"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's 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 was still 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."

:: :: ::

:: :: ::

Viktor's eyebrows shot up at Otabek's announcement, and a heavy mixture of joy, shock, and cold dread welled up in Yuri's chest. Only a few weeks ago, he'd been ready to dial the phone himself, but now he forced a reassuring smile.

Otabek sat with his hands folded in his lap, staring down at the carpet, and Yuri realized with a jolt that the cloak of determination that he used to wear like a second skin was back. It had been ragged, shredded by fear and uncertainty, worn with shame instead of pride – but it was more than that, had always been Otabek's soul bared to the world.

It, too, was scarred but healing.

He was healing.

That particular realization hit Yuri like a lightning bolt, hard and sudden and obvious – but somehow he'd missed it, that Otabek was slowly picking up the pieces of himself. That he'd be okay.

"Let us know what we can do to help," said Viktor, flashing a soft smile. "Whatever you need."

"Thank you," replied Otabek. He lifted his eyes for a moment before dropping his gaze again and pulling the nearest cat into his lap.

That was pretty much the end of their first 'family meeting;' Viktor babbled for a couple of minutes about having people over and something to do with chores, but Otabek seemed too shocked by what he'd said to listen, and even if Yuri hadn't been equally distracted, his selective hearing was finely tuned to drown out parties and housework.

Viktor picked up Myshónok and went upstairs, ostensibly to call Katsudon, but obviously with the intention of giving Yuri and Otabek some privacy.

"You really want to do this?" If Yuri had pushed Otabek into this before he was ready, he had to take care of this now.

"Yeah," sighed Otabek. "I think so."

If Otabek thought so, he meant it – it took a lot for him to change his mind. It wasn't the action he was unsure of, but its meaning, and how to go about it.

"Beka… what changed?" Yuri shifted a couple of cats so he could sit closer to Otabek. "Was it talking to Mila?"

"I don't know," he admitted. "Probably. And I- I asked Viktor to talk to people, to find out what the thing was. In Sweden. What happened."

"He found out," Yuri breathed, forcing himself not to move. He wanted to wrap himself around Otabek, hold him tight, but memories of cold skin and hungry, grasping hands might be too close to the surface. "Are you okay?"

"More than I was." Otabek paused again, like his words were nearly past his lips when they decided, of their own volition, not to be spoken. "I- sorry. I should have-"

"You don't have to tell me everything, Beka," replied Yuri. "Just… what you want. I trust you."

Otabek leaned into Yuri, letting Mitya meow his protests at the movement and hop down from his lap. They fit together so well, Yuri thought, as the warm touch of Otabek's breath touched his collarbone.

"I always thought I should have been able to do more," he murmured. "If I changed back faster, got her out of the water. Figured out something was wrong earlier, told her to stay away from the ocean. And then… I passed out, I didn't know what happened, if I'd let it keep attacking people. Or if she was still there somehow, it wasn't too late for her, and I killed her-"

"Beka," whispered Yuri, horrified. It shouldn't have been surprising that Otabek would blame himself for trying to survive (and barely managing – he tried to shut out the image of Otabek, unconscious and vulnerable, of how bad a wound would have to be to leave the sort of scar that twisted across his chest), but whatever he'd expected, it wasn't this. Everything he'd said to Otabek during the terrible first week pushed itself to the forefront of his mind. "Beka, I'm so sorry."

"Nothing I did would have made any difference," said Otabek, looking up at Yuri. His eyes were dark with the past, but a flicker of light insisted that the story wasn't over yet. "What Viktor found… It didn't matter that I was there. I wasn't important. I couldn't have helped." He took a deep breath. "It wasn't my fault."

It all came back to choices. I'm not a good choice, Otabek had said, but Yuri was slowly realizing that what he meant was I can't make the right choice. Except, sometimes, there wasn't one – and anyway, if everyone was measured by their mistakes, there wouldn't be a person on Earth left to judge the rest.

"No, it fucking wasn't," agreed Yuri, in lieu of actually fighting the abstract concept of misplaced guilt. He opened his mouth again, then blinked slowly. "Um. I don't get how this connects."

"People around me kept getting hurt. Her. My family. You," he said softly. "I wasn't thinking clearly, I know that, but it felt like… if I got far enough away, they could go on with their lives without me, they'd be safe. It wouldn't be so bad when I disappeared again, and I wouldn't be- I wouldn't be bad luck." He sighed once more. "And they wouldn't find out what I am. I wouldn't lose them completely."

"We'd never let you disappear." Somehow, the words didn't come out coated in blood, for all they'd torn at Yuri's mouth on their way. Whatever happened, Otabek wasn't allowed to slip away and be quietly forgotten. "Never."

"I know. I… I talked to Viktor a few weeks ago." Otabek ran his fingers through Yuri's hair and leaned back. Yuri felt like he was being memorized, studied, but without any trace of fear that the searching eyes would find him wanting. It was, in that instant, fine to just be him. It always had been, with Otabek. "You're here, sometimes I still can't believe it, that you're actually here. Yura, I would have done anything if it meant you would be okay, and you are."

And fuck, what was Yuri supposed to say to that, except that he, too, was sometimes struck by the same shockwave. Though, to be fair, he'd only been convinced that Otabek hated him for an unknown reason.

"We're both here," he said eventually. Then, because his mouth was a fucking idiot, Yuri heard himself keep talking. "If everything goes well, are you… are you going to go back to Almaty?"

"I hope-" Otabek stopped, frowned. "Yura, no, to visit, but not- I'm staying here. I promised, I'm not going to leave, not if you don't want me to."

"I want you to do what makes you happy," snapped Yuri. It was easier to be angry, to be annoyed. It was safer, and hot, almost so that he could pretend it was melting away the ice frosting the inside of his skin. "If that means being with your family, then yeah, I do fucking want you to leave, but I want to know."

"Yura, being here makes me happy." There was a rasp to Otabek's voice, and Yuri weathered the wave of regret. "You, and Viktor, going to therapy. I'm less of a mess now, and I didn't think that would ever happen. This is home. You've always felt like home."

"I- you- you." Yuri sputtered and wiped at his eyes. "I'm not crying, you're a fucking sap and I really love you and fuck, Beka."

Otabek looked slightly worried, like he thought he'd said the wrong thing. Yuri leaned over and kissed him.

"You've talked to Dr. Schäfer about it?" Yuri asked a minute later, and Otabek nodded, slightly dazed. Sometimes they both forgot that Otabek needed to breathe, which was not a kissing problem he'd predicted. "So… when?"

"Not for a while," replied Otabek. "I tried to do too much, with Mila and Viktor's information, and I'm a little…"

"Out of it?" Yuri suggested. "Comatose? Rattled? Lost in space?"

Otabek chuckled. "That bad?"

"Yesterday, you talked to me for an hour," he explained. Otabek looked nonplussed. "In Shala Kazakh."

"… Oh."

"The day before, you made four cups of coffee in a row and forgot about all of them," Yuri continued. "You put one in the fucking freezer. The fifth time, you didn't even put coffee grounds in, it was just water. I got that spit-take on video."

"Yura," whined Otabek. The tips of his ears were flushing from pink to red, but Yuri could tell he was hiding a grin. "I'm not good at things."

"And then you blamed Zoyenka for distracting you." The memory of Otabek holding the cat like a baby while explaining that she 'had to take responsibility,' and 'yes, I know it's not your fault that you're cute, but that's no excuse' was something Yuri had immediately filed away in the mental category labeled 'Never, Ever Forget.' "Maybe you should have been an astronaut, because you're already a damn space cadet."

"The first werewolf on the moon?"

"Yep. Wait, how would that work, would it just be like a continuous full moon or what?"

:: :: ::

"This part of the city reminds me of Russia," Viktor told Yuuri, surveying the plattenbauen lining the streets of Friedrichshain like concrete dominos. "I lived with my parents in an apartment like that in Yekaterinburg – Sverdlovsk, then – before moving to Moscow, and then another in St. Petersburg."

"Did you come to Berlin before the wall fell?"

"No, just after," said Viktor. "A lot of us did. Everything so was chaotic, no one noticed a few more oddballs around. Many people used the opportunity to get into official positions, which is why Berlin is so… different, from other places." Those few years after settling in Germany had been exhilarating, as he watched the city's border melt into a concrete scar, with fresh ground for new roots as history twisted once again. "Ulrike was in West Berlin before – human, then, of course. She told me that when it was open the first time, she looked in, and it was like looking into a city of darkness."

"Wow," murmured Yuuri. The glow of a streetlamp glinted off his glasses and cast the soft curve of his cheek into sharp relief.

"Yes," Viktor agreed, admiring the graceful line of Yuuri's lips. "Wow."

"Is it- never mind." Yuuri shook his head as if trying to rid himself of a thought that buzzed around his face like a persistent mosquito. "The Olympics start next week, right?"

"Friday." He sighed. "I'm worried about how Yurio's going to handle it. He's… It's the first since he was turned, it's going to be hard for him. Otabek too."

"Oh. Yeah," Yuuri said, looking down at the sidewalk. "Did he skate in the last one? Was he old enough?"

"He won," Viktor replied quietly. "A gold medal at sixteen, and a world record. The other competitions are a bit difficult too, but the Olympics… they're special. Everything else blends together after a few years, but not that."

"Vitya."

"Yes?"

"You're an Olympic athlete."

"Um, yes?" Viktor smiled, desperately trying to figure out the expression on Yuuri's face. "Three times."

"And you never mentioned it."

"It didn't come up," he said, holding the grin to his face like the mask it was. Yuuri was… angry? Annoyed? "It didn't seem relevant, it was a long time ago. I don't think about it much."

Yuuri didn't reply.

"I'm sorry," pleaded Viktor. "If I'd known it would upset you-"

He never would have mentioned it at all.

Who do you want me to be?

"I'm not upset," Yuuri insisted, sounding very upset. "I'm just surprised."

"I don't understand." Viktor winced internally; Yuuri had told him to be himself, but of course he hadn't meant it, not really. Everyone was looking for the right mask. "Yuuri, please tell me what I did wrong."

"Nothing!" Yuuri half-shouted, turning away. "You're you, and I'm… me. I was a mediocre dancer and now I'm an unqualified researcher pretending I know what I'm doing, and I keep waiting for you to realize that."

Viktor gaped at him, lost for words.

"I wanted to pretend I had a chance," Yuuri continued bitterly. "At least until I started to look old. But the only way- even if you wanted that, I don't know if I do."

"Yuuri, I'm not- I wasn't-" stuttered Viktor. He had the sudden urge to call Otabek, to ask him to explain what Yuuri was feeling, to tell him what to say to fix it. "We don't have a time limit."

He knew it was a lie as he said it, and Yuuri did too.

"Don't we?" Yuuri ran his fingers through his hair, which was already slicked into smooth spikes by his agitation. "You're going to look twenty-seven forever, and I'm almost thirty already."

"But I'm not twenty-seven," Viktor protested. "And not changing… people want to grow old together, to grow together. I can't. Do you think I haven't seen that before, someone I care about getting older, going from looking up to me to treating me like a child, because I'll never catch up?"

A pause.

"You thought I'd get tired of you?" Yuuri breathed. "Vitya, I don't think anyone could ever get tired of you."

They could, though. They had. They did, once they realized that there was nothing behind the façade, the empty surprises, the false smiles. Or… there hadn't been, before. He had been dreams and ambitions draped over a self-centered wire frame, but – Viktor prodded at himself, at the idea of who he was, and found substance. When had that changed?

When he'd stopped shielding his heart, let it out of its box and bared it, naked and vulnerable, to the world, and found a family.

"You were going to ask me to turn you," Viktor said, hating the words.

"No. Maybe," Yuuri replied. He adjusted his glasses, took them off, cleaned them on his shirt, put them on again. "I thought about it. I know it's only been a few months, but I wanted… I wanted to think about if we had a future, if we could work, because if we keep going I don't know if I'll be able to give you up. But."

"But?" Viktor wasn't sure he wanted to hear an answer, any answer.

"I don't know what it's like to be a vampire," Yuuri told him. "But right now, I probably know more than anyone on Earth who isn't one. I know the odds, I know what I'd be giving up, and I don't… I don't think I could do that either, even if I had years to decide. Decades."

"I wouldn't do it," Viktor said, steeling himself. The admission hurt like razor wire twining through his veins. "Yuuri, I… did you think about what it would mean? To me?"

"Being stuck with me forever," said Yuuri, sighing. "You couldn't just change your mind."

Viktor sat down on a nearby bench, unable to trust his legs to keep moving him forward, and closed his eyes as Yuuri joined him.

"You wouldn't have heard about it," he murmured. "It's not something we talk about."

"Only once," admitted Yuuri. "From one of our volunteers, I think he's really old, but… privacy. He said- he said you try not to get attached. I asked what he meant, but he wouldn't tell me."

"We can try all we like," Viktor said quietly. "It won't make a difference. Turning someone… it's not something you do on a whim." It had been for him, but it hadn't remained that way for long. "Even if it's- if it's natural, it means staying with them so they don't have to die alone. It means sitting by a grave night after night, hoping they come back, counting every second in your head and wondering how long you'll wait – two days, a week, a month – before you give up, because you can't ever be sure that they will. It means doing everything you can to keep them safe, when the world is full of dangers you've never even considered, and you don't always know what to protect them from. You don't get to choose not to get attached, but you still know you're probably going to fail, that you're going to watch them die again, or worse, you can't even be there for them. It destroys people, to lose someone like that. That's why we don't talk about it. It hurts too much."

Yuuri's face was stricken and twisted with jagged empathy.

"Now imagine going through that with someone you loved before," whispered Viktor, trying not to let him think about just that. "It's not something we do unless there's no other options left. Now… you're young, you're healthy, you're living. And even so, I have to focus on Yura. When I turned him, it was a promise that I would do everything to keep him safe, and I can't get distracted. He needs me. You don't."

"I'm sorry." Yuuri touched Viktor's shoulder gently, and Viktor hid his face in his hands. Maybe it would be easier if they did talk about it, about the fear and responsibility that weighed on each of them. "Vitya, are you okay?"

Viktor nodded. His head felt heavier than it should, unsteady on his neck.

"Just take a minute," came Yuuri's voice, in his ear but far away. "I won't bring it up again. Breathe, slowly."

"I don't need to breathe," choked out Viktor, trying to smile.

"Do it anyway," Yuuri said sternly.

Viktor breathed.

"I'm fine," he said finally. "We're fine, Yuuri. I want to try, like we're normal. I'm not going to get bored or ever think you're any less gorgeous. The rest… we can think about it later. Right now, I wouldn't, I couldn't, but eventually- you might not even want it. Most people wouldn't. If you want decades to decide, I'll give you decades, I'll give you forever if we make this work first."

"I'll gain more weight," Yuuri muttered, smoothing his shirt self-consciously over the delicate curve of his waist. "My family always does."

"And it'll look beautiful on you," Viktor told him, thinking about Yuuri with softened cheeks and laugh lines at the corners of his eyes. "Everything does."

"I'll get wrinkly and my hair will go grey," he continued peevishly, blushing.

"Hey." Viktor pouted, touching his own hair. "Do you think I can't handle Silver Fox Yuuri?"

"I'm going to look just like my dad," Yuuri insisted, but now he was holding back a giggle. "I might start wearing sweater vests."

"Well, your mom still thinks your dad is hot," Viktor replied teasingly, and Yuuri blanched.

"I didn't want to think about that, Vitya." His smile was shaky but present. "So we have a chance?"

"More than a chance," Viktor agreed. "Let's find a park and make out like teenagers behind some bushes. Silver Fox Yuuri has me all hot and bothered."

"Uh, maybe my apartment instead? No offense, Vitya, but your body temperature is about two degrees right now and frostbite doesn't turn me on."

:: :: ::

Otabek watched as Yuri dealt with the Olympics in a quieter manner than he would have expected before they'd come to know each other again: Yuri simply acted as if they didn't exist. For the most part, Otabek did the same, avoiding the topic as best he could and trying to forget his own Pyeongchang bronze medal that presumably was still on display in Almaty.

Yuri made an exception to watch Mila skate. Otabek went for a run and texted her a brief, tentative note of congratulations.

"She had a quad toe in her free skate," said Yuri later, while folding laundry. "She made history."

They paired socks silently for several minutes.
"There was an interview during a break," he continued finally. "A kid from Japan. He broke the world record. With his short program."

The world record. Otabek glanced over at Yuri, who was staring resolutely down at the pile of fabric, uncharacteristically expressionless.

That had been Yuri's record, untouched for years.

"He must have skated very well," Otabek replied carefully. Did Yuri feel like he was being erased, pushed further into the dusty archives of the past? The last time Otabek was in Almaty, no one had recognized him. It had been a bittersweet relief.

"He damn well better have," Yuri spat, but it lacked his usual venom. "I don't know. I don't care. I'm supposed to be upset, but I'm- I don't know. I'd never heard of him, he must have still been in juniors when- yeah."

Sometimes, Otabek decided, it was harder to wait for something to happen than to deal with it when it did. He continued to help with the laundry (mostly by removing various cats and curtailing their path of destruction), and told himself that it was time.

:: :: ::

OA: Hi. Can I call you?

OA: Nothing is wrong. It's okay if you don't want to.

ZA: sry, who is this? i don't have yr #

OA: I'm sorry. It's Beka.