"Hey, Beka. Earth to Beka."

Yuri couldn't help but smile as Otabek blinked at him sleepily from the sofa, looking dazed and thoughtful instead of troubled.

"Sorry. Hi."

Only a little troubled, Yuri amended. They would both be on edge for the next few days, unsteady and raw. He'd have to be careful – Yuri could feel the turmoil in the back of his mind, fireworks of anger and relief, euphoria and guilt.

"I just didn't want you to pass out in your coffee," he said softly, letting his fingers trail across Otabek's back and rest on the nape of his neck. Yuri was tempted to lean in for a kiss, but the sweet-iron taste of blood lingered on his tongue from breakfast. "You didn't sleep."

"I-"

"I'm not letting you apologize for that, dork," interrupted Yuri, flopping across the couch and sticking his foot in Otabek's face to cut him off. "I wanted to know how you're feeling."

The only answer he got was a distracted half-smile.

"Did something else happen?" He'd gotten a brief overview of how it went, and maybe everything was catching up to him again, but his Beka Senses were tingling.

"Kind of."

In a massive display of self-restraint, Yuri refrained from rolling his eyes, because that was all he was going to get out of Otabek until his thoughts had caught up with whatever else was going on.

"Let's go do something," Yuri said, poking Otabek's cheek with his toe. He felt ready to explode, full of nervous energy that had to get out before it cracked, whip-like, against the first available target. Which would be Otabek. Which definitely wasn't allowed to happen. "Skating?"

A shadow passed through Otabek's eyes, reflecting a hint of the same blankness from last night. They'd talked about him, Yuri realized, talked about his stupid fall and the holes he tore in their lives. Most nights, when Yuri and Viktor went to the rink, Otabek joined them later, after Yuri had thrown himself into jumps and crashed against the ice to his satisfaction. Practice was easier when he didn't have to worry about injuries, but they'd agreed that it was better if Otabek didn't try to watch him fall.

Otabek, however, would never ask Yuri not to skate, any more than Yuri would demand that Otabek cut out his own heart.

Part of him wondered if Otabek had forgiven him for taking their true home with him when he died, for staining every patch of ice with the memory of blood and loss.

"Something else, then," Yuri continued, biting back a rush of guilt-laden irritation that Otabek wouldn't (or couldn't) just say what he needed, leaving Yuri to tiptoe through a minefield of guesswork – but that wasn't fair, he reminded himself, especially not when it was him saying that. "A run. Go out far enough from the city that we can go as fast as we want."

"Sure."

"You don't have to, you can stay home and nap or whatever. I just… I have to get out before I get grumpy. Grumpier. And Viktor wants me to talk to Mila before she flies out in the morning and- ugh," he summarized, staring up at the ceiling. It was going to be another long night. The full moon was the following day, too, and no matter what Otabek said, Yuri didn't want him trying to do that with no sleep and running himself into further exhaustion. "So yeah."

"No, a run sounds good," replied Otabek. A flicker of amusement broke through the fog of distraction. "Think you can keep up?"

"I can leave you in the fucking dust, Altin."

:: :: ::

Yuri could not, in fact, leave Otabek in the dust.

"What the hell, that's not fair," he grumbled from his spot on the frozen ground. "I'm faster than you."

He was faster – Otabek's jaw would have dropped when Yuri burst into a sprint, had he not been so focused on catching up – but vampires were built for a quick, decisive hunt instead of endurance. After several kilometers, his movements had become heavy and lethargic, and by the end he'd stumbled to a halt, shot a glare at Otabek, and sat down on the ground.

"The dust, huh?" Otabek lifted an eyebrow and kicked at the edge of the deer trail they'd been following. It was too cold and damp for dust, but a few crumbs of dirt were enough to illustrate. Yuri cursed.

Moving had helped. To some degree, it always did, softening the thoughts swirling through his mind enough that he could begin to untangle them.

"You fucker," Yuri grumbled, "you're barely out of breath. You're carrying me back to the bike."

"I'm sweaty, do you mind?"

"Do I look like I care? Besides, I'm freezing."

A trickle of unease crept down his back, distant as a dream. Yuri was Yuri, body heat or no, even if getting used to that had taken more than a bit of adjustment, but the memory of the thing – the celeste, he reminded himself, it wasn't a mystery anymore – was closer than it had been since he'd first seen Yuri running through the streets of Berlin.

However, Yuri was looking at him with green eyes, not slush-grey, and the tips of his pointed canines were made for piercing instead of tearing. It was impossible to forget that Yuri could be dangerous, could be deadly, but to Otabek, he was the safest person in the world.

(Yuri and Viktor had, in all likelihood, saved his life – Otabek held no illusions about how much longer he could have managed on his own – but more than that, they made him care that it had been saved. He'd been afraid of Yuri for several heart-shattering months, and he never would be again.)

Otabek pulled Yuri to his feet, not bothering to stifle his groan when Yuri hopped on his back and stuck icy hands under Otabek's light jacket.

"Yura," he whined, though the patches of cold on his chest were already lukewarm, "was that really necessary?"

"Yep." Yuri laughter was a breath of cool air against his ear. "Body heat communism, Beka."

"Thievery, more like. Will you be okay on the bike?" No matter what Yuri said about vampiric durability, Otabek wasn't going to risk him falling asleep on the road.

"I'm not that tired."

"Then why am I carrying you?"

"Because."

"Well, Yura-" Otabek definitely did not yelp, even a little, when Yuri snickered and licked his neck. And, if he had, it would have been totally justified because Yuri's tongue was just as cold as the rest of him. "Why."

Yuri replied by kissing Otabek just under his ear.

"Neither of those on the bike," he said with a smile. Yuri was trying to distract him, and even if it wasn't altogether effective, Otabek appreciated the effort. "I'd drive into a tree."

They managed to avoid incidents on the ride home, and Otabek thought about the motorcycle beneath them with a tinge of sadness. It was a good bike, but it wasn't his, the one he'd given to his sister in the beginning of the after – it was only a tool leased to help him find Yuri. He'd hung onto it, rationalizing that it was money he expected to spend on lodging, and Viktor wouldn't take a euro of rent. If Otabek was being honest with himself, it was a fallback for when things inevitably fell apart, when Yuri decided that he wasn't worth the pain, stress, and effort.

Trust was hard to relearn, a melody he'd been taught in childhood and forgotten along the way, one he was now struggling to pick out with fumbling fingers. It was easy to have faith in Yuri, but believing in himself was infinitely more difficult.

Otabek didn't need an escape anymore, and he didn't need the drain on what was left of his savings.

If he could pick up more German and shake the constant, nagging sensation that he was wasting time – or if he knew there was no point in saving money – he might be able to get something more permanent.

:: :: ::

Yuri dropped his motorcycle helmet onto the kitchen table (Viktor and Otabek both continued to insist that he wear one) and raked his fingers through the blond nest of his hair. It was, on the whole, a bit of a miracle that whatever magic kept vampires going also stopped them from freezing solid. The fatigue from their run wouldn't begin to fade until he'd eaten and rested for a while, but it could wait.

"I'm gonna take a shower," he told Otabek. "A long one."

"Warming up?"

"Before I start to sweat," Yuri muttered darkly. The cold was an issue, but imagined memories of ice and darkness had begun to bother him less. Thermodynamics, however, hadn't gotten the message. Otabek tipped his head, a gesture that echoed his wolf form enough that Yuri had to blink once or twice. "Okay, look."

He yanked a glass from the cabinet, filled it with ice water, and plopped it onto the table.

"Don't drink it. Just watch."

As he stepped under the hot water, Yuri wondered whether Viktor would actually drag him out of the bathroom and make him go talk to Mila, or if he was exempt for as long as he refused to put on clothes.

No, Viktor would simply nod and ask Mila to come around to the house, knowing that Yuri would rush out to meet her to avoid giving Otabek even more to worry about – however well their last meeting had gone, no part of the past couple of days had been easy. And, if she did come over, Mila would have no compunctions about following him into the bathroom, nudity or no.

Better to grit his teeth, deal with whatever conversation Viktor had arranged behind the scenes, and get it over with on his terms.

Otabek was gazing at the glass of ice water when Yuri made his way back down to the kitchen. He ran a finger through the beads of condensation that had formed on the outside.

"Sweat," he murmured. "This didn't happen before."

"It's colder, I was out for longer, and you weren't close enough to keep me warm," explained Yuri, opening the fridge. "So yeah, sweating."

His period of defrosting had been long enough to give Otabek time to eat and take his own shower; dishes dripped in the drying rack beside the sink, and he'd changed into a faded green t-shirt and pyjama pants.

"That's my shirt," Yuri informed him.

"Those are my pants."

They were, in fact, Otabek's pants.

"No, they're not," said Yuri, sticking out his tongue. "Are you gonna sleep?"

Otabek shrugged. "I'll try."

Yuri opened his mouth to make a joke about knocking him out so he'd get a few hours of sleep, something they used to tease each other about during the jetlagged days before and after competitions, but it wasn't funny anymore. Someone – many someones – had hit Otabek, as evidenced by the now-familiar roadmap of scars. Yuri would like to hunt every single one of them down and make them regret it, but in the meantime, he'd refrain from joking about adding another one.

"If I get too pissed off talking to Mila, I'm probably going to avoid you until I calm down," he said instead. "I don't want to yell at you for something that's not your fault just because I'm in a bad mood."

Otabek nodded, then yawned.

"When is moonrise this time?"

"About three in the afternoon," replied Otabek. "I'm going to try to be out there by noon. It'll set just after seven in the morning, so I should be back by noon."

Yuri could order food and have it waiting for Otabek when he came back, but he wouldn't be able to answer the door because fucking sunlight. He could ask Katsudon to bring something over, so Otabek wouldn't have to cook. Or… Yuri could cook. It wasn't something he'd done for years, as there was no one to eat it and the idea taunted him with loss, but he used to enjoy it.

He made a mental note to pick up a frozen pizza at the supermarket, just in case.

Otabek drank the water that had still been sitting on the table.

"That was my metaphor, Beka, you can't drink my metaphor."

:: :: ::

Yurio didn't say hi as he unfolded himself and climbed out of the car, but Yuuri decided that his half-hearted sneer counted as a warm Plisetsky greeting.

Viktor's eyes lit up when he caught sight of Yuuri standing outside the apartment complex, arms wrapped around himself as he tried not to shiver in his light jumper. The sparkle in his blue eyes brought an ember of warmth to Yuuri's cheeks, and an ache of doubt to his chest.

This wasn't just fun anymore, a relationship that could be enjoyed and left behind. Maybe it never had been – but before Yuuri would let himself put words to it, he had to decide how much of his heart he was willing to lay on the line. After all, they would never be able to grow old together.

"Backpack, котёнок," Viktor reminded Yurio, who slung the bag over his shoulder without protest. "Say hi to Ulrike for me."

There was no sign of Otabek. The moon must be full behind the pearly grey clouds that coated the sky.

Viktor wasn't bored yet, and Yuuri wasn't old yet. There were translations to look over, kisses to steal when Phichit glanced away.

:: :: ::

For Otabek, the next week passed in a blur. Everything felt off-balance, as if the world had taken a step to one side without him noticing. Yuri was quiet. His thoughts were loud. Dr. Schäfer spent an hour asking him what if, what if, what if, and for the first time, Otabek thought he might be able to answer her – not yet, he wasn't there yet, but sometime.

He wrote letters, what felt like dozens of pages, and sent a couple. Aisulu's twins turned two years old. Otabek picked up his phone, put it down again. He borrowed Yuri's laptop to look up German classes, and ended up browsing through music courses offered by local universities before pushing the computer away with his rising panic.

There was a family meeting.

"It's okay, I'll just wait," Otabek said, when Yuri reminded him.

Yuri rolled his eyes, softening the gesture with a smile.

"No, moron, you're supposed to come too."

"Oh," replied Otabek.

"I know, it's stupid."

"I don't think it is," said Otabek thoughtfully. Communicate. "Viktor's idea?"

"No."

They sat around the coffee table in the living room. In a fit of pique, Yuri insisted on rounding up all five cats – he was obviously stalling, but neither Viktor nor Otabek did more than chuckle as Yuri did his best to line them up on the sofa.

"I called Grandpa," Yuri said finally, hugging Zoyenka to his chest. "I told him… I told him I thought it was better if we didn't visit Moscow this month. That I'm too distracted right now."

Otabek remembered what Yuri had explained before, about how traveling meant days in a modified tractor trailer, constantly on alert in case something went wrong. An accident on the highway, in broad daylight, would be a disaster. The truck might be stopped at the border and searched. When they reached their destination, nothing could be left to chance: every window of Nikolai's house had to be checked and secured, and Yuri could not let himself be seen – his face was still familiar in Russia, especially on the Moscow streets where he'd grown up. There wasn't time to be lost in thought.

Distracted meant careless. Careless meant stupid. Stupid meant dead.

Yuri's hands were balled into fists, and Otabek's heart ached for him. He knew what it felt like to miss family, and Yuri ached for his grandfather. They spoke on the phone several nights a week, but it wasn't the same.

"I think that's a very wise decision," Viktor said gently. "I'm proud of you."

"Whatever," snapped Yuri, then softened. "He said… his back's been better, after the surgery. He thinks he could come here. Maybe. He's going to talk to his doctor."

They discussed logistics for a few minutes before turning to Otabek.

"I-" He stopped, fumbling for the words that had been ricocheting around his mind, taunting and teasing. "I think I want to talk to my family."