between them decreased as Otabek stepped forward so he could shoulder more of Yuri's weight. Looking in the mirror, Yuri saw their feet were only centimeters apart, and that Otabek's shirt was draped over his back; but he felt no pressure on his back. Cramped in the ballet slippers, Otabek's feet appeared to be smaller than usual, toes curled.
"Shall I ...?"
"Yes," Yuri said quickly, unthinking.
Otabek's other hand closed around his left leg. Fingers clamped his inner thigh, awfully, dreadfully close to his groin. Yuri felt his face turn red as a crab ― he dared not confirm this by checking in the mirror, because then Otabek was sure to see ― so, biting his lip, he turned his head down instead, to the floor. Calm down, twatdang it, calm down. He took some deep breaths, trying to cool his face off; but it was not working. Why wasn't it working? Yuri gulped. Well this was awkward. He couldn't face Otabek looking like this ― what would he think? ― much less talk to him. Блядь.
"This is so awkward," Otabek said.
Yuri looked over his shoulder. Otabek was blushing! What a relief, it was not just him ― he felt a bit better now, he felt normal.
Otabek tried to smile. "How do they do this?"
Yuri laughed. "Pair skaters?"
"Yeah," Otabek averted his eyes. His cheeks were tinged pink, and the tips of his ears had turned a tawny red.
"I'd only feel comfortable doing this with someone I was dating," Yuri muttered under his breath.
Otabek looked him in the eye, a soft expression had come to his face; Yuri smiled back at him.
"Some people do this with just about anyone," Otabek said, the corners of his mouth riding up in a sort-of smile.
Yuri frowned. "Are you one of them?"
Otabek frowned back, bushy brows gathering in a knot over his nose. "Do I seem like the type?"
Yuri looked away. "I don't know..."
He did not question the hand that still firmly held onto his hip, and the other that presently cupped his left buttock. He supposed it was right for Otabek to keep holding him ― after all, they had to practice their lifts. And, as embarrassing as it had felt at first, Yuri could grow used to this. It wasn't half as bad. He had enjoyed the dizzy weightlessness when Otabek lifted him off the ice; it had felt like flying ― so free. He wanted to feel that way again. Straining his neck to glance over his shoulder, Yuri smiled at Otabek.
Somebody's short dry cough alerted them to the presence of someone else in the room.
Yuri whipped his head around.
There, by the door, like a wallflower blending in with the violet draped curtains, stood Katsuki. The lenses of his thick nerd glasses had fogged up, and he openly stared at them, saying nothing at all.
Yuri scowled. "Am I wearing something of yours, Asshole?"
The moment those words tumbled out of his mouth, Otabek's hands released him like they'd been scalded.
"Um, I just wondered what you were doing," said Katsuki in a small boyish voice.
"It's none of your business what we're doing." Yuri was angry; a sizzling hot rage built within him, growing and rolling like tidal waves lapping against the confines of his throat, ready to spill his arsenal of profanities.
But Otabek laid a hand on his right shoulder. Don't do it ― the hand seemed to say.
"Oh, uh ― okay then, I guess you're right." Katsuki slunk back timidly toward the door from whence he came. "Sorry, didn't mean to interrupt anything."
Once again Yuri turned red in the face; he was shaking all over. His left leg dropped down to the floor with a loud smack. "There was nothing for you to interrupt in the first place!"
But the door had already closed; Katsuki could no longer hear him. He had just wasted energy ranting at the door for no reason. Yuri was fuming inside; but Otabek's hand remained on his shoulder, calmly, silently, patiently waiting.
Yuri took a deep breath and pushed off the ice. Kicking the ground, he launched himself into the air. Spinning, hair flying everywhere, narrowed eyes, hands pressed close to his chest: single rotation, double rotation, triple rotation, nearly... nearly there! Quadruple rotation, ...no. Losing balance, Yuri wobbled out of the curve ― crap. He landed on both feet: an ugly, sloppy landing. Exasperated, Yuri pulled at his own hair. That had been the 32nd failed quad Lutz today ― yes, he was counting them.
"Crap, popped it again."
He heard Otabek skate up to him. "That was not so bad," said his friend, looking thoughtfully at him. "At least you didn't fall this time."
Yuri watched Otabek through the gaps between his gloved fingers. "But it's not enough to compete."
Xватит пиздеть, when was he finally going to learn this jump? Why was it so damn hard? Viktor could do it, and Viktor was taller and heavier than him ― so why couldn't Yuri do it? What was he doing wrong? Yuri let out a huff of steam. When he looked up, Otabek's hand was stretched out to him. Yuri took it without a second thought.
Holding his hand, Otabek led him to the edge of the rink. Their feet criss-crossed over the ice in a fluid, practiced motion. Yuri smiled ― they had worked a lot on Otabek's grace elements. Knowing that his own actions had directly helped Otabek improve, brought a smile to Yuri's face and made him feel warm inside. His heartbeat sped up; he knew this feeling: joy, and excitement for what was to come. Reaching the end of the rink, they both turned sharply, let go of each others' hand, and skated away from each other ― in perfect synchrony. Skating along opposite sides of the small rink, they made mirrored motions with their arms, till they reached the rink's end. Out of breath, Otabek nearly collided with Yuri when they finished. Yuri laughed at him, catching him easily in a half-hug. He let his forehead drop on Otabek's shoulder, panting, waiting for his own breath to return to normal.
The door to the ice hockey rink moaned open, and Yakov's scathing voice was audible from the adjacent room:
"Stay here and practice that step sequence until I return!"
Yuri exchanged a look with Otabek. A moment later they heard Viktor's high pitched laugh. "Okey-dokey!"
"No running off. Do you hear me? Unplug those bananas from your ears ― you look ridiculous. Remain on this rink and practice your step sequence."
"But where would I go? What could possibly be more important than figure skating?"
Yuri facepalmed. He had no stamina for Viktor's silly antics this early in the morning. He removed his hands from Otabek's back ― Yakov was coming their way; his heavy footsteps thudded toward them, sending echoes through the empty stadium. Yuri couldn't tell exactly why he felt the need to hide that they had hugged, he just did. He wasn't ashamed or anything ― shame was for losers. No, that wasn't it. He just... he didn't want the personal moment he'd shared with Otabek to be ruined by an outsider's prying eyes; even if it was only Yakov, who didn't seem to care what they did, one way or another.
Moments later, Yakov's red perspiring face appeared at the edge of the rink. Yakov halted, grabbed the rink barrier firmly with both hands, and smiled.
Yuri jumped. The fuck? Yakov never smiled. When he did, it usually preceded painful consequences for all involved. Yuri would never forget the training session of February 13th, 2013 ― it had been burned into his memory as an inerasable stain. That day Yakov made them do bench presses and sit-ups and push-ups and leg raises until even Viktor collapsed on the floor in an unflattering heap, had to be lifted and carried away. Yuri was sore for weeks afterward. Most memorable was Yakov's massive smile right before training started. Only years later, while staying at Lilia's to prepare for his Senior debut, did Yuri realize that the Training from Hell must have occurred right after Lilia dumped Yakov the day before Valentine's Day.
"Good news!" Yakov announced. "We're sending both of you to the 2018 Olympics, as a pair team."
Yuri's mouth fell open. He stole a furtive glance at Otabek ― Otabek eyeballed Yakov as though Yakov were a foreign object from outer space.
"But that's..." Yuri began, talking slowly and making measured gestures with his hands, as he did when forced to communicate with his 6-year-old cousin Tema from Moscow. "...not even possible. Did you notice we're both guys? The ISU would never stand for it, let alone the FFKK."
Yakov waved his hand. "I spoke to the ISU."
What?
Yakov continued. "Not to worry, everything's been taken care of. All you need to do is focus on your training and pass the qualifying rounds. The ISU won't give you any trouble ― they've considered allowing similar pairs for quite some years now ― and neither will the FFKK," Yakov nodded grimly. "I've exchanged some pretty harsh words with them."
The fuck was going on here? Some sort of practical joke, like ChebuRussiaTV? Yuri began looking around for hidden cameras.
Otabek raised an eyebrow. "But we're from different countries," he said to Yakov. "How did you persuade the Olympic Committee to let me skate for Russia?"
Yakov's smile only grew in size, till it stretched across his entire face, ear to ear. Now it was genuinely scaring the crap out of Yuri.
Yakov waved his hand once more. "You will be skating for Kazakhstan!" Yakov said, gleaming with mirth.
"But―" Yuri choked out, before he could stop himself. He didn't want to skate for Kazakhstan. He wanted to skate for Russia, his own country. Skating for Kazakhstan just felt... weird. Now both Otabek and Yakov were looking at him ― great ― Otabek with a glum expression and lowered brows; Yakov with a face that basically said 'tee-hee'. And the worst thing was, Yuri couldn't spot any cameras. Fuck ― this was real? It felt like a really bad dream, or one of those disgusting real person fictions.
"And you, Yuratchka, will be skating for Russia," said Yakov.
"Don't call me that!" Yuri yelled before he could fully grasp what Yakov had said. "Wait, what?" His mouth fell open again. Damn it, old man, be more clear about things!
Yakov nodded at them. "I spoke to your coach, Otabek ― he okayed my decision. Russia and Kazakhstan will be sending a joint figure skating pair to the Olympics this time." Yakov chuckled briefly. "That is, if you can pass the qualifying rounds for both countries. The competition is fierce, so we'll have a lot to work on in the upcoming months."
Otabek nodded.
Oh. Deflated, Yuri stared at the ice between his feet. This wasn't as bad as he'd imagined, ...but still. He pouted. Something within him itched to say something, to stop this. This wasn't what he wanted: more pointless training, more bruised shins, strained hamstrings. Pair skating with Otabek had been fun, just for laughs; he didn't want to spoil it with competition. This was their private thing they did between practice ― he didn't want it judged by an official team of judges. He couldn't stomach the idea of losing to another pair team ― the thought made him sick.
Keeping his voice under control, Yuri looked Yakov in the eye and said,
"I'd rather focus on my individual program instead."
Yuri turned sharply and accelerated on the ice, faster, faster ― till all thoughts of pair skating and Otabek had been banished from his mind.
Yuri let his head fall in his hands, elbows resting on the desk. Letters and numbers swam before his eyes in an indecipherable ocean of notes. Why why why why why was Otabek so hellbent on tutoring him in algebra? Yuri let out a keening groan.
"Do you understand why there must always be two values for the unknown variable?"
Yuri shook his head. Sitting beside him on another chair at his desk, Otabek held a black ballpoint in his hand, and used it to point at Yuri's algebra book ― the pen's tip left black blotches on the page. Yuri did like that.
"All squares are positive," Otabek said in his steady voice, words flowing like a lullaby.
Having spent this entire morning training his butt off at the Sport Champions Club, Yuri didn't mind getting some sleep. His eyelids began to droop.
"But you can compose squares out of negative numbers as well, because of the 'minus by minus equals plus' rule."
Some pleasant minutes passed in peaceful silence. Yuri smiled; cradling his head on his arm, he let the wonderful sensation of sleep overtake him.
"Yur, if you're tired we can do this another time."
Yuri sat up straight. "I'm not tired."
"Really..."
"Really." Gritting his teeth, Yuri picked his pencil up and trained his eyes on the book.
Otabek shook his head. "I'm tired of teaching you the same thing over and over again."
Yuri glared at him. "Are you calling me dumb?"
"No," Otabek sighed. "You're very intelligent Yura, you just don't put your mind to good use. Come on, let's take a break." He stood up and made for the door, waiting for Yuri to follow.
A humid doughy smell hung around the kitchen ― Grandpa was baking pirozhki! With the oven at full capacity, it was quite warm inside the kitchen; one single window had been left open, welcoming the rhythmic sound of falling rain. Some drops would splash against the pane, and fall inside, trickling down the glass to the windowsill. Yashka, who sat atop the kitchen table, licking an emptied bowl of meatloaf clean, wailed every time a raindrop hit him.
"Ah good, you're here. Have a seat!" Shooing Yashka off the table, Grandpa ushered them to the stools cramped in the tiny space between the counter and table.
Otabek sat down, folding his hands in his lap. Yuri side-stepped around Grandpa, took the emptied meatloaf bowl, and rinsed it in the sink.
"Oh Yuratchka, you don't have to do that. Come, eat!" Grandpa winked, heaving a plate laden with steaming pirozhki. "I bet you're hungry after all that studying."
With a sigh Yuri sank down on a stool by the window, across the table from Otabek. Grandpa set the plate down on the table, spread his arms out and nodded at them. Yuri took a pirozhok and bit into it ― hmm, braised cabbage filling.
Taking one pirozhok off the pile, Otabek looked up at Grandpa and said, "Thank you, Mr. Plisetsky."
Grandpa pulled out another small stool from a cupboard and sat down as well. "Kolya," he said, smiling.
Speaking with his mouth full of pirozhki, Otabek quickly added, "Thank you, Kolya."
They ate in companionable silence; the rain pitter pattering over the street outside, cold wind beating against Yuri's face since he sat closest to the open window.
Grandpa took a sip of his tea. "How's algebra going?"
Oh Lord, the dreaded question. Yuri pursed his lip; he didn't even want to think about algebra. Before he could say anything however, Otabek had answered the question for him.
"Good." Otabek smiled broadly.
What? Haven't you called me a hopeless nitwit not half an hour ago?
Otabek just looked at him from across the table. The look seemed to say: Yes, but your grandfather doesn't need to know.
Astonished, Yuri gaped at Otabek. He didn't want to lie to Grandpa. None of this was necessary?
"Yura might actually pass algebra this year," Otabek continued with an amused small smile.
With a furious glare, Yuri kicked Otabek under the table. But Otabek started laughing! Bastard.
Crossing his arms defiantly, Yuri raised his chin. "If you're so clever, why aren't you in college?"
The laughter died on Otabek's lips. There, that was better. Satisfied, Yuri leaned back on his stool and knocked back a glass of Pepsi.
Otabek gazed at him in full earnest, his face seemed to say: You're right.
Well? Got anything to say to that?
When Otabek spoke next, his voice was soft, and his deep black eyes did not leave Yuri's.
"Because you only live once, Yur. I want to do something meaningful with my life, not tear myself to pieces wishing I had made better choices."
Something tremored inside Yuri's stomach; which was strange, since he had already eaten so there was no way he could be hungry. He uncrossed his arms and let them lie helplessly in his lap. He was still staring at Otabek's eyes, at his placid brows, at his nose, when Grandpa said,
"I wish I'd been so wise at your age."
Otabek ducked his head, and quickly mumbled something incoherent that tapered off at the end ― then he fell silent.
Huh? Yuri frowned; what had just happened? He leaned forward, over the table, looking from Otabek to Grandpa to Otabek. Why was Otabek being so quiet all of a sudden, and why did Grandpa have this mysterious Mona Lisa smile stuck on his face? Huh?
Trainers slushing through streaming mud, Yuri huffed, sending strands of hair out of his eyes. It only rained harder. He shoved his hands inside his pockets, and ducked his head, squinting from under the brim of his drenched hood as he crossed the street. The wetness seeped into the clothes he wore underneath his jacket. He was drenched from top to toe; mouth pulled tight in a sullen scowl. His stomach rumbled. Cold rain poured down mercilessly on his shivering shoulders.
"Полный пиздец!" he cried out, kicking a drifting Baltika beer can down the street. "Got this ебаний exam for a birthday gift."
He winced, walking faster he crossed the vacant yard; feet ankle-deep in brown sleet that looked like shit. He came to a sudden stop at the door, grabbed for his keys ― nothing. Dammit! His fingers frantically searched his jacket pocket, only to find... a hole. He grabbed his jacket at the front and shook it violently. Thank God ― he heard keys jangling. Yuri heaved a deep sigh, unzipped his jacket, and rolled the sticky wet thing off his shoulders. Rain fell in spades on his neck and unprotected arms as he grit his teeth against the wind, and shook and squeezed his jacket until the keys finally tumbled out and clattered to the ground. Yuri picked his keys off the soggy concrete and forced them inside the lock, twisting and turning and... jamming them. Aargh! Finally he pried the heavy iron door open, ran inside, and threw it shut with a bang that sent echoes up the stairwell.
It was warmer inside the building. Yuri rubbed his arms as he waited for the elevator. Minutes passed. He frowned, pressed the button for the lift again ― nothing happened. Yuri groaned. Don't tell me the elevator's out of order again. He stomped upstairs. He made it all the way up to the fifth floor, gasping for air, hands resting on his knees and hair in his eyes, when he heard the elevator 'ding'. Yuri turned. The elevator doors swung open. Yuri glared at his own reflection in the elevator's scratched mirror. He swung his fist.
"Будь проклят лифт поганый!"
The elevator doors closed, leaving Yuri standing there all alone on the fifth floor landing. Dipping his head, he sauntered off to his flat.
"I'm home!"
The keys rattled in his hand as he rubbed his trainers on a rag. That was the only sound he heard ― the flat was eerily quiet. Yuri frowned. Could Grandpa be at the store? He hadn't seen Otabek all day with this stupid exam first thing in the morning. But practice should be over by now... right? He checked his phone ― 13:58, no messages, no missed calls ― nothing.
His soaked jacket dropped to the floor and he shivered. He was alone on his birthday in a cold dreary apartment with the curtains drawn and the lights off. His shoulders sagged, he looked down at the puddles that formed beneath his feet.
Yuri bit his lip. He would not cry ― this was pointless, and stupid, and childish. Who cares about birthdays anyway? Growing another year closer to the day he'd die was nothing worth celebrating. Besides, Otabek would be home soon ― he was just stuck in traffic. Yes, traffic was such a pain: Piter's rush hour seemed to last all day. That was it. That's why Otabek wasn't home yet. And Grandpa needed to have a word with his cashiers, make sure none of them stole from the till ― the store won't run itself. They had not forgotten about his birthday; they couldn't have ...right?
A dull thud in the kitchen, followed by quick pitter-patter, before Yashka's sleepy head peered around the corner. Yuri's face lit up; he squatted down and held out his arms. Yashka stared at him.
"Come here pal," Yuri found himself saying in a soft cooing voice.
Yashka stealthily crept over the linoleum floor, till he was within grabbing distance. He sniffed at Yuri's fingers. Yuri patted the cat on the head, ruffling Yashka's white and blue fur.
"At least you still enjoy spending time with me."
Figuring out Yuri's hands were quite empty, Yashka tossed his head back with a curt snort and walked away, wagging his bushy tail after him. In silence, Yuri got to his feet. He hung his head, observing the dripping mess he'd made of the floor ― he should mop it up. No sooner had that thought struck him, than he heard a deep male voice from the living room:
"This is too cruel, I won't stand for it."
Frowning, Yuri turned his head to where the voice came from ― he knew this voice! It had to be Georgi's. But why...?
The curtain moved. It was pushed aside, and there stood Georgi ― in Yuri's apartment, in his living room. Yuri stared at him.
Georgi was weeping; he smiled through the tears in his eyes, and cried "Happy Birthday, Yuri!"
What?
"How did you even get inside my apartment?" Yuri said in an uneven voice. He knew Georgi was a creep, but not that much of a creep.
"Ugh," someone groaned in the kitchen.
Yuri quickly turned, senses on full alert. There were more?
"Gosha, you ruined the surprise. You were supposed to wait for the cue." Mila. That was Mila's voice. Mila was in his kitchen, but... but why?
"Please call me Georgi."
Mila walked out the kitchen, wearing a shimmering top and a tight leather miniskirt. Her hair was done up, her lips a glossy red, and coral eyeshadow had been applied in great quantities which made her look like a huge raccoon.
"Yura!" she met his questioning gaze and smiled. "Happy birthday!"
Georgi's new girlfriend Alina appeared behind her. Alina's dark blonde hair was brushed over her shoulder, and she looked fresh and sweet in her off-shoulder blue ruffle dress, showing a lot of skin. She gave Yuri a sunny smile. "Congratulations on turning sixteen, Yuri."
What's this supposed to mean? Why are they all here? Who the fuck let them in?
Something creaked behind him. Yuri whirled around.
Otabek had one foot out of the built-in closet when he locked eyes with Yuri, and stiffly raised a hand. "Здарова."
Yuri's jaw dropped. Openly staring at Otabek, he stammered: "You... set this all up?"
"We did," a sing-song voice sang from the living room.
The cotton tablecloth lifted, and Viktor and Katsuki's glowing faces emerged from under the table. The top buttons of Viktor's shirt were undone, and Katuki's sweatshirt had been pulled down, completely exposing his left shoulder. Katsuki's ruffled hair stood up at odd angles; his forehead wet with sweat, he panted like after a long skating routine.
Yuri's fingers twitched ― he was going to kill them. "What were you doing under the table?" He pointed an accusatory finger at Viktor's face. "I eat there!"
"Nothing!" Katsuki squeaked a bit too soon, whilst pulling his shirt back on over his shoulder and adjusting his glasses. It didn't help that he was blushing like crazy, and had guilty written all over his face.
Yuri rolled his eyes ― they were so obvious. Katsuki and Viktor scrambled out from under the table and rose to their feet. Viktor didn't bother to button his shirt: some pale chest hairs stuck out, exactly at Yuri's eye level. Embarrassed for Viktor's sake, Yuri looked away. He noticed Otabek had come to stand by his side.
Viktor produced a tin flask from his shirt and smugly pointed at it. "You want?" he said, holding the flask out to Yuri.
Taking the flask in hand, Yuri held it at an arm's length, eyeballing it. He took a little sip ― it tasted horrid ― a bitter liquid scorched his tongue. He winced, and Viktor laughed. Yuri passed the flask on to Otabek. How on earth could Viktor enjoy this gasoline? Stoically taking a draught from the flask, Otabek passed it on to Mila ― who smiled at him, her eyes lingering a tad too long on Otabek's jaw. Yuri sent her a dirty look.
"Hey," Katsuki half-whispered to Viktor, but Yuri overheard. "Should Yurio be drinking?"
"Aww, it's just a little schnapps," Viktor tipsily sang back. "He's sixteen, it's dandy."
"Oh, um." Katsuki took the flask back from Georgi and hid it away. Alina had cuddled up to her boyfriend, and Georgi had his arm around her waist, pulling her close.
They all jumped when Yakov's tired voice rasped "Oh, what the Hell," from the living room. The curtain moved, before Yakov grumpily rumbled over to the corridor, and heaving a woeful sigh clapped Yuri on the shoulder, with the words:
"Happy birthday kid, congratulations on being one year closer to death."
Yuri's mouth fell open.
"But Mr. Feltsman," Alina gasped. "You shouldn't be so negative! It's bad for your health."
Yakov grumbled something unintelligible in reply. That was when the toilet door barged open, and Grandpa walked out.
"Sorry, have I missed the cue?" Grandpa smiled, looking each of the guests in the eye. "Yuratchka," he said warmly, walking towards him.
Yuri smiled; it didn't matter if they all heard his silly nickname, even if Mila was bound to tease him about it for months; he didn't care. All that counted was that Grandpa and Otabek were here, that they hadn't forgotten ― that they cared. Yuri felt so happy he could cry. He stepped forward to hug Grandpa, when Grandpa abruptly stopped.
"Oh Yuratchka, you're completely soaked!" Grandpa's fingers shook, his open arms halted in mid-air, and his face faltered. "I didn't realize the downpour was so bad..."
"I'm good," Yuri nodded, smiling brightly. Nothing now could dampen his mood.
Grandpa shook his head slowly. "Go change," he said with a worried frown. "Your party can wait."
Otabek nodded.
With a bashful smile Yuri agreed. Shivering, he stumbled toward his room when a cold draft blew against his legs; he turned to see the balcony door open. Lilia walked in, shaking the raindrops off her frilly black pagoda umbrella. Her pointy stilettoes left dark stains on the carpet as she strode toward the corridor, head high, and with a pinched expression she declared:
"My felicitations, Plisetsky."
She held out a damp envelope, which Yuri took. It contained a voucher for sharpening skate blades.
"I wish you a triumphant skating season this year. Squash the competition and bring home the gold, make your country proud."
Yuri stared at her, clutching the voucher in his hand, not knowing what to say. "Thank you?"
Lilia's hair had been pulled back and pinned in a tight bun on top of her head; the bun hardly moved when she rotated her long emaciated neck. "Can I go now?" she said to no-one in particular, tying her black knee-length trench coat at the waist.
"But my venerable Baranovskaya, at least stay for the cake?" Grandpa said, inclining his head toward the kitchen.
Cake? Yuri smiled, hands giddy and saliva gathering in his mouth. They had cake! Cake. What kind of cake could it be? Could they have ordered from Vladimir Sizov's cake workshop? No, don't get your hopes up, that's far too expensive. How on earth would Grandpa afford that? It was probably just a cake from Grandpa's store ― those were okay too. But now Yuri desperately wanted to know! He shut his eyes and breathed in deeply, concentrating. If he could smell the cake then maybe he'd know.
"I'm not eating that," Lilia's stark voice pierced the air. "That's pure cholesterol."
Unable to smell the cake, Yuri opened his eyes... he'd have to wait and see.
Grandpa smiled with a shrug of his right shoulder. "We're still happy you came."
Lilia nodded. "The delight is all mine. I've had a lovely afternoon, thank you Nikolai, but now I really must depart."
Yakov stepped forward. "I will see you off." He reached for Lilia's purse, but she wouldn't let him have it. Lilia hurried to the flat door, Yakov ran after her.
"Oy Yuri!" Yakov called over his shoulder, hastily pulling on his boots. "Your present is under the dining table. Get rid of your old skates ― you'll only harm yourself trying to skate on that crap. Two weeks ago I considered buying you new ones, but Lilia convinced me to wait until your birthday." With a grim nod and a tip of his fedora, Yakov held the door open for Lilia.
Lilia's voice echoed through the stairwell. "I don't need you seeing me off."
Yakov's reply was faint, but they heard him well enough inside the flat. "Shhh, I also wanna get the hell out of here."
"We are not taking the same cab!"
Shaking his head at them, Yuri went to his room, hung his wet clothes over the radiator, and changed into his favorite Tiger T-shirt ― the one from Hasetsu. Despite having been washed over a zillion times since then, the orange tiger face had not lost its vibrant color and still stood out proudly against the black background. Yuri grinned at himself in the mirror. Yeah, that's what I call an awesome outfit. He tugged on a pair of white fade-to-blue skinny jeans that were ripped at the knees, and stuck his numb feet in snow leopard print socks. Giving himself a once-over in the mirror, he brushed his hair out his eyes, and smiled. Yuri was certain he now looked absolutely stunning.
A beep. He checked his phone: the customary text from Mom. Yuri deleted it without opening the message ― what that woman had to say to him had ceased being important years ago.
The party was in full swing when he entered the living room. The curtains had been parted, the chandelier sparkled with tiny electric lights, and the dining table was set: glasses and plates and bottles of all kinds of soda, and then there was... the cake! Yuri gaped at it ― it was chocolate. Chocolate! He felt drawn to the cake. Legs shaking, hands trembling he walked toward the table, when Viktor stepped in his way.
"Presents first," Viktor chirped, firmly grabbing Yuri's right shoulder.
Yuri's mouth opened in protest; but fell silent when he saw Otabek carry two stools from the kitchen. Otabek set the stools down, so that together with the high backed chairs, they formed a semi-circle about the sofa ― now laden with a mountain of sparkly colored boxes. Feeling slight but certain pressure on his shoulder, Yuri let Viktor steer him to the sofa. Like in a dream he plopped down. Grandpa, Georgi and Katsuki seated themselves on the high backed chairs; Alina sat in Georgi's lap, Otabek and Mila chose the stools, and Viktor sat down on the sofa beside Yuri.
"Oh, oh! Can I go first?" Mila took one small square-shaped lavender parcel off the pile, and handed it to Yuri.
Yuri ripped the paper to shreds: it was a CD. The cover was a mix of neon pinks and violets, with the words New Music 17 - MP3 CD printed on it in dripping white paint font.
"It's Pasha's new breakdance remix," Mila helpfully supplied. "Thought you might like it."
Yuri turned the CD around to look at the track list. He frowned ― all these were old songs. What was Pasha on, trying to sell these off as his own? What a lazy sack of shit. Most of this music was 30 years old or something.
Yuri gave Mila a long hard stare. "You're just trying to promote your boyfriend's shitty music."
"Pasha is not my boyfriend!" Mila anxiously glanced at Otabek. "We're just friends."
Yuri huffed. "Yeah, right." He nodded at Otabek. "Pasha is the DJ of that club we went to."
Otabek's brows shot up in surprise; but other than that, his expression didn't change. Mila's cheeks turned a scorching crimson, which showed through the layers of foundation on her face.
"Aiight, aiight," Viktor said, raising his hands. "Why don't we move on to the next one?" He turned to Alina and Georgi with a pleading look in his eye. "Georgi, would you like to start?"
Georgi nodded. Leaning forward eagerly, he shifted Alina in his lap and rummaged through the pile, then handed Yuri a large sparkling emerald box tied with a silver string. He smiled up at Alina, nestling his head on her shoulder. "This is from us both," he said.
Cautiously Yuri set the box in his lap and pried it open, hoping this gift would be better than the last. He tugged at the silver string, flapped the sparkly green paper open, and saw... an electric rotary shaver. Yuri stared. He had to say something ― everyone was watching him ― but what?
Yuri smiled faintly, looking into Alina and Georgi's expectant faces. "It's ...very... nice?"
Georgi beamed at him. "Every man should have his own electric shaver. It's what makes a man, a Man."
"That's a nice thought, Georgi," Yuri shifted uneasily on the sofa. "...but I don't even shave yet?"
Georgi grinned at him reassuringly. "Soon you will!"
Yuri made himself smile back, but it felt more like an uncomfortable cringe. A rather large cardboard box was poking him in the side; setting Georgi's gift down, he turned to the cause of his discomfort. This box wasn't gift wrapped; it proudly declared the firm's logo which Yuri recognized as the large sports shop where they purchased all their skating equipment. Skates ― his shoe size, unbroken seal with the price tag still on it, receipt in the box ― were obviously from Yakov. Yuri tried the skates on; they were a perfect fit. Guess I won't be needing this then ― he thought, crumpling the receipt in his hand.
Looking up, he noticed Georgi had moved on to the table, and was cutting the cake up in slices, portioning them out on plates. Yuri gazed longingly at the creamy slices of chocolate cake, licking his lips. His tummy grumbled with unsatisfied want.
"Hey Yura, you got more presents there waiting for you," Viktor said in the grating high-pitched voice of a popular cartoon character, while pointing at the shiny boxes sprawled out on the sofa.
With a groan Yuri pulled a baby blue parcel into his lap, just as Georgi started passing around the plates. Yuri yanked the white rose ribbon off and tore the sky blue paper, to reveal... a box. He opened the box. There was another, smaller blue parcel looking at him. Frowning, he tore the paper again, hurling the white rose ribbon over his shoulder. Another box. Yuri began to see a pattern... Opening the box, he found a tiny blue parcel no larger than a phone ― maybe it was a phone? Hands shaking he tore the paper off, but found another box instead, this one was really really tiny. He lifted the lid. A cat shaped note stared at him, penned in pretty feminine handwriting, in English; Yuri took it out and read it:
Check the black parcel, the note said.
Yuri raised an eyebrow, but complied. Minutes later he had torn the black parcel to shreds, and gone through a series of boxes, only to find another cat shaped note at the end, written in the same girly handwriting. It said:
Look inside the mint green parcel.
Yuri rolled his eyes. "I bet that one's empty too, isn't it?"
Viktor shrugged, talking between mouthfuls of cake: "You never know until you try."
Yuri let out a groan, tossing his head back. With great reluctance he pulled the mint green parcel into his lap and began the slow process of going through layers and layers of cute frilly wrapping. Everyone around him was eating cake; a wonderful chocolate scent permeated the air. Tearing through yet another layer, his hand stopped when it brushed against something round and solid. He felt around the edges, ran his fingers over sleek material: no way, maybe it actually was a phone? Eagerly he ripped the paper off to see.
Yuri held his breath.
No, not a phone, this was so much better ― what Yuri held in his hands was a ― an action cam! Transfixed by the see-through plastic box with the waterproof action camcorder, Yuri read the accompanying cat shaped note penned in female English:
Dear Yuri,
seeing you turn sixteen makes us delighted to call you our friend. Please, never change. You are such a strong person and a worthy opponent.
Love ~ Victor & Yuuri.
Yuri couldn't help the tears that pooled in his eyes. "Th-thank you," he forced out his tremoring throat.
"You're always welcome Yurio."
Viktor and Yuuri smiled on him, but Yuri could hardly see their faces through the blubbering mess that were his eyes. He took a shuddering breath; blinking back tears he smiled at both Viktor and Yuuri who now stood by the sofa, gently holding Viktor's hand. Those two were made for each other, ...but Yuri would never admit that out loud ― laughing, he shook his head and tuned his attention back to the others. He froze when he saw the huge orange-and-black tiger striped box in Grandpa's hands.
In a daze he unwrapped the box: hands moving mechanically, heart doing overtime ― what, what was it? Grandpa kept giving him this stealthy smile between bites of cake, and everyone else was watching... did they know more than he did? He peeled back the final layer, and his hands halted mid-air. No way.
Yuri looked up at Grandpa ― how? How can we afford this?
He glanced down again, wondering if all of it was real, or if he was dreaming. But no, there it was: a DJI Inspire 2, with a flight time of nearly half an hour, a seven kilometer flight range, equipped with a Zenmuse X5S micro four-thirds aerial camera fitted with an Olympus 3.75x zoom lens, that could film at 5K resolution. The new Inspire model used an updated obstacle avoidance system, its body was made of a magnesium alloy that could withstand even exceptionally strong gales, allowing the drone to achieve a top speed of 94 kilometers per hour. This drone could be launched from altitudes as high as 5000 meters above sea level, its self-heating batteries let it function at temperatures as low as -20°C. And now he held this wonder of modern day technology in his very own hands, and he was not dreaming.
When Yuri had talked his head off about drones on those slow January evenings near the end of season while helping Grandpa out in the kitchen and impatiently counting the minutes till his next Skype chat with Otabek, it had only ever been a joke, an unattainable dream he liked to fancy because it was good to have dreams, right? Yuri never thought he'd actually get to hold one in his hands ― these things cost a fortune! Cradling the box with the drone against his chest, he gaped at Grandpa.
Grandpa set his empty plate down on the dining table, tilted his head and smiled at Yuri. In a matter of seconds Yuri had discarded the drone, sprang from the sofa, and thrown himself around Grandpa's neck, hugging him tightly as fresh tears poured down his cheeks.
"Happy birthday Yuratchka," Grandpa said patting him on the back.
"I Love it! Thank you Grandpa, thank you!"
Grandpa laughed, pulling free from the embrace. "That's quite alright; you deserve some pampering," Grandpa jokingly pinched his upper arm. "Yakov has been working you to the bone as of late."
Yuri smiled uneasily at the other skaters in the room. "Eh, maybe I've been exaggerating?"
"No such thing!" Grandpa clapped him on the shoulder. "Go boy, have some cake ― it's not often that you get to taste one of Sizov's masterpieces."
A ― a Sizov cake ― no fucking way; Yuri rushed to the table, tongue drowning in saliva. Cocoa cream sweetness hung in the air, titillating his accepting open nostrils. He imagined the wetness of the cake, the softness of its choco sponge layers pressed against his palate. How he would lick the cream off his gums and attack the cake with his teeth. He made it to the table to find...
...turd colored crumbs in place of the cake. Huh? Confused, Yuri stared at the empty tray with a wide open mouth and an aching stomach. Was it all gone?
"Ehh," said Georgi, sheepishly rubbing the back of his neck. "Guess I didn't portion the slices right. I truly thought there was one slice left, umm... Sorry?"
Yuri stared at Georgi. That, that meant... it was all gone? The entire cake?
Georgi pursed his lip.
Yuri's knees trembled, his empty stomach cramped up; he gripped the table to steady himself. That was when a plate of delicious looking chocolate cake was set down right next to his shaking fingers. Huh? But the Sizov cake was gone, so... so what was this? Yuri looked up.
Otabek smiled at him. "Have my slice."
Yuri's mouth fell open. "But, ...how ...what will you eat then?" he stammered.
Otabek shrugged. "I don't like chocolate anyway, so..."
Oh. Right ― relaxing, Yuri sent him a grateful smile. With an exhausted exhale he collapsed in a newly vacant high backed chair by the table. He took Otabek's plate in his lap, and with shaking hands moved the fork to his lips. Ah, chocolate! A wonderful sweet sensation overtook his senses as he wolfed the sponge cake down, barely chewing it, swallowing way too fast, he shoveled more cake down his throat. Otabek dragged his stool closer, and sat down next to him. Grandpa began fussing about with the glasses, and Yuuri helped him clear away the empty plates. Viktor moved the chairs and stools out of the way, while Georgi and Alina arranged the gifts neatly in one corner of the living room.
Mila walked over to the record player and selected a vinyl. The first track opened on a whipping beat; when the vocals started ― a clean tenor, followed by a chorus of male tenor voices ― Yuri quickly recognized the song as Dos Mukasan's 16 Қыз. This was the record Grandpa had given Grandma years ago, before the divorce, in his last bid to save their marriage. On slow Saturday evenings Grandpa would sit by the gramophone and play this record over and over again; although Yuri hadn't heard the song in quite a while... He shot a worried look at Grandpa.
But Grandpa smiled back, nodding at him ― it's fine.
Once more Yuri made himself comfortable in the chair, the plate with his half-eaten slice of cake still in his lap.
Georgi took Alina by the hand and led her to the center of the room. They shared a secret smile of their own, before Alina curtseyed, and Georgi dropped down in a half-squat, bending through his knees. He grabbed her hip, pulling Alina close; her blue ruffles fluttered as her bare feet danced over the carpet. Alina's frolicsome giggle mingled with the music as Georgi twirled her round and round through the living room. Yuri spent a good minute just watching them dance; the song was drawing to a close when Mila approached him. Yuri frowned; Mila smiled shyly, looking down at her shoes. She glanced up: her bewitching blue eyes sparkled with an odd intensity, her soft lips turned up in the slightest small smile.
What? What could she possibly want? Yuri stared back, not comprehending any of it.
Her lips parted in a gentle smile, like she was about to say something. Yuri leaned forward, straining his ears to hear her over the music.
"I'd love to dance," Mila whispered conspiratorially. "But I don't have anyone to dance with." She batted her long black eyelashes.
Yuri gulped. Was she ― was she really? Mila was actually asking him to dance with her? But, but why?
She wiggled her legs, rubbing her knees together; twisted her thumbs around, and her lips made that adorable pout which was pure seduction. Huh? How ― how was this even happening? He wasn't ready for this, he...
"Would you be a gentleman and help out a lady in distress?" she winked, tilting her head to one side. A small curl of hair fell over her eyes. "Hey, Otabek?"
Ah, Otabek... naturally! Otabek had been sitting right next to him all this time. Mila's wanton display of sensuality had obviously been for Otabek ― and not for him. He should have known. Yuri felt so dumb right then he wanted to fall through the earth's crust and melt in molten lava, he wanted to turn invisible, to disappear entirely. His hands balled to fists and the fork jangled on his plate.
Crap ― what's wrong with me? All my friends are here, on my birthday, which is rare as fuck but it's happening, it's actually happening this very minute. They even brought gifts and cake and everything, this is supposed to be a party! But then why... why do I feel ...so alone?
Yuri looked sideways at his best friend. Otabek's eyes were on Mila. No, no, no ― don't dance with her, not here, not now, please? Yuri's heart hammered in his chest, pulses of fevered anxiety ran through him, and he knew this was definitely not normal when the plate began jumping in his lap because his knees were shaking. Crap, crap, crap ― what is this feeling? Why? Why did he feel this way?
But moments later Otabek shook his head no. "I'd like to, but..." his words trailed off at the end, and he looked down at his hands.
Yuri raised an eyebrow at him. Mila still eagerly leaned forward, with a radiant smile that rivalled the sun. Very slowly Otabek raised his head till his expressionless eyes were locked on Mila's; his face bore a blank mask of utter indifference.
"I don't dance," Otabek said lamely.
What? Yuri turned around and openly stared at Otabek. What are you doing?
Mila's smile faltered. Weakly she tried to smile once more, and in a voice light as a feather she replied: "That's alright, really, we don't have to do any complicated moves." A short strangled laugh came out her throat. "It's just a birthday party dance ― nothing fancy."
Yuri nodded, closely watching Otabek's face, trying to make eye contact with him ― you're being an ass. What's wrong with you? Mila doesn't hand out these invitations to just anyone. If you're lucky enough to get one, you should just take it, for God's sake! It's just a dance, one dance, she's not asking you to chop your arm off and feed it to the wolves; be reasonable!
But Otabek wouldn't be reasonable; he didn't meet Yuri's eyes and refused to soften his stony expression, instead he kept the dumb act up, repeating: "I don't dance," then a belated and incredibly lame "sorry" fell from his mouth.
The fuck.
Quite understandably, Mila looked not a little bit disturbed upon hearing this. But she overcame the shock quickly; Yuri gave her props for that.
"Oh well," she said, watching Otabek with a pitying smile. "Forgive me, I didn't mean to make you feel uncomfortable." Her gaze flicked to Yuri, now she looked straight into Yuri's eyes with that same well-wishing pity smile. "Sorry ― wouldn't want to step on any toes," she said, and with a wink she was gone, tapping her shoes on the carpet alongside Alina, and merrily shaking her butt to the beat of the next song.
What was that supposed to mean? Yuri stared after her. From the corner of his eye Yuri noticed Otabek watching him. Yuri looked back ― do you really hate dancing that much?
Otabek bit his lip, the stoic mask fell ― yeah.
Yuri nodded; with a pensive look he resumed eating his cake. Soon enough Viktor and Yuuri joined in the dance. Grandpa had taken Yuri's phone and was snapping photos of everyone. Yuri would gladly have danced as well, but he didn't want Otabek to feel left out. So he kept sitting by his best friend's side, even after his cake slice was long gone.
It was still light in the street and it had ceased raining when Yuuri and Viktor turned to leave; Yuri walked them to the door. Viktor was putting his shoes on, when he looked up at Yuri and gave him this odd smile. Yuri frowned; he handed Viktor and Yuuri their jackets, and thanked them for coming and all that, but all this time Viktor kept on watching him with this downright odd smile. Finally Viktor tilted his head to one side, silver bangs falling over his aquamarine eyes, and said:
"Listen Yura, it's nice that you and Otabek get along so well, but, don't you think he's a little bit too old for you?"
"Huh?" Yuri's jaw dropped. Deepening his frown, he glanced at Katsuki and back at Viktor. "Both of you are much older than Otabek ― so what?"
Viktor grimaced. "That's hardly the same thing, Yura."
"What's the difference?" Yuri planted his hands on his hips ― the Nikiforovs were beginning to overstay their welcome.
"Umm," Katsuki started, biting his lip while twiddling his thumbs, "I think Victor is trying to say that, well, because he's older, Otabek might want to do some... physical stuff you aren't yet ready for ...?"
What? The fuck was Katsuki mumbling? What physical stuff ...wait,
"HUH?"
Yuri took a horrified step back. No! no fucking way on God's green earth could Otabek like him like that. How disgusting ― those imbeciles! His hands balled to fists and his arms shook against his will, as he glared Katsuki down.
But this had no effect at all on Katsuki and Viktor: both of them kept giving him these concerned motherly looks. Then Katsuki said,
"We just want you to be safe."
Yuri stomped over to the door and kicked it open. Holding the door, he leveled a pointed glare at Katsuki, which hopefully conveyed the message: Get out!
Viktor stepped forward and placed a gentle hand on Yuri's left shoulder.
"We don't want you to feel pressured into anything you don't feel like doing," Viktor said in his condescending adult tone.
Yuri shrugged him off, narrowing his eyes at Viktor ― don't you dare! I don't need advice from you and Mr. Faggot over there. Too late, he noticed his own chest was heaving, and his breath was coming fast, in short ragged bursts. His cheeks were scorching. Why? He had nothing to be ashamed of! Fuck Viktor for messing with his head. Gripping the doorknob tighter, Yuri let the obscenities slip from his tongue:
"Пошeл на хуй!"
Viktor replied with a congenial smile and a cutesy wink. "That's exactly what I'm about to do," he said, taking Katsuki by the hand and lacing their fingers.
Yuri couldn't help his own hands from twitching as he icily glared at their laced fingers ― эти педики! He slammed the door in their dumb faces, and marched back to the living room, where the normal people were. Slumping on the sofa, he let out a long sigh. Alina and Georgi had cuddled up on the sofa, while Otabek and Mila had been standing by the window, some distance apart, talking. As soon as Yuri walked in, they broke away from the window and approached the party on the sofa.
Mila smiled good-naturedly, "I think it's about time we leave," she said, looking at Georgi. "Can you drive me home?"
Alina nodded sleepily; unlatching her arms from her boyfriend's neck, she stood, swaying a little on her feet. Georgi took her hand in his, helping her catch her balance. After exchanging customary hugs and kisses, they both followed Mila to the door, and quite soon Georgi's hatchback Audi A3 buzzed out the yard. The breezy rose-scented perfume Alina wore still clung to the kitchen as Yuri finished up doing the dishes, his hands dipping in soap water to pull the plug from the sink. Next, fixing the mop head to a giant stick, he began the long and arduous task of mopping the floor, swiping at the muck his honorable guests had unwittingly dragged in. Yuri wiped the sweat off his brow, staring at the stains Lilia's stilettoes had left on the living room carpet ― those would take more than one evening to fix.
Displeased, Yashka tore at the cardboard gift boxes.
Yuri shooed the cat away; he picked the presents off the floor and carried them to his room. Yuri did a double take while carrying the last box: the clock caught his eye, he gasped. Was it already past ten? He shook his head; in his room, leaning against his closet he tugged his clothes off. Changing into linen boxer briefs and some old pass-me-down T-shirt he'd gotten somewhere, he snapped his earphones on. With his favorite song blasting from the speakers, phone securely wedged under the elastic band of his boxer briefs, he pulled out the sofa bed. Switching to a song he liked a little less, Yuri stretched out on the bed, on top of the covers. Not much later there was a knock on his door.
"Bathroom free?" Yuri said without looking up.
Otabek walked in with his toiletry bag under his armpit. He didn't say a word. Yuri's gaze trailed up from his bare feet to his checkered swim trunks and the 'I GO to the Gym every day' tank top he wore. Otabek's lower lip curled down as he stared unflinching into Yuri's eyes, his shoulders were tense, and he was obviously hiding something behind his back. Yuri craned his neck to see what it was, but Otabek merely turned with him, concealing the thing with his back built broad like the Chinese wall.
"Happy birthday," Otabek said tersely.
Yuri cracked a laugh. Sitting up on the bed and leaning back on his elbows, he looked Otabek up and down. "Yeah... You told me that like five hours ago?"
The stiff expression didn't leave Otabek's dead-serious face... he looked deeply unhappy for some reason. Yuri frowned, sitting up further and leaning forward till his feet touched down on the floor.
"Bek?"
"This," Bek started, his shoulders stooping as his arms moved to the front, and while he clumsily kept his toiletry bag under his armpit, a teddy bear appeared in his hands. "This is for you," he said, with the plushie pressed flush to his own chest.
Yuri stared at it in wonder ― the bear was not big, perhaps the length of Bek's upper arm to his elbow, if that. The bear had bushy eyebrows, like Otabek. It wore a funny looking hat, a matching overcoat and breeches, and clutched a small glass jar in its fluffy paws. The jar held a golden liquid, its paper label read: Алматының Бал.
Bek glared intently at him. Yuri stood, and walked the few paces toward Bek; he stopped when they were less than a meter apart, and looked up into Bek's eyes ― it was true, Bek was not that much taller than him, just a tad. Perhaps if he did grow an inch over the summer, they would be the same height. He felt something being pressed into his stomach, and without looking what it was, he took it. Oddly enough the teddy bear didn't feel as soft and fluffy as he imagined it would be. He kept watching Bek's face: the lines around Bek's brows and mouth were deep and hard, he looked positively angry.
"Sorry," Bek spoke without seeming very sorry. "Didn't know what else to give you." His piercing black eyes bored a hole through Yuri.
It felt like he stood in the direct line of attack. But somehow, instead of frightening Yuri, this made him want to push back, to jump in head-first, and approach even closer, despite knowing that in a fist fight with Otabek, he would lose.
"It's fine," he said, his voice sounded unbelievably warm to his own ears.
Bek's anger deflated upon hearing these words; the lines around his mouth smoothed over, his brows rose a tiny little bit.
Like a fool, Yuri kept on talking ― he didn't know what possessed him. "You don't have to give me anything, really, just you being here on my birthday is enough. It's... it's more than I could ask for."
After eyeballing him for an astonished moment, Bek offered him a small lopsided smile.
"I'm quite happy to be here too," Bek said in a softer friendlier tone. "You are the only one outside of my family who's ever made me feel at home."
Yuri's heart contracted in his chest, then started violently beating ― fuck. He couldn't stand to look at Bek any longer, he dropped his head, hair fell in his eyes and now he was staring at the floor at his snow leopard print socks. And finally he saw what he'd been holding in his hands this entire time: his fingers were feverishly clamped around ...Bek's toiletry bag...
...Huh? Yuri frowned, looked up at Bek again, raising an eyebrow at him.
Bek's cheeks turned crimson. Yuri had never seen his best friend's face look quite so red... Bek fumbled with his fingers, nearly dropped the bear, and as he mumbled something that sounded suspiciously like a swear he quickly grabbed his toiletry bag out of Yuri's hands.
"Sorry, that was wrong, ...a my mistake," Bek said in broken English. With the teddy bear's ear pinched between thumb and forefinger, he meekly stretched out his arm. "This, this is for... for you."
Yuri took the bear and pressed it to his heart, a smile tugged at his lips.
"I love it," he said, looking directly at Bek's flushed face, into his dark impenetrable eyes.
Silently Bek nodded. For awhile they stood facing each other like that; Yuri waited for Bek to say something, but Bek never did... eventually Yuri took a step back, shaking his head with a carefree smile. He left the bear on a bookshelf, and headed for the bathroom. Glancing over his shoulder just as he walked out the door, he saw Bek sit down on the convertible sofa bed, looking utterly exhausted.
"That's wrong. Do it again!" Yuri shouted.
Hands on his hips, Yuri tapped his ballet shoe on the gleaming wooden floor. Bek was making a hopeless mess of the six step right in front of him . They were the only ones left in Lilia's studio after practice had ended. It was dark out; the curtains were drawn and the mirror lights threw their shapes against the windows, making their silhouettes move over the curtains.
Yuri groaned. "That's not how you do it ― just stop."
He threw his hands up in the air. Shaking his head, he crouched down beside Bek.
"Repeat after me," Yuri shifted to a push-up position, and did one six step in slow motion as he talked. He hoped Bek would get it this time. "Step to the right, to the right, to the left, to the left, to the right, to the right ― it's easy."
Yuri kipped up, landing firm on both feet. He winced, today's ballet practice had done a number on him... both legs were numb with pain, and no matter what he couldn't get Hungarian Dance No.5 out of his head. As soon as Lilia had left, he'd popped the Brahms CD out. Funky synthetic sounds filled the air now, blasting from the stereo at max volume. It was the first time Yuri got to play Pasha's breakdance remix. The beat pounded in his ears, like a fresh wind driving away the heavy Brahms. Yuri smiled until he noticed the lost look on Bek's face.
"That's it," Yuri said slowly, looking Bek in the eye to draw his attention. "That's the six step. There's not much more to it ― it's simple."
Bek stared at him with a dull, defeated look.
Yuri raised an eyebrow. "What's the matter? This isn't algebra or something." He spread his arms out, scowling at the word 'algebra' ― it still left a bad taste in his mouth. He wasn't too thrilled with last week's exam; he'd only answered about half the questions, and the teacher wasn't done scoring his work yet.
Bek scratched the back of his head, lips pursed. By the end of the day his combed back hair fell in tresses over his forehead, the hair gel unable to contain it. Bek roughed up the short hairs on the back of his neck, muttering something in Kazakh. Then he twisted himself into an ugly crouch that was painful to watch: he squatted close to the floor, bending through both knees. His left leg crossed over his right at an odd angle. His back was straight as a plank and his stomach pointed downward, the hem of his black T-shirt trailed over the floor. Supporting most of his weight with his left arm, his elbow and upper arm pressed tightly to his chest, his hand palm was flat on the floor, fingers clawing at the waxed wood. While his right arm limply dangled at his side, fingers brushing the floor. Neck stretched, his head tilted upward, his chin inches off the floor. Bek's lips formed a thin line, the corners of his mouth tugged down ― he didn't seem to be enjoying this much.
Yuri sighed. "Stop right there."
He bent himself over Bek's contorted form. Yuri put one hand on Bek's right shoulder and eased it up, then he leaned down and took Bek's right wrist in his hands. Tugging it, he pulled Bek's right arm up, high over his head. Bek grunted, and furrowed his thick brown eyebrows.
The song's lyrics started coming out the stereo: "There's things that you guess, and things that you don't. There's boys you can trust, and girls that you don't."
Yuri squatted beside Bek's left foot, and gently wrapped his fingers around the ankle.
"I'm going to move your foot," he said, looking into Bek's black eyes. "You ready?"
Bek gave a grim nod.
"I said I won't tease you, won't tell you no lies," the song went on. "You don't need no Bible, just look in my eyes."
With one fluid move, Yuri pulled Bek's leg out until it was completely stretched. Bek shifted his weight so he wouldn't fall. His pose looked a bit more natural, some of the stiffness in his back had gone now that his left elbow no longer clamped to his chest. Yuri offered him a small encouraging smile, before he eased Bek's left foot to the left, spreading Bek's legs wider.
"I've been waiting so long baby, now that we're friends."
Creases appeared at the crotch of Bek's skintight silver colored pants. Those pants must be two sizes too small, Yuri thought, his eyes were level with the creases ― he pursed his lips and looked away.
"Every man's got his patience, and here's where mine ends. I want your sex!"
Yuri froze, his fingers wrapped tight around his friend's left ankle. He stared at the bare skin beneath his fingertips, the skin he was touching, the skin he felt, at the dark little hairs that sprouted from under those slim-fitting silver pants. His face heated up and he could not stop it, couldn't help it.
"I want your love,"
He jerked away, dropping Bek's ankle. This, how could this happen, this wasn't supposed to happen, and now he looked ridiculous, and pathetic, and ё моё would Bek think he'd played this song on purpose? Fuck!
Yuri breathed through his mouth; his breaths came in short rapid bursts. He sat on the floor near Bek, and shuddered, staring at his hands. Something in the back of his mind nagged him to look up, to man up and look Bek in the face and... and face him! Own up to what he'd shown, what sort of... feelings he'd revealed and deal with this... this awkwardness between them. He couldn't bear to lose his closest friend, not over something this stupid. Slowly he let his gaze trail up over Bek's chest, to his throat, to his face.
And then he stared.
Bek's cheeks were flushed bright red, his normally half lidded eyes were thrust wide open, his brows so high they drove creases into his forehead. Slack jawed and with parted lips, Bek stared back, without saying a word.
Was Bek, ...was Bek as embarrassed as he was? Couldn't they just laugh it off, like normal friends would? Yuri started to panic. He couldn't, he wouldn't lose Bek, not over this, not over this! Damn Viktor and Yuuri Katsuki for suggesting there was something wrong with them, something 'more than friendly'...bah. Yuri wrung his hands, looking for something, something to say, something to do, something to get them out of this mess.
"I want your sex. I want your ...sex!" the stereo bellowed in a high pitched male voice.
Yuri glanced over Bek's shoulder, at the opposite wall, where the stereo sat, perched on top a small stool. The song was still playing.
"Turn it off!" Yuri shrieked, before he could stop himself.
Then he jumped to his feet, and started walking toward the sound. His hands were shaking.
But Bek was ahead of him.
"It's playing on my mind, it's dancing on my soul."
Yuri stopped a few paces away from the stereo. Bek sat hunched over it, running his short stumpy fingers over the many buttons.
"It's taken so much time, so why don't you just let me go? I'd really like to try."
Yuri groaned, threading his fingers through his loose hair. "Upper right button," he shouted over the music.
Bek punched it, and nothing happened, the song played on! The button, thought Yuri as he saw Bek punch it again and again, the button must be jammed. Fuck.
"Oh I'd really love to know."
Bek ducked down and skimmed the wall with his hands, his fingers closed around the cable.
Yuri had turned to stone: standing there, his hands limp at his sides, feeling like Bek was miles away, somewhere far off in the distance, and he couldn't turn things back now even if he tried. He had lost his best friend now. It was over. He swallowed thickly as his eyes watered and his mouth went dry ― his tongue felt like sand paper.
"When you tell me you're gonna regret it, then I tell you that I love you but you just say no."
Bek yanked the plug out the socket. Gasping, he sat on the floor with his back to Yuri, staring at the stereo.
The mirror was on the opposite wall, so Yuri couldn't see Bek's face. He had no way of reading Bek's expression at all. The silence that reigned over the studio was oppressive, suffocating. He had to say something, he felt, to relieve them of this... this sudden tense atmosphere.
Yuri took one step forward.
Bek flinched.
Yuri stopped dead in his tracks, his heart sank, and a horrid painful thudding started in his chest. Maybe this was a bad idea. Still he moved onwards till he stood right behind his friend. In a small voice, a too small voice, he said
"What's wrong with Mila, what sort of shit CD she gave me?"
Yuri forced a laugh.
"Like what the flying fuck?"
Bek turned around. They looked at one another.
Yuri couldn't help feeling flustered, couldn't fight the color in his face, his cheeks were burning. He couldn't see it, but he was certain they were bright red, giving away everything.
Meanwhile Bek looked a lot calmer than he had before: his cheeks bore their natural bronze pallor, his eyes were half lidded, his forehead had smoothed out, his thick brown brows turned down in a frown. And his mouth was shut, lips firmly sealed, jaw set firm, unyielding. He had closed himself off from Yuri, put up a barrier between them.
Yuri started talking to fill up the silence.
"This is the first time I played that CD, honestly, I didn't know what was on it. Just that it said 'breakdance mix' on the track list, and we were practicing breakdance moves, so it seemed relevant. It's not like I've got a load of breakdance mixes laying around ― I don't even like music. Normally I just dance without it."
He bit his lip in mid-sentence, realizing how silly he sounded, that he was rambling... but he couldn't stop now. Words tumbled from his mouth.
"And the track list on Pasha's ебаний CD doesn't even mention the original song names."
He grabbed the CD case to illustrate his point.
"Look! Pasha plagiarized everything."
Bek inspected the track list. Then he nodded stiffly, apparently satisfied with this explanation.
Yuri frowned. Were things really okay between them? Could they just carry on as they used to, could they go back to the way things were, back to being good friends, as if none of this had happened? Could they? He looked up at Bek with wide, pleading eyes.
He didn't know why he said it, what moment of sheer idiocy prompted him to say it, but once he'd said it, he could never take it back... Yuri tried to smile, but it came out like a cringe. A nervous, jerky cringe ― his facial muscles were on fire, any moment now they would explode.
"Viktor and Yuuri seem to think we are in some kind of relationship ― other than friendship."
Bek stared at him. He stared at Bek. Bek's eyes grew wide. Yuri's smile collapsed ― why had he said it? It was too late to take back now, too late, too late! He felt like crying. But no, he wouldn't, couldn't cry! Crying was beneath him, it was childish, stupid, intolerable, and Bek would take his statement seriously, while he'd meant it as a joke. He had said it like a joke. So... why wasn't it funny?
Why ...?
The corners of Bek's mouth moved up slowly in a careful little smile.
Yuri frowned ― what? What's so funny?
Finally, after all this time waiting around in impossible, unwearable silence, Bek opened his mouth to talk. When he spoke, his voice sounded reassuring, quiet and strong, like an old mountain river flowing in a steady course, the same path it had followed for centuries.
"Ah, that's actually quite simple," said Bek, his even, low-pitched voice grounded Yuri, put his thudding heart at ease. "They are gay, so, naturally, they think everyone else must be gay, too." Bek nodded, pausing. "It's the way they live: they convince themselves that the world is gay, and delude themselves that it's okay to be gay, because everyone else is gay."
Oh. Yuri had not even considered this before, but it made so much sense. That is why Viktor was always inviting him and Georgi and even Yakov along to the banya, the public steam baths, though Yuri always refused... Viktor must think all of them were gay!
He listened to Bek with an open mouth and slightly furrowed brows, nodding along.
"So, any close friendships between two men are 'gay' ― that's how they see it. They don't know what friendship is, real friendship ― they never, ever, ever experience it."
Bek shrugged carelessly, and Yuri smiled; he felt so much better now. All of it made so much sense! It was good to have such a smart friend ― Bek knew so many things.
"That's right! I've never seen Viktor with any male friends who weren't also his fuckbuddies." Yuri's smile turned into a grin.
"Don't listen to him Yur," Bek said with a lopsided smile. "What he says has nothing to do with you. He's only trying to promote the gay lifestyle: it's gay propaganda."
Author's Note:
Many thanks to Doolhoofd, who helped me translate a certain sentence! And Zara-Arletis, Squanpie, Cwovictor, SRSmith, Lady Troodon, thank you so much for helping me edit the chapter!
The song on DJ Pasha's New Music 17 - MP3 CD played in the final scene of this chapter is a remix of George Michael's 1987 dance hit I Want Your Sex. :-) Yes, it actually exists.