Otabek Altin woke up surrounded by trees. Dead leaves and damp soil shifted under his body as he blinked, bemused, at the sun-speckled bare branches above him. The tide of sleep retreated slowly and illuminated precisely nothing.
Not my apartment, his thoughts whispered helpfully.
Another minute ticked by. His stomach growled.
Time. What time was it? Otabek fumbled for his phone, letting out a muffled gasp as the muscles in his arm shrieked with pain. A curse – not stifled at all – followed when his fingers found nothing but fabric in his empty pocket. He dragged himself to his feet, ignoring the pangs of protest that sank from his skin through flesh and bone. It was just soreness, if 'just' could be applied here. The day after his Olympic free skate last year, he had complained to Mila that it felt like a car had run him over and then backed up for another go. This time, it was a freight train with a grudge.
It was probably morning, judging by the mid-March chill that snapped and teased at his exposed forearms. In a few hours, he would undoubtedly panic and check his hands and feet for signs of frostbite, search for the bloom of broken blood vessels across his cheeks. For now, he eyed the pale sun and started walking in the direction that was probably (hopefully) vaguely south. St. Petersburg wasn't big enough to swallow someone in an endless forest.
If he was still in St. Petersburg. Otabek rubbed his face, fighting through the pounding headache that had settled between his temples as he struggled to remember some hint of where he might be, and why. His fingers found a wet patch in front of his right ear, and came away slick with viscous clots of blood.
A walk after dinner, which Otabek had hoped would clear away the lingering traces of the last week's fever. Texting Yuri to see if he'd survived his late afternoon intensive with Yakov and Lilia. The afterimage from his phone had blurred across the dim street, lit only by a couple of flickering streetlights and the rising moon.
No phone. No wallet, though Otabek wasn't sure he'd brought it with him in the first place. Had he been mugged, left unconscious in some patch of greenery?
He only had one shoe. The other foot was encased in a wet sock, crusted in burrs and half-dried mud. He peeled it off. The lone sneaker followed, and the renewed balance was a gift that made up for the hard earth under his bare soles.
An open lawn became visible between the tree trunks and underbrush, crisscrossed with walking paths occupied by a handful of joggers, and he breathed a sigh of relief at the familiar sight. Krestovsky Island, one of his favorite spots for an off-day run, spread out before him. He could get home from here.
Unfortunately, 'home' was about ten kilometers away. There was a bus route that would take Otabek almost directly to the rink, if he had his transport pass or a few rubles for a ticket.
A taxi. He would cross the bridge, convince a taxi to take him to the training facility, where Yakov or one of the skaters could spot him the fare until he replaced his bank cards. Failing that, maybe a passerby would let him use their cell phone. Otabek glanced down at his mud-streaked clothing and bare feet, wondering how much crusted blood was smeared across his face. Maybe not. He stepped out of the woods, wondering if someone would see him and call the police, and whether that would be a good thing or not. They'd probably take him home, but it wasn't his preferred method of transportation.
He'd dreamed last night, passed out on the drifts of coarse debris that made up the forest floor, dreamed of running and running as claws tore at the city streets under his – his – feet, chasing and chased by a pitiless moon.
Searing, stabbing pain tore through his heel as it landed in the scratchy, dormant grass, and Otabek dropped to his knees with a hiss. A rush of blood seeped from under his fingers, staining the dirt and shards of glass jutting from his skin.
Fuck. Fuck. Worlds were in two weeks. Otabek did not have time to step on broken beer bottles right before Worlds, not after the month he'd had. The panic he'd been fighting back since waking rushed in with a vengeance and he dropped to the ground, prying out the slick splinters with a quiet whimper. Perhaps it wasn't that deep, it just looked bad, cuts were always messy. He gritted his teeth against the nausea filling his throat, and peered at the laceration, his ankle twisted to give him a better look. It ached, but the blinding pain had faded. The bleeding slowed to a trickle, then stopped. Otabek dabbed gingerly at the skin with the hem of his stained shirt – it was too late to worry about keeping the wound clean, anyway, which was…
Gone. He scrubbed harder, trying to reveal a scratch or nick, anything.
The only evidence was a thin pink line scored between the rough calluses of his heel. It faded to white as he stared, uncomprehending.
In his dream, a barrage of sensations had nagged at him, flickers of movement between the looming shadows, breathing and chittering and the rustle of feathers, an avalanche of scents tickling his nose.
Otabek lifted his arm into the muted rays of sun, studying the set of half-healed gouges around his wrist. The scabs had smoothed into tiny pearls of scar tissue, as if the skin had been torn years ago instead of a mere month.
No one spared a second glance for the man crouched at the edge of the woods, whose grime-stained face was hard and set as he began to walk, leaving small crescents of red on the path behind him.
The screen of his laptop froze. Otabek could almost hear its groaned complaints, creaking under the strain of aging parts and airport wifi as Skype connected.
"Otabek, you did it! Your first video call!" Yuri's face glowed, his features defined and delicate even when obscured by the pixelated blur.
"My computer might actually catch fire." He winced as the cooling fans whirred into high gear. "Happy birthday, Yuri."
"Thanks! Wait, you're using your laptop? Why? That thing is a dinosaur." Yuri looked exactly the same as he had in Barcelona two and a half months earlier, despite his weekly complaints about getting taller and outgrowing his skates.
Otabek stared at him. "Because… Skype?"
The laugh that crackled through the tinny speakers didn't hold any heat. "I take it back, your laptop isn't a dinosaur, you are. You can get Skype on your phone, Beka."
"… Oh. That might work better."
Ten minutes later, his poor laptop was cooling down in his carry-on, and Yuri's face appeared again, this time on his phone. The video was crisp, free of the lag and distortion that had plagued the earlier attempt.
"Let's try this again. Happy birthday! Does sixteen mean much in Russia?"
"Ugh, not really," his friend replied. "I could get a motorcycle license, but I think that's it. And Yakov would kill me."
Otabek frowned. "Of course he would. Bikes are dangerous, you know. They should be outlawed."
"Asshole." The video shook as Yuri laughed again, his phone bouncing with the movement. Otabek glimpsed a pile of laundry and unmade bed as the camera shifted.
Their conversation meandered on, bouncing from topic to topic. Though they hadn't shared the ice since the Grand Prix Final, they had texted back and forth almost every day. Nevertheless, they discussed the European Championships (Yuri took his silver medal as a personal offense) and Four Continents (Otabek had snatched the gold from JJ by scoring a new personal best in his free skate).
"My coach is officially retiring after this season," remarked Otabek. "He told us after Skate America, but didn't announce it publicly until last week."
"Ah, shit. Are you staying in Almaty?"
Otabek shrugged. He knew his face was inscrutable as always, but Yuri had a knack for guessing what he was thinking.
Instead, he asked, "How's Yakov?"
"Grumpy as always. I think he and Lilia are actually trying to murder me."
"Hmm?"
"Apparently funding came through to expand the gymnastics supplementary programs." Yuri let his head drop to the desk he was sitting at, blond hair falling over his face. "So now I'm starting that after Worlds – where I am going to crush you, by the way -, along with everything else."
"Oh, right. He mentioned that to me." Otabek grinned. "Said gymnastics might help with my performance scores, since I won't do ballet."
"Of course he- wait, what? When?"
"Couple of days ago. He called me after he heard I needed a new rink. Said I'd done acceptably well in the 4CC."
"You're-"
"In May. I've been checking out apartments in St. Petersburg during the last few layovers."
"Hell yes!"
Meter after meter of rough cement fell away under Otabek's trudging feet. He ignored the pricks and stabs of debris against the soft arches – without fail, the discomfort faded between one breath and the next.
What happened to him?
A few passerby glanced at the man in muddy, tattered clothing.
What if it happened again?
Otabek started to run, desperate to escape the suspicious gazes from the street. Could the peering eyes tell that something was wrong with him?
He pictured falling on the ice, scrapes and broken limbs healing themselves on international television.
His legs pushed harder against the pavement. The surroundings whipped by, blurring in his vision.
Otabek thought about the doctor pulling Yakov aside after the standard pre-competition checkup.
The squat grey form of his apartment complex rose in front of him, and he staggered to a halt, confounded. No more than several minutes could have passed since he left Krestovsky Island, almost a dozen kilometers away.
Newspapers would run with the story, with what it looked like. Hero of Kazakhstan implicated in doping scandal. Shocked phone calls from his family. Cold contempt from the other skaters. Allegations of drug use could destroy a rink's reputation. Yakov would shout, or maybe his voice would fall to a low growl. Get out. Yuri's horrified face, disgust and betrayal etched into the lines of tension around his mouth.
They wouldn't believe him. Otabek still couldn't quite believe himself. And even if they did… His coach could do nothing, mired in a tangle of regulations . Yuri would explode, attempt to burn down the world and rebuild it, unable to see that even his fire was no match for the coldness of reality before he was pulled into the ashes.
A businessman in a clumsily knotted tie burst through the apartment's main door, clumsily stuffing papers back into his overstuffed briefcase. Otabek slipped through behind him, catching the entryway before it clicked shut again and locked him out.
In the best case scenario, he would disappear quietly from the public eye, vanishing between one competition and the next. In the worst… he would be laid bare before a world that didn't embrace enigmas with friendly arms.
Otabek stopped in the hallway outside his flat and gave a few undignified hops, finally managing to grasp the spare key taped to the top sill, just out of sight.
("Yuri, I can't reach that!"
"Which is why it's a great spot. Besides, I can.")
The lock turned, stiff tumblers creaking as they were forced to release their hold.
Otabek didn't let himself think about home, trace the curve of its walls and well-worn furniture. He tried not to categorize the soothing wash of aromas, the hints of coffee and Icy Hot and yesterday's dinner, melded with a subtle blanket of life, his shampoo and laundry detergent and something mellow and warm that could only be called him.
The clock on the stove read 8:27 A.M.
He pulled the plastic containers of leftovers from the fridge. Stuffed dumplings and cold tofu didn't make up the most appealing breakfast, but his stomach clamored to be filled and it didn't seem right to throw the food away.
Items were carefully packed into his old backpack, folded and layered with an expertise born from a life half spent in airports and train stations. A change of clothes. His toothbrush. His passports. The emergency cash that had been stashed in the back of his medicine cabinet was folded neatly and stuffed into his wallet, which (small mercies) was lying on the kitchen table.
A few days to regroup, to think. He might miss Worlds, but even that seemed like a small price to pay. Maybe he was just overreacting, maybe he'd imagined the whole thing, maybe whatever was happening would just… stop happening.
He pulled a pair of shoes from the closet and stepped into them.
After a moment's hesitation, Otabek tucked a small stuffed bear into the outer pocket of his bag, then shrugged on his leather jacket, slinging the backpack across one shoulder as he grabbed his motorcycle helmet from the shelf.
He stopped once, on the edge of the city, to buy a cheap prepaid phone from one of the dingy, scabby kiosks that sprouted on every corner.
"Сәлеметсіз бе, анам." Hi, mom. "I had to get a new mobile. Just wanted to make sure you had the number. I'll talk to you soon. Сау бол."
Otabek's fingers shook slightly as he dialed again, copying the number from a card in his wallet.
"Hello?"
"This is Otabek Altin. Is Yakov available?"
"Um, yes. I'll find him."
Static crackled down the line for a moment.
"Altin. Where the hell are you?"
"I… I'm at the airport." The lie tasted rotten, leaving a sour film across his tongue. "There's been a family thing. I'm flying back to Kazakhstan for a while."
"What- where are you-"
"I'm sorry. I'll call you when I know more." He hung up the phone and slipped it into his pocket.
I'll talk to Yuri soon, maybe after Worlds. I shouldn't distract him with this.
The bike's tires hummed against the blacktop as he left St. Petersburg.
The clock ticked over to midnight.
"С Новым годом!" Fireworks crackled and bloomed over Moscow as the new year began, their sparkling tendrils just visible through the window of Nikolai Plisetsky's living room. Yuri was offered a small flute of champagne by his grandfather, Otabek sipped his soda in an effort to conceal his grin at the seventeen-year-old's whoop of celebration. His green eyes found Otabek's face, and he pouted playfully.
"Don't tell Lilia."
"I won't lie for you, Yura." There was no chance of hiding this smile, buoyed by sugar and Yuri's exaggerated gasp of betrayal.
Nikolai yawned and excused himself, leaving Yuri and Otabek in the living room after he said goodnight.
"Do you still want to go out?" Parties across the city would be kicking off soon. The idea wasn't unappealing, but Otabek found himself unwilling to leave the warm, quiet glow of the Plisetsky house. Yuri, collapsed on the squishy green couch as the traces of alcohol flowed through his body, seemed to feel the same.
"Mmmm."
"Yuriii." Otabek nudged his side, and Yuri arched himself away, sinking deeper into the cushions. "Yuri, you can't fall asleep yet."
"Yes I can."
"No, I haven't given you your present yet." Yuri shot up as Otabek pulled a package wrapped in gold and silver paper from his backpack. "Thanks for bringing me with you tonight."
Instead of answering, Yuri pushed a gift of his own into Otabek's free hand.
The thin sheets of wrapping tissue tore slightly as he worked at the tape. Yuri was less methodical, ripping the paper off with glee, and he burst out laughing just before Otabek managed to free the last corner from his present.
They posed the plushies side by side on the coffee table, the black and white cat propped against the miniature bear.
Finding the unexplainable wasn't difficult, once he knew to look. Most cities had a place, a nondescript shop tucked away in a side street, a lounge passers-by walked past without seeing, or simply a house whose rooms were never empty. Otabek drove around the city until a unfamiliar scent brushed his nose, always new, but tinged with an air of burning metal and petrichor. More often than not, they sent shivers of bone-deep fear trickling down the back of his neck.
Then, he followed it.
This time, it was a bar. Of course it was a bar, never a supernatural bookstore, or coffee shop, or gym, which, honestly, was a damn shame. No one had ever tried to kill him in a library. Admittedly, three months ago, no one had tried to kill him in a bar either, but surely a library would be at least slightly less volatile.
Otabek kept his head down, careful not to make eye contact while weaving between the rickety tables towards a quiet corner with a good view of the room. The floor was slightly sticky against the soles of his shoes. It would be another night of watching and waiting, hoping for a needle of recognition in the haystack.
He still didn't have an answer, even as he'd grown accustomed to the changes that ripped through him, the pressure that built under his skin, waxing and waning a warning. The first nine weeks had been spent creeping from town to town, afraid to stop for more than the time it took to refuel his bike and return to the road, fleeing back to the woods before his body could betray him again. On those nights, he dreamed of teeth and claws, a monster stalking through the darkness, of terrified green eyes in a pale face as snarls tore themselves from his throat. Finally, Otabek noticed the itching behind his lips as the moon grew rounder and brighter in the sky. He dared to venture near people, flinching when they brushed against him in the streets without a second thought.
The dreams didn't stop.
Otabek had called St. Petersburg once more, after he woke up gasping, a metallic glaze of blood across his bitten and healed lips."I'm sorry. I can't come back. Goodbye, Yakov." He hung up, cutting off the sputtering coach, and scrolled through Instagram on his cheap replacement phone until dawn came. Yuri had deleted all his photos of Otabek, but he flicked back page after page, until a blond fourteen-year-old stared back at him, brandishing a gold medal from the Junior Worlds.
Of course Yuri was angry when Otabek left, he'd known that was coming. But he hadn't expected to be cut off completely, excised from his life with surgical precision.
He didn't make it through the maze of tables. A woman bumped into him, sloshing her drink over his sleeve.
"Watch it, punk," she growled. Her teeth were shining needles against bloodless lips. Curious eyes lifted. He felt the weight of their stares pressing against his back.
According to past experience, this was his cue to leave. Otabek backed up, but clawed fingers gripped his shoulder, sinking through his jacket into the skin and muscle underneath. Heat prickled through his bones. He fought for breath, trying to cage the creature within. It didn't understand that changing here, now, was a death sentence. Transforming here would be seen as a threat, giving the hard-faced patrons more than enough reason to tear him to pieces.
"I'm sorry, I didn't-" Otabek tried to twist away from her grasp.
She didn't accept his apology. Instead, her other hand whipped forward faster than his eye could track, pinning him against the wall by his throat. His skin itched and prickled as he struggled for air.
A quiet voice slipped through the tense air.
"Hey, Olga." Otabek's assailant – Olga, he presumed – tipped her head.
"Sergei. I'm busy. This asshole tripped me." Her fingernails twisted in his shoulder, wrenching open the punctures that were struggling to seal. Blood pooled in the sleeve of his jacket, and Otabek clenched his jaw, not letting the searing pain show in his face. He wondered how much his accelerated healing could cope with, if he was fast enough to wrench himself away and run. A mop of red hair appeared in the corner of his vision, and a moment later, he spotted a young man underneath it.
"And I'm sure he'd be happy to buy you a new one. Right?" Sergei patted Otabek's uninjured arm.
"Right. Of course," he croaked. No one moved for a moment, until the newcomer sighed dramatically. The pressure on his neck decreased, and the black splotches that had begun to color the room faded.
"Olga, he can't get to his wallet. He can't buy you a drink without his wallet."
The woman rolled her eyes, and Otabek gasped at the tug of flesh as she pulled her fingers from his shoulder, before the muscle was finally allowed to knit back together.
He bought the drink. She took it. Sergei, his hand still wrapped around Otabek's elbow, guided him out of the bar and into the alley outside. Otabek was leaning heavily on the shorter man, knees threatening to give out under him.
"Are you okay?"
"Yeah. Thanks." His sleeve was damp and growing clammy in the night air.
Sergei leaned back, letting his head and shoulders rest against the grimy brick wall, as Otabek turned to leave.
"They don't like you."
"It's mutual." He paused as the boy spoke again, drawing Otabek's attention.
"They don't like me either. We scare them."
Otabek had to laugh at the absurdity of that statement. "She was about to snap me like a twig, before you talked her down."
"I didn't phrase that well," the redhead said slowly. In the glow cast by the streetlamps, Otabek would guess that he was about twenty years old. "I guess it's more accurate that they're afraid we'll draw too much attention. I've lived here my whole life, so they tolerate me, and it's easier to keep an eye on me if I stick around. But you walk in alone, smelling like trouble…"
That would explain some things.
"I try to keep a pretty low profile."
"Shapeshifter of some sort?" The question was asked in the same low monotone, but Otabek jerked back. "Don't worry, I guessed. You move like there are two different souls in your body. But I'd expect everyone in there had you figured out in seconds. It's hard to keep secrets sometimes."
"What do you do?" That was undoubtedly rude, but Otabek was too frazzled to care.
"Me? Nothing so dramatic, I just pass out and then tell people things," he said, voice nonchalant. "What the weather will be like next week, the exact day and time of their death, the name of their future spouse. There's not really a pattern. But I'm unpredictable, like you."
"That's… a little dramatic."
"It can get people a bit riled up. So, why are you here?"
"Answers, mostly. This whole thing is a bit new to me."
Sergei's eyes softened, the sheen of clinical curiosity fading. "Just in general, or...?"
"I want to go back," Otabek whispered, throat tight. Relief swept through him as the words lingered in the air between them, giving voice to the driving force behind the lonely days, but the spark of hope in his heart fell when he saw Sergei's face.
"I'm sorry."
His eyes burned, shattering the surrounding buildings into watery prisms. The creature in his head whined and paced, offering the only thing it could, the chance to run until his legs gave out underneath him.
"Shit, not here," Sergei hissed, shooting a glance towards the bar. "Keep breathing, whatever, just don't-"
Otabek wanted to sit down on the cold cement of the sidewalk and curl up, sleeping away the confusion and pain of the night. The entire night was hitting him all at once.
"Thank you, Sergei. For everything." He held out a hand. The redhead took it. "My name is Otabek. I think… I think I have to leave now."
"I guess you do. It was nice meeting you, Otabek."
It probably wasn't advisable to drive yet, what with the way his hands shook as they wrapped around the handlebars of his bike, but he revved the engine anyway. Phantom aches burrowed into his arm as he made his way through the dark roads leading back to the cheap hostel. He couldn't fix this. That was the only question that mattered, and it didn't matter anymore. It was time to move on.
Otabek fell into the hard bed, already certain that he wasn't going to sleep before the rough sheets scratched against his cheek. There was no point staying in Russia, now; the lingering hope that staying in the country would increase the chances of finding someone like him had melted into a numb apathy. Somewhere else, then. He could visit his family, stay in Almaty for a few days between full moons, and do his best to apologize. His parents didn't need to know that their son was a bit more (or less) than human, shouldn't have to deal with that burden, but they had sacrificed so much for his skating. They needed to hear something. His other friends were all skaters themselves, used to the coming and going of athletes subject to the whims of fate. Even Yuri would have to forgive him sometime, his mercurial temper cooling, and then Otabek could talk to him. His friend was carrying too much weight on his shoulders already, but he, too, deserved an explanation.
Eventually, his fatigue calmed the storm of his mind.
Otabek woke to the chirp of his phone. Late afternoon sunlight streamed through the thin curtains, warming the stiff blankets. He rubbed his eyes blearily, answering in Kazakh – the call was from his mother, probably. His family was still the only one with the new number.
"Сәлем?"
The line was silent for a moment, save for the rustle of static, before a hoarse voice replied in Russian.
"Is this Otabek Altin?"
"Yes, this is Otabek. Who is this, please?" The man sounded familiar, but Otabek's sleepy ears couldn't place the gruff tones.
"This is Yakov Feltsman. Your father said I could reach you at this number."
"Why-" A heavy stone of dread pressed on his ribs.
"There… there was an accident." Yakov sounded weary, and much older than his sixty-odd years. "We didn't want you to hear about it on the news."
The door to his apartment slammed open, but, all things considered, it was a gentle slam.
"In here," Otabek called – or tried to. His voice wouldn't rise above a hoarse whisper, and even that set off another bout of coughing.
"You look like shit." Yuri filled a cup with water, scowling as he passed it over. "You said you were barely sick today."
"Really, I feel fine," Otabek wheezed, taking a sip to quell the itch in his throat. "The medicine just wore off."
Yuri rolled his eyes and retrieved a bottle of cough syrup from the bathroom, filling the small plastic dose cup. Otabek swallowed it, grimacing at the bitter taste.
"This is probably going to make me fall asleep in a few minutes, just so you know."
"Good. You shouldn't even be up now, you were about to hack up a lung." Yuri dragged Otabek into the tiny living room and pushed him onto the couch. "So, what god did you piss off, anyway? A dog bite before Four Continents, losing your luggage on the flight, and now the actual, literal plague. When you get run over by a bus next week, can I have your bike?"
Laughing meant more coughing. Otabek's eyes watered as he flopped over on the cushions. "Over my dead body," he choked out.
"That's a yes then?" Yuri left the room and returned with an armful of blankets and pillows, which were all dumped unceremoniously on the couch, before settling himself on the floor, legs crossed. Otabek squirmed out from under the mountain of quilts until his head was free and curled up contentedly, watching as Yuri pulled out his 3DS. The medicine had already started to take effect, and sleepiness blurred the edges of the room, softening Yuri's blond hair into a shiny golden cloud.
"'m gonna braid it." He worked his fingers into the silky locks, trying to remember how to do a simple plait, and Yuri leaned back with a satisfied sigh.
The phone's thin plastic casing creaked under Otabek's clenching fingers. No.
"Is Yuri okay?" The whitewashed walls spun around him. "Can I talk to him?"
"Otabek…"
"No, I need to– he –" Otabek's world was crumbling into dust. "This has to be a mistake."
Yakov's voice was thick with grief. "They… he was skating last night, by himself. He must have- he fell. They found him this morning."
Yuri had promised to be cautious when he practiced alone, he wouldn't have been so careless, he wouldn't have fallen because of a stupid accident. It didn't work that way, people like Yuri who burned so brightly couldn't be taken away by bad luck, they couldn't just…
Otabek struggled for breath as Yakov continued, words broken by a muffled sob, about the burial in Moscow, to be near his grandfather's home. He wondered if the coach knew how angry Yuri was, that he'd removed all evidence of their friendship, whether he'd even want Otabek at his funeral.
His funeral. Otabek mumbled something, a thank you or I'm sorry or a wordless moan, and ended the call. He threw the phone, wanting to hear it shatter against the floor, to break into splinters like he was breaking.
Winter in St. Petersburg was cold, but Yuri only pulled up the hood of his jacket and laughed as Otabek buried himself further in his own double-lined coat, shivering.
"Honestly, Beka, it's not that bad out."
"Liar," he mumbled. Talking took energy that could be spent preventing hypothermia.
"Fuck, what did you do in Montreal?"
"Suffer."
Yuri laughed, but he pulled Otabek into a café on the next corner to defrost. He sat down at one of the tables, flexing his stiff fingers in an attempt to coax back enough circulation to fend off the numbness, while Yuri ordered drinks at the counter.
A steaming mug was pushed into his hands, and his fingers brushed against Yuri's as he wrapped them around the hot ceramic.
"Otabek, holy shit, you're like ice. You should have said something when I asked if you wanted to go for a walk, I always forget how cold you get." Yuri pressed his palms (which were warm, almost burning, because somehow the blond never felt the chill, even in the middle of February) against Otabek's. "There's no way Yakov will let you skate in Four Continents next week if you get frostbite and your fingers fall off."
"Don't worry, Yura, I'm fine." He sighed as the feeling trickled down his wrists, pins and needles as the blood began to flow again. "I just forgot my gloves at Mila's place."
That was true. The party had been too much, too fast, with pounding music and so many people crammed into a tiny apartment. When Mila had emerged from the kitchen, face flushed slightly from the drinks (and, Otabek suspected, the visit from Sara Crispino), shrieking about how they had to play Spin the Bottle, Yuri had caught his eye from across the couch and they'd slipped out the door.
Mila liked holidays. She loved Valentine's Day.
Their faces were flushed (from the sudden change in temperature, it was just the warm air in the coffee shop), Yuri's pale cheeks tinged pink, Otabek's cheekbones darkening a few shades under his olive skin. Otabek lifted his hot chocolate for a sip, reluctantly breaking the fiery contact between their fingers.
"So, have you decided on plans for your birthday yet?"
Yuri grimaced, burning his tongue on his own scalding chai. "Grigory is still trying to get me to go bar-hopping with the other skaters."
"That could be fun. Yakov and Lilia probably wouldn't mind too much, since you'll be eighteen."
"It sounds annoying. Grigory is incapable of ever shutting up, and if he throws up, I'm not taking care of him. Besides, I didn't want to leave you out of it." Yuri tried the chai again, and wiped a spot of stray foam from his lip.
"I'm fine with alcohol as long as I don't have to drink it." He had finally stopped shivering, aside from the occasional reflexive tremor. "If I wanted compost juice, there's cheaper ways."
Yuri snickered and stuck his tongue out at Otabek. "You're so gross. But I mean, you're flying back after Four Continents the day before, you're going to be exhausted."
"Oh, right. But I really don't mind." Actually, he minded a little, but Yuri wasn't wrong – he'd want to sleep for a week after the competition, not drag around St. Petersburg all night. The shop was closing, so they finished their drinks quickly and stepped back outside. The air nipped at Otabek's nose and ears, but didn't sink its teeth in this time.
Yuri was quiet as they started to walk, his mood apparently having shifted in the last few minutes. Otabek put a hand on his shoulder, used to his friend's ever-changing temper, though it had mellowed a bit over the past couple of years. When Yuri finally spoke, he was facing away, and Otabek almost didn't catch the muttered words.
"I mind."
"What?"
"I mind. You not being there." He kicked the curb. "Sorry, I'm just… I'm being stupid. It's only another day, we can hang out another time."
Otabek's heart fluttered a little bit. I mind.
"No, Yura, I understand. It's your birthday, and we've barely seen each other for the past few months because of all the training and competitions. I can be there, I won't be that tired."
"I mean, I was thinking maybe… I don't want to spend the night with Mila and Grigory and the rest of them at all."
"What do you want to do?" Otabek's hand, still resting on Yuri's arm, was starting to turn pale as the lingering heat from the café seeped away from his body, and he pulled it back to stick in his coat pocket. Yuri turned and caught his wrist gently, and Otabek still didn't understand how his slim form was an actual, literal furnace in the subzero temperatures.
"Well… we could watch a movie or something. Order shitty takeout. Take pictures of my cat." He breathed on Otabek's fingers, chasing away the chill once more. There were parties across town, but this neighborhood was virtually deserted, without another human in sight as they stopped on a bridge over the canal.
"That sounds nice." The wide grin tugged at his chapped lips, but Otabek didn't care. "I'd like that."
Yuri smiled back, and didn't release Otabek's hand. "You can't have this back," he explained. "It'll freeze into an ice cube and drop off and the seagulls will eat it."
"Sounds reasonable." His ears weren't cold anymore, either, and it wasn't dark enough to hide the flaming blush coloring the tips. The moon hung overhead, perfectly round and silver, reflecting off the water beneath them in undulating ripples. "Wait, Yuri, what's that?"
Something was splashing along the edge, scrabbling against the cement barrier that reinforced the sloping, grassy bank.
"Oh, fuck. Did someone fall in?" Yuri's phone was in his hand already, ready to call the police. Otabek peered more closely.
"I think it's a… dog?" He peeled off his coat. "Hey, hold this. I don't want it to get wet."
"Beka, what-"
"I'm going to get it out. Must have fallen in. I don't think we need emergency services for a stray, and the poor thing must be freezing." Otabek ran to the end of the bridge and edged down the slope, finding plenty of footholds in the frozen earth. The dog growled as he approached, baring its fangs. Its fur was spiky and wet, the tips already crusting over with ice.
"Hey, buddy," he murmured, voice low and soothing. The growling quieted slightly. "Don't worry, I'm not going to hurt you."
He reached out slowly, ready to jump backwards. Yuri's eyes were wide when he gently placed one hand on the thick scruff, humming softly when the animal tried to pull away. "Hey now, just a little more, it's okay." Otabek slipped his other hand behind its front legs, suddenly completely and totally aware of the idiocy of his plan as he hauled the dog out of the water.
Yuri cursed above him as Otabek felt teeth snap shut around his wrist. He collapsed backwards. The dog ran off, hopefully to somewhere warm. He peered at the damage, and within seconds, Yuri was beside him, turning his hand over for a better look, using his cell phone as a flashlight.
"We're going to the hospital," Yuri informed him. "That was the dumbest thing you have ever done."
The bite wasn't deep – just a few scratches, really, but it was a good idea. He let Yuri help him back into his coat, trying not to move his hand too much, where the punctures were starting to burn and ache.
"Idiot." Yuri's eyes were shining. "You're a hero now, you know."
His borrowed suit didn't fit right. It tugged at the breadth of Otabek's shoulders as he hunched over on the hard wooden pew, fingernails leaving half moons in the black fabric that covered his knees. Someone was speaking, but their wavering voice merged with the pounding pulse of his heart in his ears, drowning everything out until he was left isolated with the maddening susurrus of his thoughts.
Otabek didn't know if he was crying, if he'd shed a tear since he'd found out. His nerves were dead, useless chunks of flesh, and he'd made the thirty hour drive to Moscow piloting a body whose muscle and bone no longer seemed his own.
Before the funeral, Otabek had stopped in St. Petersburg and pried the spare key to Yuri's apartment from its spot above the frame and let the door swing open, stepping into the empty living room. Half filled boxes were already scattered across the floor, stacked haphazardly, another reminder of how quickly the traces of a life could be wiped away. Yuri's bedroom was still untouched. Clothes were strewn across the white carpet. A book lay spine up on the unmade bed, pages crumpling slightly against the sheets, half obscured under one of the uncountable pillows that formed a virtual nest on the twin mattress. Otabek had picked it up, smoothed the crinkled paper, and sagged against the bed, burying his face in his hands. It was open to page one hundred and three. He picked up a tiny stuffed cat from the bedside table, where it was nestled between a set of portable speakers and half-empty glass of water, dully surprised that it had been allowed to remain in place, apparently untainted by the crime of its association with him. Otabek placed it gently in his pocket, leaving the apartment, relocking the door and replacing the key.
He didn't remember the drive to Moscow, renting a suit, or finding the church and the crowd of paparazzi vultures hovering outside.
The other mourners were standing up, moving. Someone touched Otabek on the arm, and he blinked up at them, their words muffled in his ears.
It's time to…
He shuffled across the worn stone floor.
It's time to say goodbye.
The chapel was nearly empty – or rather, he realized suddenly, it had never been full in the first place. A dozen people, maybe. They were mostly gone now.
Otabek's legs were made of lead, dragging him to the ground, down and down and under. He took the toy cat from his jacket pocket, smoothed its soft fur, and nestled it into the side of the casket.
As Otabek turned and walked away, tears finally began to fall from his tired eyes.