The slightest of ruffles tickles the tip of my nose, forcing me to open my eyes just to see him, his forehead still pressed to mine, his features completely relaxed, vulnerable, with a few strands of hair falling out of place here or there. Even with his eyes closed and completely oblivious of my staring, there's something inherently peaceful about him, something that envelops me, something contagious, calm when around but that tugs at your soul when it's gone for too long, and it has always been too long, like an addiction, begging to be heard. The faint smell of cologne and his own musky scent mixing under the warm of the blankets fill up my nostrils and feels like home; my hand temptatively moves from balling on his naked chest to trace the line of his jaw and rapidly backs down to its place as he shudders and barely shifts in his sleep. The usually strong tight line of his lips, the permanent blank stare he keeps for the world to see, fades and becomes the softest of expressions, lips slightly parted and curved upwards; I wonder what he's dreaming of.
Remembering the whole events from last night, I got up to at least clean myself a bit and put on something more suitable to sleep in, trying carefully not to wake him up and taking my phone to the bathroom with me. I can hear my grandfather snoring peacefully from the other room while I browse through the device to see a new message for Mila. "He was holding you so tight I didn't want to wake you up. Happy birthday, Yuri. you've got the best gift you could have ever wanted. Talk to you tomorrow (heart emoji)."
I glance at the open bedroom door. I have, haven't I?
Minutes later I'm walking on tiptoes back to the room, listening carefully to make sure I'm not waking up anyone; still, I reach the bed and sprawl against him, now laying flat on his back, one arm crossed across his chiseled stomach and the other behind his head, and let my head rest right above his heart, just to listen to him, drowning myself on the vision that is not the Dark Horse anymore, the Hero, but a gorgeous teenager in love. I can't help but to be ask myself if I look that way when I dream of him, too. I feel a low rumble emanating from his body when he speaks in a barely audible, drowsy murmur: "I can feel your staring, жолбарыс, go back to bed." I want to ask what that means, but just let it go as the steady rhythm of his tranquil heartbeat lulls back to sleep.
I wake up unwillingly to the sound of someone clearing his throat; I turn my head to look at my grandfather standing at the doorstep, steaming cup in hand and a frown on his gaze. It takes me a while to realize I'm still spread on top of Beka, even over the covers on a cold winter morning, practically koala hugging him, while his hand casually rests on my lower back, barely brushing under the hem of my pants. I turn deep red from head to toes in a second and practically jump out of the bed, letting my friend whine as he shifts and turns on his side, hugging his middles section where I just kicked in the rush. Grandpa shakes his head and walks away; my fists ball hardly at my sides, nails digging into my flesh as a wave of sheer panic runs down my spine. This could go so terribly, terribly wrong. Yet it's still something I've got to do.
"Your friend wanted to say goodbye last night. She didn't get the chance." He doesn't even waits for me to finish pouring my coffee and sit down; he's trouble, his voice trembles. He doesn't know what's going on. I don't either. "You fell asleep quickly in your…. Friend's arms." It does sounds weird now, calling him a friend. Merely a friend. A friend who tickles you, who cuddles with you, who lets you win at Mario Kart when you're about to fall asleep, who… who says impossibly sweet things into your ear. A friend who shouldn't be doing any on it 'cause it's making you fussy and confused and frustrated and needy, and frustrated for being needy and not understanding, and completely lost, so fucking lost. Just a friend.
"Grandpa, I…"
"No." He cuts me short. "I don't you to explain. I'm old, I know how the world goes. Darn it, it's much different now, but it's basically still the same, isn't it?" he's trying to calm me down but his voice is shaking; "I can't blame you, I got married to your grandmother when I was fifteen, but strike me dead if I didn't think you'd wait until you're older and tired, just like Nikiforov was."
"You mean lonely." Miserable. Unattached. That's what Viktor was. Then again, wasn't I, as well? Before Barcelona, before Hasetsu. Just… lonely.
"I do, I do, and I wasn't happy with the thought, trust me, Yurotchka. I wouldn't want you to be alone. But this…" he glances to the room almost in a desperate gesture, "this I wasn't expecting. You're sixteen."
"You were fifteen." And I'm not with him. A friend. A fucking friend. That's what he is.
"But I was ready and sure at fifteen. Yurotchka, this is the first time I've seen you this close to someone. Even with the girl you don't talk so easily, or smile so easily, as you do with him." It's not spite what's on his voice, but it does sound like daggers. Out of all people, I was expecting, begging for him to understand. He raised me. He should know better. Better than I do, for fuck's sake. Someone has to. "How can you tell you aren't just infatuated because of his attentions?"
"I CAN'T, OK?" I never yell at him. Ever. But there's this lump in my throat and the pinpricks of tears threatening to come out and rage curling my hands into fists and I just, "I don't know, I just… I don't."
"Yurotchka…"
"But I know about him. And he wouldn't dare to step out of the line. He wouldn't hurt me, grandpa." There's a shivering in my voice, as if I was suddenly five again and just got caught falling into the ice and tried to act tough through the pain. Hurtful, pathetic and vain. "I know it because I... I hurt him and he just… let me. " The scowl turned slowly into a soothing gentle gaze as he could hear the guilt in my voice. He's pitying me.
"People make mistakes, Yurotchka."
"But not that. People don't shit on other people's feelings. Friends don't." it's not justifiable, it's not. I know how he feels and I can't correspond, I don't know if I do, I don't even know if this is even worse for him that it is for me… Yet he's willing to stay. And let me figure it out. No rush. "I don't know what I'm doing but he lets me do, he doesn't patronize me, he doesn't treat me like a child." I lift my eyes up to his and he freezes for a second. "He trusts my own decisions. You should too."
"Do you?"
"OF COURSE I DON'T! But someone has to! I can't just let them, everyone else, tell me what to do with my own life!" I realize I'm yelling and I don't want to, I really don't, but he doesn't stop me.
"I just want you to remember…."
"Yeah, I'm sixteen, I'm a child, big fucking deal. I could be thirty and if he hadn't showed up I'd still be as clueless as I am now." He seems to have stop breathing for a second, his eyes wide; then a hysterical laughter rose to his voice. "WHAT?"
"Yes you would! Of course you would. You don't learn about people with age. You learn with people. And him… he's a gentleman. Who cares deeply for you." he starts laughing harder again with one single look at my face. "I DID say I liked him, did I not? He seems nice."
"Well, YEAH, but I thought you were gonna…." my voice comes out in as shy childish manner, as if he was scolding me for breaking a vase.
"Kick him out? Forbid you to see him? Wouldn't you anyways? No, Yurotchka… " he ruffles my hair, trying to calm my nerves. It doesn't but it helps a little. "He's nice. It's you I'm worried about. Just take it easy, ok?"
"...Yeah, Ok."
"And please do wake him up. He's a gentleman as he is lazy in the mornings." At this I can't help but cracking up: it IS hard to make him get out of bed, but we were arguing so loudly he can't possibly be still asleep. Which doesn't means he'll take the tremendous effort to actually get up.
"Yeah, yeah, I'm going". I noticed a grin crawling up on my face while I walk through the hallway. Having him around is not THAT bad, isn't it?
Not bad at all.
His "good morning" sounds more like a "I'd really rather you come back and stay in bed for the rest of the week", specially when he's barely lifted his head from his arm to glance at me coming into the bedroom without bothering to even shift from laying on his stomach at all. I kneel next to the bed to snark some salty comment at him to piss him off and get lost staring at the half lidded gaze staring back so lovingly I almost felt like drowning on the sound of my rapid heartbeat pounding, like his amber eyes are the only thing anchoring me to the ground. He looks, he stays, a half smile crawls from under the pillows and goes back to hiding.
"You've got something on your neck, there." uh? I take my phone to use the front camera as a mirror and, indeed, there is a FUCKING ENORMOUS hickey right over my collarbone. If you look really closely you could see a faint trace of the actual teeth marks still there.
"Damn you, Beka! I was just having breakfast with my grandfather and I didn't… How dare you!". I punch playfully his arm and he almost giggles. It's amazing how cute a tough leather-wearing biker can be. Then again, seeing the faint pink trails on the nape of his neck and down, I don't think I can't blame him much. He did make a fair question last night. Who was gonna notice first?
"You need to get up, even Grandpa thinks you're lazy"
"He wouldn't mind as long as he gets more bike rides out of it" he smirks and I know he's right: they have bonded pretty well these past few days. Surprisingly. Fortunately.
"Oi, watch it with Grandpa!" I punch his arm playfully, but then remember it didn't do much the last time; I get distracted by the tanned defined muscles showing on the small patch of flesh his shirt had let uncovered after so much swirling and rolling in bed. Before I can stop myself, my hand's hovering over his exposed lower back and he's lookin at me, puzzled, waiting for my next move. I need to think of something other than the need to feel his skin against mine again, specially with my grandfather is waiting for him to get up, so…
"If you're SO tired, I'm sure there's nothing I could do to move you from there." He wants to answer straight away, but his expression suddenly changes: he's suspicious. He should be. I run barely the tip of my fingers up through the side of his torso and he wiggles a bit and stiffens. His eyes widens in realization. He tries to look menacing: he can't anymore.
"Yuri, you're playing with fire. Beware" his arms start to pull back from the pillow under his head but he's not fast enough: I reach out and straddle him, sitting on his lower back while delicately brushing my fingernails all the way up his spine, pulling his shirt almost all the way up and leaving his back exposed to the cold of the morning;I notice his feet are still entangled in the sheets so there's no way he can kick me away, even if he could lift me up in one well planned buck and spin of his hips. I'm trusting he doesn't realize that, so i need him to feel the weight of my body on his, just so he can't get any ideas. Or at least not particularly those.
I let my hands find support on his wrists, pinning them down against the mattress, and buck off barely a bit to come back down, rubbing hard against the curve of his ass; I can sense the shivering on his muscles, the deep growling biting through the pillow, the very clear warning.
"Yura, stop." and it doesn't sound like he really wants me to, so I really really feel the need to check. I lean onto him and leave soft chastes kisses around his back, up going down, to trace them back up with my tongue. That did surely cause a notorious reaction: I could feel my own name moaned against the sheets and his hands clenching, tensing the muscles on his arms almost enough to make me lose balance and fall off of him. But it was enough for him to suddenly pull his hands away from mine and push his hips back against my crotch, earning a little yelp of surprise and some space to wiggle and turn on his back; he reaches out and pull my wrists forcefully down, forcing me to bend over inches away from his mouth. His gaze never left me in the whole ordeal; it feels like it was burning me from the inside out, consuming me, and I liked it. I try to focus: this is my moment. I feel like he's had me dancing to his tune the whole week, but this time.. This is my time to shine.
"You said you liked me when I lead, right? Then show me." He looks suspicious but still lets go slowly, wary, of my wrists, letting his hands fall on the bed. I almost close the distance between our lips, watching his mouth open expectantly, and start with it: the payback. I claw at his sides mercilessly and he wiggles under my grip.
"Fuck, Yura!" suddenly, he becomes LOUD. Full throttle belly laugh and cursing: two things I haven't seen much, more like never, on him. He wiggles underneath my legs and throws me on my side, yet I refuse to let him go. We just lie there, my legs still gripping him koala like tightly to his waist, him still trying to stop the laughing fit, tearing and grinning so much I can't stop smiling myself. It's añazimg how beautiful one single person, out of millions, can get to be so alluring, so comfortable to be around, so fucking beautiful. He lifts his brow questioningly and I don't blame him: he must be too out of breath to ask what's going on in my head. You are, only you.
"Who would have guessed someone with so much leather on his wardrobe could be so fucking adorable?" he tries to brush it off but I can see him clearly blushing, leaning so close to him.
"Does it bother you, жолбарыс? You were staring a lot last time I checked." And he still plays the smooth card, the cheeky bastard.
"Didn't mean.. What the hell does that means, after all?"
"It means "tiger"... but right now I think "kitten" suits you better"
"Don't you DARE-"
"Boys!" I could almost sense the walls vibrating when my grandfather got into the room; Beka lifted up his gaze, deep red with embarrassment, and murmured a faint "sorry" before pushing my legs off of him. I need to tell him somehow it's alright, but I really don't know how: I just spit out the first thing that comes to my mind:
"I did wake him up but he's just too lazy. Maybe I could just take the bike myself and-". Suddenly my whole perspective changes; from being facing the door over Otabek's profile to somehow stare at the ceiling in a second, both of his hands still grabbing my hipbone to keep me in place, hard enough to leave some fingerprints on the pale skin, but not enough for them to actually hurt. He leans over and practically brushes my lips with his when he speaks:
"Play with your mates, Yura, with Nikiforov and his fiancee, play with Mila, and the japanese family you like. Play with me. But don't. EVER. Mess with my bike." He's so focused on me right now, and completely serious he's close to terrifying. But closer to stupidly attractive.I would have closed the distance between us if it wasn't for him moving out of me swiftly and get finally off the bed to apologize to my grandfather for taking so much time on it and head to the bathroom. I felt like I stayed in the position he left me in, still thinking about his glare fixed on me, for HOURS.
He always finds a way to surprise me.
Grandpa insisted on staying alone at home: he said the last week he had way too many people around him. We both knows that sounded like bullshit, but got on the bike anyways and rode off to a little coffee shop he saw when he entered the city; 50's themed, small, rock'n roll music and far enough from the city for there to be any actual neighbours. Other than that, even in Russia, ice skating doesn't have that many followers, so we're not worried to meet anyone. We could be quiet and alone for once.
We practically hid in a booth at the end of the joint, far from the windows, just to stay away from any prospect of the Barcelona dinner happening again, and the waitress shows up almost immediately; she leaves a couple of menus on the table and proceeds to lean into it, getting really close to Beka and flashing him an exceptional angle of her considerably low cleavage. He looks at her, eye to eye, and doesn't even blink; thanks her and put his attention back on me. I can hear her muttering some certainly not pretty remarks while walking away.
"She'll think you're my boyfriend the way you look at her"
"What way?" At this point I'm starting to think he wants me to give him the chance to put on some snarky comment of his.
"Like she wasn't blatantly flirting with you". The tone sound more offended that I meant it to.
"So what if she was? She's not the first, she won't be the last." The steady plain sound of his voice annoyed me to no end. You really don't care? "Yura, are you…. Jealous?"
"NO." Ok, a bit way too loud, a fist too fast, a bit too enthusiastic. "It's not like she practically rubbed his tits all over you." He chuckles under his breath and I turn to avoid his eyes. He's having fun with this.
"It's not like she has a chance, Yura."
"Yeah, OK." A shudder runs down my spine when he looks at me, lust in his eyes and tracing his lips with his tongue; still, he sits back and puts on the blank facade when the waitress comes back. I know nothing's going on but I can't stop myself when I watch her practically undressing him with her eyes, and pardon me, with that tight black sweater he's wearing, there's not really much to imagine. "Get us an irish coffee and a green tea, and a bit of space if you don't mind. He's with me." I refrain myself to spit out "bitch" at her but I really want to. She glares daggers at me and Otabek widens his eyes, impressed. None of them were expecting it, not even me, really. She gets away to get our order eyeing me like I was about to rip her throat out. Because I am about to.
"Easy there, tiger." He says when she's finally away." you're a minor, you literally can't order something with alcohol on it, how do you know they'll bring it for you?"
"Easy. They'll bring it for YOU." now he Is impressed. And a bit annoyed, but mostly impressed. For some reason, today I need a drink, and I have never had one, but I'm sure I need one.
"Yuri. Have you ever had any alcohol before?"
"... not really. It'll be FINE-"
"I can't take you home drunk, Yura. Not when I finally convinced your grandfather I'm not gonna make a leather wearing drug abusing biker thug out of you."
"It's gonna be fi… did he tell you that?" He said he LIKED HIM. he did say it after their day together, sure, but come on. He doesn't look even slightly like such a bad influence.
"Pretty much." He snorts at my face of disgust and continues. "Not like that, but it feel that way. He might like motorcycles, but away from his grandson. And without the leather."
"What's the problem with the leather?" Besides the obvious bad boy look, of course. But Grandpa is not that thick.
"You liked it. Notoriously. He implied I'm taking advantage of your teenage self." I snort in disgust, just to cover the burning feeling crawling on my face. I wasn't staring at his pant THAT much that day. Was I?
"He literally told you you were too hot to hang around with me?" A grin appears on his face: he's enjoying himself way too much with this. Still, that smile seems so beautifully unreal I need to zone out of the conversation for a second just to appreciate it. He seems to notice because he stops and stares until I look back at his warm gaze. "What?". At this point the girl comes back with the orders and leaves when she notices Beka isn't even looking at her anymore. He switches them, still not too convinced of my choice of drink, and goes on.
"I said: I'd wish that was the case…. He literally said: keep it in your pants, he's a child and you're not."
"WHAT." How dare he. YES, FINE, I have no idea what's going on in my head, why I get so flustered every time Beka does anything even remotely sweet for me, and fuck me, he's a fucking real life teddy bear so it happens a lot, or why I feel the urgent need to hold onto to him, to touch him, to feel him close…. It can be blamed on the hormones, sure, but i have liked people before, and it didn't feel like this. I wanted to kiss people before only because I found them pretty and didn't because, well, I just thought they were pretty. There's a lot of pretty people in the world; that's hardly a good motive. It's not enough for me.
But him? He can put my world upside down just with the minuscule flash of a smile, with a brush of his fingers on mine, with the softness on his eyes when he looks at me, reserved only for me. He laughs, barely, lowly, and my stomach churns, and my hands get desperate to reach him, and there's this tingling, on my skin, on my lips. I can almost feel I've develop some sort of need for him, for his sweet comments, his sassy remarks, his beautiful photography and just a hint of that warm, soft smile, like hot chocolate on a midwinter day.
And that cannot be just the forces of hormonal spurt working. It just can't.
"I'm not being forced to anything here, you know..." He looks away for a second and I know for fact he's hesitant. I keep staring at him just to make him talk.
"Yuri… don't get me wrong, I know you're here on your own free will. But you know why?"
"Uh?"
"Why you're here… You enjoy having me around, yes?'"
"Well, YEAH, of course I do! I invited you, idiot." he chuckles; at least he lost the frown he was trying to hide from me.
"Am I a friend to you?" he's starting to piss me off with his question, trying to make me validate my thoughts before him. They exist whether you like it or not, asshole!
"You know you are. The best someone could ever ask for." the last part comes all mumbled and hurried but he still understands and smile that wide sincere grin for me.
"Do you think all of this -the days we spent together, the… things we've done- is something friends usually do?"
"Look, if you're regretting any of it-"
"I'm not, Yura. of course I'm not. Trust me, there's so much I want to share with you, so much I CAN'T. Not just yet. It's just…" He hides himself on his tea for a second; I take a sip of my coffee and feel the distinctive burning at the bottom of my throat. So this is what booze feels like. Not as encouraging as I hoped for, but hey, maybe if I ask for something a little less diluted… "It's just that you're not even sure what's going on, and I know exactly how I think of you. It's all always your choice too, of course, but it feels like I'm taking advantage of the whole situation. "
"You could have STOPPED ME." I don't even understand why I'm so pissed right now. I wanted to, he wanted to. Fuck, I was craving for him, I took what I wanted, kind of, what's the big deal? So, you put me off my feet, ok, but that doesn't mean I don't lust for you. "If it hurts you so much, why didn't you?"
"I want you too, Yura. It's not always easier to do what you think is right. I just happen to not want to stop you: I really… really enjoy being with you. But I know why."
"I know, I know…" the love bullshit. It all would be so much easier without the love bullshit. Viktor would have gone to Japan and back in a few weeks, tops, I would've fucked my friend the way I wanted to, and we wouldn't be talking about this right now. So what if I'm not good at this? Maybe I don't love. Maybe I can't. Is that so bad? I mean… there is something there. But what if it's not love? Will he stop loving ME then?
He eyes me an softens his expression: he's trying to be understanding but I can see he's hurt. He should know I'm no good at fixing these stuff by now, he should know I only fuck up with people. It's a mystery why, knowing all of that, he's still looking at me from the other side of his cup of shitty leafy green tea. "Let me rephrase it, ok? Don't think too much of it." He puts the cup down and waits just a moment. "Does this feel like a date to you?"
"Well… shouldn't we be holding hands for that?", I snort and almost miss the subtle movement in which he pushed his hand closer to me on the table. The smug face is back: he's daring me. And I'm not a good loser.
I put my hand over his completely out of spite, he snickers lightly and intertwines his fingers with mine; a heat starts to rise from my belly up as I brush delicately my fingers around his, sensing his trying to elongate the contact, moving impossibly slow. I can notice every little crease of the hard work on the ice, every little healed cut: his hands are rough under mine, but so tender. I know for a fact my face must be every tone of red right now, but I can't let the feeling of him against me in such a sweet, innocent way fade; this is not the furtive handjob on a dark night, clutching pillows so Grandpa won't hear, this is real, public, honest affection. That's what it feels like: honest. Unashamed.
"Are you alright, Yura?" He's staring at me staring at our hands like an idiot, and I can't even say how much time I've been doing it. It just feels safe. Solid. Like it won't fade away on a whim; not this one. Not this time. And it's that on his eyes, that softness, that sweetness, that…. That is what love looks like, isn't it?
"Don't let go." I realize I sound childish, small in the little whimper of a voice that escapes my mouth, but he just nods and holds me tighter.
The hours pass by, completely unaware of two boys sitting on the far corner of a small lost cafe, holding hands.
After a quick dinner we go to bed and I ask him not to do nothing: no games, no dares, no cheating. Just both of us, lying facing each other, in silence, until the exhaustion of the day gets to us.
Hands held tight.
The sunlight wakes us pretty easily: I turn to the window to realize we didn't even bother to pull the curtains shut last night. Beka stirs in his sleep but doesn't budge, of course he doesn't. I contemplate the thought of waking him in a way I know he'll open his eyes in a second; his parted lips, slightly dry and plump from whatever dream he was having, seems too tempting to stop myself. But the right choice isn't always the easy one, is it?
I try to shake him awake but he takes my hand on his and presses it to his chest. "Just a minute more." I move my eyes away from his hands and notice him staring straight at me, eyes still partially shut but trying to stay awake. "I want to see you like this a bit more."
"Like what?"
"Just like this. Breathtaking…." I can feel my heart literally skipping a beat and I almost want to pull out just to run off, but his eyes hold such sweetness I don't think I ever could. "And close."
"We're always close, idiot. We might be attached to the hip by now." I try to shake off the fuzzy feeling of his cheesiness out of me: the way he looks at me, the pulse of his heart vividly on my palm, stop me to.
"Yeah. But my plane leaves today." Right. This is the day the week ends. This is the end we both go back and there's no more sleeping next to each other, no more awkward touches and giggles and tickle fights, and no more holding hands. For who knows how long. No more feeling his heartbeat against my ear lulling me to sleep. No more wrestling him mid sleep to get off the bed. No more scent of aftershave and green tea on my sheets.
Sure, we still be in touch. And we'll send pictures, or at least I will, Tons. I'll make him remember every single minute, every single touch, every single word. Every single tear. I'll make him understand a moment with him is the best gift I could ever ask for, even if it was just five minutes. I'll make him cherish our first official date.
I rest my head back on the pillow and stare at the dark depth of his gaze, widened with something that feels like admiration. I try to ask. I realize my voice doesn't come out. He still knows he needs to say something.
"You're truly beautiful, tiger." I try, really try, to feel offended: the blush tints my cheeks faster than I could ever stop it. "And having you by my side makes me incredibly happy". My breath catches on my throat. I can only bite my lip in response, trying hard of thinking of something to say. Nothing comes up right away.
We stay until lunch time in bed, just there. Together. Close.
Grandpa practically pushes us out of the door, Otabek's luggage in hand, immediately after lunch, saying he'll meet us tonight at the airport. My plane leaves three hours after Beka's, so he'll figure I'd like to stay with him until he leaves, and then he could catch up and bring my own baggage. I can only think of one place to go to say goodbye properly.
We get to the ice rink faster than I was expecting, and for a moment I don't react when the engine stops his low purring; he doesn't rush me to get off either, to let go of his waist, to stop leaning on his back yearning for the touch of his body against mine.
We get ready for the ice having rented some skates, since neither of us brought any; I'm not used to skates that aren't my own, and these do feel a bit tight on the toes, but i won't complain. He gets onto the ice and waits for me near the entrance, a hand extended for me to take. I'm not a kid, I'm a gold medallist for fuck's sake, but I take it still, just to have him closer.
We start doing eight figures lazily on the ice, hand in hand, just enjoying the feeling of it all. Every memory of this place flashes before my eyes and I can't even tell when I start telling the story of I fell from the bleachers when I was four, trying to pet a cat who got into the rink, or how I fell on my first jump on the ice and got up covered in tears to keep trying, or the first cut on my hand when I slipped and grabbed the blade instead of the skate on a spin. I can't tell when he got so close, holding me by my waist while our circles got wider and faster until they almost reached the side boards, listening intensely to my stories, a subtle half smile plastered on his face. It feels like we're alone on the ice, even though I'm positive everyone, children and grown up alike, are staring; specially because in here, on an actual ice rink where ice skating fans show up, we're pretty known and maybe even a little bit too close. I stop my rambling to follow his moves as he holds me directly against his chest, forcing my hand to hold on his shoulder on the sudden motion, and the heat from his touch spreads rapidly through every inch of my body; he lets me lean on his arm, bending backwards as he pulls me to the inside of our circuit, and after an aeternal second of him looking down at me, almost the way viktor looks at his fiance, with such devotion, he pulls me back up and lets me go, blushing spreading slightly through his cheeks.
I can't really say how long we've been skating lazily, barely talking, just enjoying each other's company on the ice, when my phone's alarm starts blasting at full volume from the side of the rink. It's time to go and my body starts resenting the like of his warmth against me, even before I reach to step out the ice.
I guess our time is finally up.
A spiced milk tea on one hand, a hot chocolate on the other. He looks at me, sitting a bit too close besides him, legs draped over his, like i'm about to fade at any moment. I could guess I look just the same. He opens his mouth to say something and stops himself: his wounded eyes are killing me and I can't refrain myself from putting my arms around his waist and hold him in a bone crushing hug, so that he won't forget about me, about this, any time soon. He doesn't shift from my hold, he doesn't wince, he doesn't ask me to stop: I feel his lips on my forehead as he kisses me and hugs me back.
"Text me, okay?" I don't lift up my head from nuzzling on his chest but I don't need to, I know he understands. "Call me whenever, send m pictures or stories or whatever, just… keep in touch." I feel his hand on my chin, lifting my head so he can press his forehead against mine, eyes half closed and whispering.
"I'll never forget not one minute of this. Not one word." He smiles his hidden subtle smile as he goes on. "I'll miss you too, Yura."
I recognize the flight number they're calling to board but I play dumb: I don't want this, not yet, I just need one more minute. One more hug. I pull out my phone, ignoring every notification and text received, though they're not a few, and set up the camera. At the very least I should get to take the last picture of such a wonderful week.
He barely smiles for the camera, of course. But his eyes tell the whole story. I wonder who could read them the way I do.
You can't really notice I'm sitting on his lap with an arm still around him; you can't really notice his hand slowly caressing my thigh. You can't really notice how we try to make this moment much, much longer.
I post it as I see him up disappear through the gate: he'll still have connection for a few minutes until he actually takes off, I can still say anything I need to. I can still feel him close
.
yuri-plisetsky best birthday ever w/ otabek-altin #moscow #airport #aweektoremember
I don't wait for the comments to start appearing. I don't check the still incoming notifications. I sit, chocolate in hand, just waiting for my grandpa to come meet me; just looking at me feet until the vision turned blurred.
I wiped my tears away the minute he crossed the front gate, looking for me.
I stop mid running when I see him close, clutching my bag in one hand and a stuffed bear in the other; for some reason the way the plush doll is dressed sounds familiar. He holds me tight against his chest while looking for the right words; I guess it's a family tradition then.
"what's that'" I let go of his hug and point at the plush bear.
"That? It was in your room and it wasn't there before, so I guess you'd want to keep it." It was dressed in a white and blue formal jacket and light blue slacks, like a little prince. Suddenly I remember the suit, the Grand prix Final, the free skating routine… but I can't remember the ribbon tied to the bear's neck. I take it and stuff it in my bag anyways; I figure I can ask about it later.
We try to make some small talk but we seem to not being able to focus on any other thing but the fact that we'll be far away from each other, again, for who knows how long. The conversation keeps drifting to the same subject and I keep on promising that i'll be fine, I'll eat every day, of course, lilia wouldn't allow it otherwise, I won't hurt myself over practicing, I promise, I'll call. I'll definitely call, every day if I can. I'll miss you. And you'll miss me, of course, so grown up, so strong already.
The hours pass before we can notice and the dreaded flight number echoes on the speakers: I guess I must go now. Grandpa sniffles a little but doesn't let a single tear fall. He's strong, stronger than I could ever hope to be. Time for one more embrace and then, off through the gate, alone again, so painfully far from everyone.
I take my seat and pull my hoodie up, searching a song on the playlist and playing it at full blast so I can't hear anyone who dares talk to me right now; I purchased the window sit specifically so I wouldn't have to interact with anyone and so far it has worked just fine. Instagram's been sending a ton of stuff lately so I open the app and take a picture of the landscape through the windows with the caption "going back" and a couple of simple hashtags, and block the device again not even bothering to check on the unread texts.
I never bother putting my backpack on the bag compartment: I prefer to just keep my things around me as much as I can, so when I kick it and feel something particularly soft on it I remember. Taking the plush out, I untie the baby blue ribbon on his neck and notice there's something black written on the inside of it, partially smudged in some places: "Мен сені сүйемін". Fucking kazakh, I can't ask him directly what it means since he's already going home and the plane's starting to glide down the track. I type it as fast as I can on the translating app before the signal dies out completely, and my vision gets blurred again. I shift my body to face the window fully and stare at the screen until it goes off again, without even noticing the moment i press my forehead to the glass.
The ringing on my ears stop me from hearing my own voice sobbing over a silly little phrase on a ribbon until the plane stops again and my face feels all wet and hot and teary and I run off to the bathroom to fake a strength I don't really have. The eyes of a soldier can't be these: this is a face of a little kid being left alone, all over again. Clutching onto a teddy bear for dear life.
A teddy bear with the phrase "I love you" around his neck.
