NOTE BEFORE READING: This chapter features mild violence (of the slapping variety) and touches on the topic of past child abuse, although it's mainly just strongly implied at the moment. The abuse will be explored more deeply in a future chapter, but I thought I should give a heads up anyway.
Chapter 5
Grandpa had fallen down a flight of stairs. A freak accident.
No one actually saw what happened. The best guess was that he'd been lugging a couple of heavy grocery bags up to his third floor apartment when he lost his balance, hitting his head several times on the way down and breaking his right leg and neck. A neighbor who heard the commotion called for the ambulance, but by the time they'd arrived at the hospital, it had been too late to do anything for him. He was declared dead on arrival.
Yuri went numb the moment he ended the call, his arm falling uselessly to his side as his cell clattered against the tiled floor. Otabek, hearing the noise, walked over and picked it up for him, asking Yuri who was on the phone, but all he could do was move his mouth, his voice muted. To say the words aloud, to declare his grandpa was dead, would make it all too real.
Mila was the one who finally pried it out of him, guessing a couple of different scenarios until he nodded in confirmation. She threw her arms around Yuri, hugging him tight. "Oh, I'm so, so sorry, Yura…"
After embracing him and giving his own condolences, Otabek offered to take care of their travel arrangements, booking tickets on the next available flight to Moscow and arranging for a car to meet them at the airport. Yuri didn't remember accepting, but he must have, since Otabek headed back to his apartment next door. Mila stayed behind and began packing Yuri's suitcase for him.
Yuri did…nothing. He collapsed on the couch, barely even noticing when Potya crawled on his lap and began butting his head against his chin.
It was his fault. He should have tried harder to get Grandpa to move to a new apartment when he offered to pay for one after signing his first major sponsorship deal a few years ago. That old building had been no place for an elderly man with a bad back to live, but Grandpa had absolutely refused to move, not wanting to leave the place he had called home for over forty years.
If only he had been more insistent…
"Yura." Mila came out of his bedroom, moving to stand right in front of him. "Yura, which one of these suits do you want to take?" she asked.
Yuri forced himself to look up. Mila was holding up his two best black suits. "I…uh… I don't care," he said. It was the most he had spoken since he got off the phone. "Pick whichever you think I should wear."
"Oh, okay." She looked over the two choices. "I think this one is more appropriate for the occasion." She indicated the one in her left hand, the custom Armani he had splurged on after the Olympics. "Is that okay?"
"Yeah."
Mila started to head back to his bedroom when Yuri abruptly stood up, knocking Potya off his lap. "Wait, give me those," he said, taking the suits from a surprised Mila's hands. "I can take care of my own packing."
"Are you sure?"
Yuri nodded. He needed to snap out of it. There would be time to grieve later. Right now it was more important to focus on making all the necessary arrangements for the funeral. After all, it wasn't as if he could leave it up to his mother.
His mother.
Shit, it would be up to him to break the news to her, wouldn't it? His stomach churned, dreading the thought of seeing her for the first time in years, but he would just have to suck it up and set his feelings aside for Grandpa's sake.
"Is there anything else I can do?" Mila asked. "Anybody I can call?"
Like my mother? he thought ruefully, wishing he could leave it up to somebody else.
"Um, could you maybe call Gosha?" Yuri asked instead. "Ask him to check on Potya and pick up the mail while we're gone?" Potya wasn't the biggest fan of Georgi, but their former rinkmate was the only person he could think of who lived nearby who might be available to ask last minute. Yakov and Lilia were going to be busy over the next week with Yakov's annual summer training camp, so he didn't want to bother them. "You should probably call Yakov, too, let him know that we won't be able to help out with the camp," he added.
"Yeah, sure. Of course."
After giving Yuri another hug, Mila went back to her own apartment to make the calls.
Yuri carried his suits back to the bedroom, hanging them from the hook on the back of his door before looking through the open suitcase on the bed to take inventory of what Mila had already packed. A couple of nice dress shirts, some nightclothes… He still needed socks and underwear, maybe some sweats? Grandpa's apartment would have to be packed up before they left, so bringing along some comfortable clothes was probably a good idea.
Yuri walked over to his dresser, his eyes falling on the framed photograph sitting on top, one of the few pictures he had on display in his apartment. It had been taken when Yuri was still a novice, at the competition where he won his very first gold medal. Back then, he had yet to be discovered by Yakov, coached instead by a young woman, Maya, who once made it to Junior Nationals but never advanced any further. Grandpa had had very little money to pay for a proper costume, so he had made one for Yuri himself, taking an old tiger-striped T-shirt of Yuri's and sewing hundreds of black sequins on top of the stripes for his "Eye of the Tiger" program.
Tears started to well up in his eyes as Yuri stared at the image of Grandpa standing beside him, looking much younger and healthier than he had in more recent years. He still remembered the pride on his grandfather's face when he ran up to him after the medal ceremony and showed him the shiny gold medal hanging around his neck. When he had confidently declared it was only the first of many gold medals he was going to win, Grandpa hadn't laughed at all, ruffling his awful bowl-cut hairstyle and saying he looked forward to watching Yuri win all the gold medals…
"No, pull yourself together," he muttered to himself, swiping a hand over his cheek before slamming the picture face-down and yanking open the top drawer to grab some socks and underwear at random.
He needed to keep busy.
Continuing to make a mental list of the things he needed to do, Yuri gathered the necessary items from around the room and tossed them on the bed. He was in the middle of rolling up a T-shirt when he heard a soft knock on the door.
"Yura?" The door creaked open, Otabek's head popping inside. "I got us seats on the 6:00 flight to Moscow," he said. "A car will pick us up when we get there and take us to your grandfather's apartment."
Yuri nodded in acknowledgement, cramming the T-shirt inside the over-stuffed suitcase. Years of traveling around the world for competitions had taught him all the tricks to packing as much junk as possible inside only a couple of pieces of luggage. He had probably packed too much, but he wasn't sure how long they would stay. "Thanks."
"Mila also got a hold of Gosha. He sends his condolences and says he'll take care of things while we're gone, so you don't have to worry about Potya."
"Good."
A long pause followed. Yuri sensed Otabek's eyes staring at him from behind, but he pointedly ignored it, continuing to pack his things as if he wasn't there. He didn't want Otabek's sympathy, not right now. Not when he was barely keeping his head above water.
Still, he heard the sound of footsteps as Otabek ventured further into the room, his hands gently resting on Yuri's upper arms as he came up behind him.
"Yura… I…"
"It's like I said before, shit happens." Yuri swallowed, his eyes burning from the tears that threatened to fall. "He was an old man. I always knew he wasn't going to be around forever."
"But –"
"I'm fine, Beka," he lied, sniffling. "You should start packing your things, too. We'll need to leave for the airport in a couple of hours if we want to make the flight."
"Okay." Otabek's voice was barely above a whisper. "I love you, Yura," he said, kissing the back of Yuri's head.
Yuri simply nodded, resuming his packing as Otabek left the room.
Yuri was glad Otabek had booked them plane tickets instead of suggesting they drive to Moscow or take the train. He didn't think he would have been able to survive a long trip at the moment with his sanity intact. As it was, he spent the short flight from St. Petersburg to his hometown playing games on his Switch to distract himself, ignoring the concerned looks Otabek and Mila kept giving him from their seats across the aisle.
The car Otabek had hired to pick them up at the airport when they landed drove them straight to his grandfather's apartment building.
When they arrived, Yuri immediately grabbed his luggage from the trunk and headed inside without waiting for Otabek and Mila, only to pause when he encountered the staircase leading up to the upper floors.
His grip tightening around the handle of his suitcase, Yuri swallowed hard as he stared upwards. He had climbed up those same stairs hundreds – maybe even thousands – of times over the course of his life, never suspecting they would one day play such a tragic role in Grandpa's death. With his free hand, Yuri reached for the wooden railing but found himself unable to take the first step, his feet glued to the linoleum floor. Images of Grandpa tumbling down the stairs flashed in his mind like some sort of psychic vision, so vivid that he had to close his eyes and remind himself they weren't real.
"Hey, Yura, you okay?"
He jumped upon feeling Mila's hand upon his back. "Y-Yeah, I'm fine," Yuri lied. "Just waiting for you slowpokes. Come on."
Using every bit of strength he had, he forced his legs to move, Otabek and Mila following behind him as he trudged up the staircase one step at a time up to the third floor.
When they finally reached the door to Grandpa's apartment, Yuri lifted his fist on instinct to knock before remembering there was nobody there to answer. He brought his hand back down and fumbled around for the keys in his pocket, the keychain falling to the floor when he tried to pull it out.
Wordlessly, Otabek bent down to retrieve them, handing the keys back to Yuri, who somehow managed to unlock the door without further incident.
The apartment… It looked the same as it always did.
Yuri didn't know why that surprised him. Of course it would look the same, but… Setting his suitcase down on the floor by the couch, he looked around the living area in a daze, wondering if maybe there had been some sort of a clerical error. Maybe the doctor who had called him earlier had gotten Grandpa mixed up with some other Nikolai Grigoryevich Plisetsky, one who also happened to have a grandson named Yuri Nikolayevich. They were common enough names.
After all, Grandpa couldn't really be dead, not when there were still breakfast dishes in the sink, soaking in dirty water to be washed and put away later. Not when the Sunday newspaper was scattered over the kitchen table, some of the pages cut up from where he had clipped coupons for groceries. Not when there was a stack of unopened mail on the coffee table, Otabek's handsome, unsmiling face gracing the cover of the latest issue of International Figure Skating magazine, and a half-drunk cup of tea on one of the end tables, sitting next to a lamp that he had forgotten to turn off when he left.
Surely, Grandpa had only stepped out to run to the store to buy some last minute items he had forgotten to purchase earlier and would return in a matter of minutes, apologizing profusely for not being there to welcome them when they arrived…
"Yura… Yura?"
Becoming aware of Otabek's voice calling his name, Yuri clenched his hands into fists at his side and pushed the forbidden thoughts out of his mind. Grandpa was dead. No amount of living in denial would change that fact, and he needed to accept that, no matter how difficult it was to believe.
"What?" he asked, turning around to look at Otabek and Mila, who were still standing at the door.
Otabek held up the suitcase in his hand. "I was asking if it was okay if Mila and I took your grandfather's room. If you would rather we didn't, we don't mind, but –"
"Don't be stupid. A pregnant woman can't sleep on a fold-out couch." On the occasions when they had visited Moscow with Yuri in the past, the two of them usually either slept in the living room on the ancient sofa bed or stayed in a nearby hotel, the three of them refusing to let Grandpa give up his own bed for them on account of his bad back. "It's not like he's here to use it. Take it."
Otabek and Mila exchanged a look before he took her suitcase as well and headed down the hallway to Grandpa's bedroom.
While he was gone, Mila took it upon herself to start clearing off the kitchen table, tossing what was left of the newspaper into the recycling bin. "Is there anything you need us to do?" she asked. "I can cook us some dinner if you want, or we can help you cle—"
"We need to cover the mirrors." Yuri wasn't typically one to believe in silly superstitions – that was more Mila's kind of thing – but his grandfather had always been a big believer in following the old customs and traditions. "Stop all the clocks, too."
"O-Oh, okay. Do you have some black cloth?"
Yuri checked the linen closet in the hallway, Mila following after him. Unless Grandpa had thrown it away sometime over the past few years, he was pretty sure he had a black sheet set they could use… "Here." He shoved the flat sheet into Mila's hands while grabbing the two pillowcases for himself. "You and Beka can cover the one in his room. Take the batteries out of the alarm clock, too. I'll deal with the mirrors in the bathroom and my room."
It didn't take long for Yuri to cover up the mirror on the medicine cabinet and the small round mirror on top of his dresser. Afterwards, he went around the apartment, taking the batteries out of all the clocks as well.
By the time he finished, he found the other two in the kitchen, Otabek handwashing the breakfast dishes while Mila prepared a quick dinner. The half-drunk cup of tea had been taken away, the coffee table cleared of the mail and magazines.
Sighing, Yuri took a seat on the couch, pulling out his phone. He should probably start calling people – make the funeral arrangements and inform Grandpa's friends about what happened – but he couldn't find the energy to do so, staring blankly down at his lockscreen.
It can wait until tomorrow, he decided, using the excuse that it was already late, after seven o'clock. Instead, he unlocked the phone and started mindlessly scrolling through his Instagram feed.
Respecting his privacy, neither Otabek nor Mila had posted anything about his grandfather's death, for which Yuri was grateful. It should probably be up to him to make the announcement, anyway. He searched through his gallery and pulled up the last photo of Grandpa and him together, taken on New Year's, yet as when Mila announced her pregnancy, the words would not come to him, Yuri typing a sentence or two before backspacing, hating everything he wrote.
In the end, he settled for using a grayscale filter on the photograph, posting it along with the caption: Rest In Peace, Grandpa, along with his birth and death dates. It wasn't anywhere near a proper tribute to the man who had meant so much to him, but it was the best Yuri could do at the moment. He turned off notifications, then powered down his phone as well. Though it was well after midnight in Hasetsu, there was always the chance that Viktor or Yuuri were up, taking care of Nikita, and he wasn't in the mood to talk to either of them right now.
"I'm gonna go to bed," he announced, placing his phone facedown on the coffee table and standing back up.
"Already?" Mila asked. The pan sizzled as she turned over a piece of chicken. "Dinner should be ready in about another five minutes."
"I'm not really hungry."
"But you haven't eaten anything since break–"
"I said, I'm not hungry," Yuri said in a rougher voice, stuffing his hands into his pockets. "I'm tired, okay? Just leave me alone for awhile."
Mila looked ready to protest, but Otabek reached for her arm and shook his head. "Okay, good night, Yura," he said, Mila echoing him a few seconds later.
"Yeah, 'night," Yuri mumbled.
He headed to his childhood bedroom and crashed face first onto the small twin bed, not even bothering to change out of his clothes or brush his teeth. Crawling underneath the covers, he closed his eyes and hoped that when he woke up the next morning, he would discover it was all a bad dream.
"Dammit, dammit, dammit!"
Yuri unraveled the knot in his tie for the fifth time, growling in frustration. His fingers refused to cooperate, every attempt to knot it resulting in him looking like a drunkard who had gotten dressed in the dark – which wasn't far from the truth when his mirror was still covered in a black pillowcase, preventing him from accurately seeing what he was doing.
He was in the middle of his sixth attempt when he heard a soft knock on his bedroom door. "Yura, are you ready?" Otabek asked. "We need to leave soon if we want to get to the church on time."
Was he ready to say his final good-byes to his grandfather, the man who had raised him on his own, who had sacrificed so much so that Yuri's dreams could come true?
No. One hundred percent not at all.
"In a sec," Yuri called out instead. "I just need to finish knot– DAMMIT!"
Otabek entered the room, walking over to the bed where Yuri was sitting, undoing his tie knot once again. "Here, stand up," he said, holding out his hand for the tie.
Yuri did what he was told and handed the tie over, Otabek raising an eyebrow at the tiger-print but otherwise not commenting on it as he upturned the collar of Yuri's dress shirt and placed the tie around his neck.
Perhaps tiger-print was a bit flashy for a funeral, but Yuri didn't care. The tie had been the last present his grandfather had given him, sent to him for his twenty-first birthday. Besides, Grandpa wouldn't care what he wore to his funeral. He had always encouraged Yuri to express himself in his fashion, even if he seemed a bit baffled by Yuri's love of guyliner.
"How are you holding up?" Otabek asked as he began expertly tying the tie in a classic Windsor knot.
"Fine. Just dandy." Otabek again raised an eyebrow, and Yuri sighed, looking away. "Okay, I guess," he said. "Ready for this day to be over already."
"I still can't believe he's gone." Finishing the knot, Otabek pulled it upwards and smoothed down Yuri's collar. "He was a good man."
"Yeah..."
"Did you ever manage to get ahold of your mother?"
It had been tough finding his mother's current contact information to inform her of the news. The phone number he found in Grandpa's old address book was no good, her address out-of-date. He tried sending an e-mail, but it had bounced back, recipient unknown. In the end, Yuri had to resort to searching for her on social media, though she wasn't active on most of the popular platforms – at least, not under her birth name. (Maybe she had gotten married? Yuri found that hard to believe, though. She wasn't exactly the marrying type.) Even the Facebook account he found for Aleksandra Nikolaevna Plisetskaya seemed to be long abandoned, although he sent the message anyway, for his grandfather's sake. Yuri had no desire to see her, but he knew Grandpa would want his daughter at his funeral.
Yuri shrugged. "I sent her a message. Don't know if she got it or not, though. She hasn't sent back a reply."
"Well, you tried your best."
There was another knock on the door, Mila poking her head inside. As was custom in the church, she had covered her bright red hair with a lace scarf. "The car's waiting downstairs," she announced. "We should probably get going."
"Yeah, okay."
Yuri grabbed his suit jacket from the closet, slipping his arms through the sleeves. He then followed Mila and Otabek out of the apartment and downstairs to the car, accepting the hand Otabek offered to him as they were driven to the church a few blocks away. He didn't let go until they entered the nave of the church.
Yuri couldn't even remember the last time he stepped foot inside his grandfather's church. It must have been before he moved to St. Petersburg to train with Yakov, so he had probably been around nine or ten? It hadn't changed much since then, still ostentatiously beautiful, with paintings and icons of the saints covering almost every inch of the walls and a large chandelier hanging down from the domed ceiling. There were no pews, so they made their way to the front of the nave near the iconostasis, occasionally stopping to exchange greetings and condolences with mourners Yuri only vaguely recognized from his childhood memories.
One person, however, was conspicuously missing. Yuri looked around the room, but there was no sign of his mother among the gathered mourners. Maybe she hadn't read the Facebook message he sent? Yuri couldn't find it in himself to be too disappointed by her absence. Like Otabek had said earlier, he had done his best to locate her and tell her what happened. That was all anyone could ask of him. If there was such a thing as an afterlife, Grandpa would surely understand.
Otabek placed a hand on the small of his back. "Hey, you okay?" he asked in a low voice, noticing Yuri's distraction.
"Y-Yeah, I'm fine."
At least he was until about a few minutes before the service, when a blonde woman in her late-thirties arrived, accompanied by a scruffy-looking guy in a wrinkled, ill-fitting suit. She caught Yuri's eyes only for a second before glancing away, latching onto the man's arm as they came to stand on the opposite side of the nave.
It was only the fact that he was in a holy place of worship that Yuri held back from voicing the litany of profanites running through his mind.
"Is that her?" Otabek asked.
Yuri clenched his hands into fists at his side. "Yeah."
"Your mother?" Mila craned her neck to get a better look at the recent arrivals. "Wow, she's really beautiful. You look just like her, Yura."
That didn't make him happy at all. "Maybe on the outside," he scoffed.
"Oh...sorry."
"Whatever."
Yuri turned his attention to the icon of the Theotokos, the Virgin Mary, beside the Holy Doors and tried his best to ignore the fact he was in the same room with his mother for the first time in almost a decade. It was a day to honor the memory of his grandfather, not to dredge up painful childhood memories of the woman who had abandoned him. He could suck it up and deal with being in her presence for a few hours.
He had to. For Grandpa's sake.
After the burial, Yuri hosted a small reception at Grandpa's apartment. He and his mother had yet to speak, ignoring each other at the church and the cemetery, which was perfectly fine by him. He knew they were going to have to talk at some point, if only to exchange fake pleasantries, but until that time, he worked his way around the room, forcing himself to make small talk and accept condolences from the other mourners.
When he had spoken to every other person present and refreshed the tray of cookies one of the neighbors had been thoughtful enough to bring, Yuri realized he couldn't put if off any longer. He waited until she was alone, inhaling when he saw the shady guy she with leave her side to check out the refreshment table. "I'm going to go talk to her," he announced to Otabek and Mila in a low voice.
Otabek reached for his arm. "Do you want me to go with you?"
Yuri shook his head. This was something he needed to do on his own. "No, I'll be fine." One short conversation, and then they could go back to pretending the other didn't exist, as they had for the majority of the past fourteen years.
Otabek didn't seem quite convinced, but he let go of his grip on Yuri's arm.
Yuri steeled himself and approached his mother by the fireplace. She was sneaking a swig from a small flask she had hidden in the pocket of her black blazer, coughing on the drink when he came to a stop in front of her.
"Mother."
The last time they had spoken in person, when Grandpa had been admitted to the hospital with a bad case of pneumonia the summer before he began competing as a junior skater, Yuri had been roughly the same height as his mother. Now, even though he wasn't a particularly tall man by society's standards, he towered over her petite frame.
"Yura." She brought the flask down to her side, craning her neck to look up at him. "You've grown."
"Yeah, that tends to happen in one's teenage years."
An awkward silence fell between them, neither knowing what else to say to each other. Yuri cursed the tiny part of him that wanted her to hug and comfort him like a normal mother would, but he had long ago realized what a futile wish it was to hope that she would ever give a damn about anything other than sex and alcohol.
"It was a nice ceremony," his mother said, finally breaking the stalemate. She took another sip from her flask. "Coulda used more booze, though."
"Seriously?" Yuri snatched the flask from her hands, sniffing the contents. Whiskey, by the smell of it. "For the love of – It's not even noon."
Although he was beginning to wish he did have some alcohol on hand…
She rolled her eyes, yanking the flask out of his hand before twisting the cap back on and putting it in her pocket. "God, you sound just like him."
"Who?"
"…Papa."
For a brief moment, Yuri felt a flicker of sympathy toward her, an unfamiliar look of sadness – or was it regret? – crossing her face. It disappeared as soon as her date came up to her, whispering something in her ear that made her giggle. She squealed as he grabbed her ass, slapping it before leaving again without even bothering to introduce himself to Yuri.
Prince Charming, he was not.
"Well, I see you still have the same shitty taste in men."
His mother arched an eyebrow. "And I see you still have the same filthy mouth."
That was rich, coming from her. "I learned by example."
"Maybe so. It doesn't look like your taste in men is much better than mine." She nodded in the direction of Otabek, who was chatting with Mila and one of Grandpa's friends from the factory only a few feet away. Well, more like Mila and the old man were talking. Otabek didn't seem to be paying much attention to the conversation, staring over at Yuri instead. "Where did you find him? He looks like a low-life thug."
Yuri clenched his fists at his side. "Beka's not a thug. He's the Hero of Kazakhstan, the current World Champion."
"He's a skater? Sure doesn't look like one."
"He's also not my boyfriend, not that it's any of your damn business."
"O-Oh." She seemed surprised. Over the past couple of years, as Yuri had grown more comfortable with who he was, he'd been open in the press about his asexuality and his unconventional relationship with Otabek and Mila. If his mother didn't recognize them, then that meant she hadn't followed his career at all. "Then the girl…" Her eyes dropped to Mila's stomach, her small bump visible underneath her black sheath dress. "She's pregnant."
"Congratulations. You have eyes."
"Yours?"
"That's not any of your business either."
She scoffed. "Not my business? I'm your mother. Don't you think I deserve to know if I'm going to be a grandmother?"
Yuri stepped closer toward her, lowering his voice so that the other guests wouldn't overhear. "You forfeited that right when you decided to give me away to Grandpa just so you could keep fucking some married asshole who never had any intention of leaving his wife."
His mother sharply inhaled, but she didn't say anything, not even attempting to defend herself.
"How long did he even stick around after you got rid of me?" he asked. "A month? Maybe two?"
"Yurochka, this is hardly the time or place to discuss this," she whispered, clearly agitated.
Yuri no longer cared. He'd been keeping his feelings bottled up for fourteen long years, keeping a tentative peace for his grandpa's sake, but with him gone, there was nothing stopping him from finally confronting her. "Don't call me that – not like you actually give a damn about me. I heard everything that night, Mother." He said the last word in a mocking tone, as there was no one less deserving of the title in his eyes.
"What on Earth are you talking about? What night?"
"Maybe this will refresh your memory." Leaning so that his mouth was right next to her ear, he recited the words that had broken his young heart so many years ago. "'Why not? I never wanted him anyway. I should have abor–'"
She didn't let him finish, shoving him away. "I-I was just saying what Vanya wanted me to say," she said. "I didn't really mean it. Don't take it so seriously."
"You expect me to believe that? Really?" Yuri hated that his voice cracked, taking a moment to compose himself before continuing. "No. No, it was the truth, wasn't it? You meant every single word of it. Otherwise, you would have tried to get me back when he finally dumped your sorry ass."
"Why, you little bas—"
She raised her hand, but on instinct, Yuri grabbed her wrist before she could make contact with his cheek. The two of them stared at each other in a silent battle of wills until Otabek and Mila walked over, a hush falling over the rest of the room.
"Is there a problem, Yura?" Otabek asked, touching his elbow.
Yuri took in a deep breath before relaxing his grip on his mother's arm; it was only then that he realized he had been trembling. "No, no problem," he said, his voice hoarse as beside him, Mila placed a comforting hand on his back. "Mother and her…date were just leaving."
"You're kicking me out of my own father's funeral reception?" she asked in disbelief, yanking her hand away. When nobody stood up for her, she smoothed down the fabric of her dress, and her eyes narrowed. "Fine. I know when I'm not welcome." She looked around the room. "Where is Anton?"
"I believe he went downstairs for a smoke," Otabek said.
"Thank you," she said curtly before turning to leave.
"Wait."
Mila's hand left Yuri's back as she stepped forward. "You forgot something," she said, his mother pivoting back around.
"What?"
"This."
With lightning fast speed, Mila's hand smacked his mother across her cheek. She didn't even have time to defend herself as Yuri had, the sharp slapping noise reverberating throughout the quiet of the room as she stumbled backwards, crashing into another one of Grandpa's old buddies.
"You BITCH!"
The old man – Yuri remembered he was a retired police officer – kept a firm grip on her arms, his mother struggling to break free as Otabek quickly positioned himself in front of Mila and Yuri, his arm stretched out to the side.
"No, you're the bitch," Mila yelled, Yuri surprised by the pure venom in her voice. He had seen her get angry before, but never to such an extent. There was something visceral, almost primal, in her reaction, and Yuri found himself holding her back as well, her entire body vibrating with fury.
"Mila, stop," he begged. Not because of his mother – frankly, she had gotten what she deserved, as far as he was concerned – but he didn't want anything to happen to Mila or the baby. "It's okay."
"No, it's not!" By that time, Mila was crying, twisting around to look at him. "She's your mother. She's supposed to love you the most, but she –"
Yuri glanced away. He had never wanted them to find out, especially not like this.
"Let me go, Vladimir Petrovich," his mother said, still trying in vain to get out of Vladimir's grasp. He may have been old, but he had kept in shape even after his retirement. "Aren't you a cop? Arrest her! That slut assaulted me. Can't you see I'm the victim here?"
"I think it's time for you to leave, Sasha," Vladimir said in a soft, yet commanding, voice. "Kolya would be so heart-broken to see you like this."
Grandpa's name did the trick. She stopped putting up a fight, her shoulders slumping as Vladimir slackened his grip on her arms. The haunted look from earlier returned to her face, but that time, Yuri felt no sympathy toward her at all. A still-crying Mila wrapped her arms around his waist, and Otabek let his arm fall back to his side, judging the threat over.
Wordlessly, Vladimir began leading Yuri's mother toward the door.
They hadn't gone far when Otabek stepped forward. "Ms. Plisetskaya?"
She came to a stop, although she didn't turn around. "What is it this time?" she asked. "Are you going to slap me, too? Haven't I suffered enough of this humiliation?"
Yuri had no idea what Otabek intended to do either. He had yet to see Otabek's face since Mila's attack on his mother, but Yuri sensed a tenseness in his back that was difficult to read. "Beka…?"
Otabek ignored both Yuri and his mother's questions. "For the record, in answer to your earlier inquiry, the baby is ours. All of ours," he said in a low voice that was outwardly calm, but tinged with an underlying cold anger that sent a shiver up Yuri's spine. "You, however, will not be involved in any part of her life. I – no, we – will not allow you the opportunity to hurt our daughter like you've hurt your son. Don't you ever contact Yura again. If you do, I will make certain you live to regret it. Is that clear?"
At that, Yuri's mother finally turned back around. She looked past Otabek, however, staring over his shoulder at Yuri. Though he was tempted to look away, Yuri forced himself to meet her gaze one final time, letting her know that he agreed with everything Otabek said. If he ever saw her again, it would be too soon.
"Crystal," she said before shrugging Vladimir's hand off her arm and pivoting back around to leave.
The moment the door slammed shut behind her, Yuri released the breath he didn't realize he had been holding. Mila tightened her hold on him as Otabek walked back over to them.
"Are you two okay?" he asked softly. "Milasha, your hand…"
"It's fine, it's fine. Don't worry about me. But Yura…"
Yuri pulled Mila's arms away, breaking free of her suddenly suffocating embrace. "I-I have to go," he said, already heading in the direction of the door.
"Yura, wait." Otabek's hand wrapped around his wrist. "Where? You still have guests."
He didn't give a fuck. Now that everybody knew his secret, the last thing he wanted was to stick around and listen to people whisper about him behind his back. Playing host wasn't his thing, anyway. "You take care of them," he said, yanking his arm out of Otabek's grasp.
After grabbing the key to his grandfather's car from its usual hook, Yuri left the apartment, the door slamming close for the second time in a row. He hurried down the stairwell and made his way to the parking lot out back.
He exited the building just in time to see a white Lada Riva badly in need of a good washing swerving past him, giving him a glimpse of his mother sitting in the passenger seat. The asshole she had brought as her date blasted the horn, Yuri flipping them off with both hands while screaming what he should have said earlier.
"STAY THE FUCK AWAY FROM ME, BITCH! I NEVER WANNA SEE YOU AGAIN!"
It didn't make him feel any better.
He looked around the parking lot, searching for Grandpa's car. It wasn't hard to find, the old jalopy sticking out like a sore thumb amongst the fleet of sleeker, more modern cars surrounding it. Yuri jogged over to where it was parked, unlocking the door on the driver's side and sliding behind the wheel.
Other than Yuri, the teal Moskvitch 444 had been his grandfather's pride and joy, the first – and only – car he'd ever bought. Though Yuri offered several times to buy him a brand new one once real money started coming in from his skating and endorsements, Grandpa had always declined, insisting that "Katya" suited him just fine, that he wasn't about to dump her for some flashy new model when she had stood faithfully by him for so many years.
Yuri slid the key into the ignition and turned it, only for the engine to sputter for a couple of seconds before dying.
"Oh, for the love –" He tried it a second time, muttering, "Come on, come on, come on…" under his breath as the engine briefly came back to life. It died a second time a few seconds later, however, Yuri violently swearing as he slapped his hand against the car horn. "You have got to be fucking kidding me!"
This was not what he needed at the moment.
He smacked the steering wheel a couple of more times, letting out a few choice expletives before getting back out of the car and yanking the hood up to look inside.
Not that it did any good. Yuri had no idea what he was supposed to look for, his mechanical skills limited to pumping gas and maybe changing a tire in a pinch. Mila, the daughter of a mechanic, had tried to teach him some basic skills when he had been given his Mercedes as a reward for his Olympic gold medal, but he hadn't paid much attention to her lessons, figuring he could just pay someone to take care of crap like that. Nothing was smoking, at least. That was a good sign, right?
He slammed the hood down and swore again, banging his fist against the top. "Fucking piece of shit!" What was he supposed to do now? No way in hell was he going to return to the apartment until every last guest had left. He could go for a walk, but his feet already ached from standing so much during the Requiem Mass and burial, having forgotten that he hadn't yet broken in his new dress shoes.
"Yura!"
Hearing Otabek's voice, he turned around. "You're supposed to be looking after the guests."
"Everyone decided it was best to go home."
Indeed, looking around the parking lot, Yuri noticed several familiar faces walking back to their cars, a couple shooting him pitying glances as they passed by. He was tempted to flip them off, but instead, he sighed, crossing his arms over his chest as he leaned back against Grandpa's car.
"We asked them to respect your privacy," Otabek continued. "I don't know if that will be enough to stop anyone from going to the tabloids, but..." He placed his hands on Yuri's upper arms. "Are you okay?"
Yuri wished he would stop asking that. Of course he wasn't okay! Nothing about what had happened over the past few days was okay.
"The fucking car won't start."
"Did you check the gas guage?"
"Of course I – Uh, no," he was forced to admit, realizing he hadn't.
Otabek opened the door and climbed into the driver's seat to check. "Yeah, it's on empty," he said, manually rolling down the window. "Might be a leak somewhere. You should have Mila take a look later. I know motorcycles. Cars are more her expertise."
"Yeah, okay." Yuri had no idea what he was going to do with Grandpa's car, but even if he decided to sell, he supposed it was kind of important for the car to actually work.
Otabek jerked his head to the empty seat beside him. "Get in."
Yuri rolled his eyes. "I told you, the car won't start. You said yourself it's on empty."
"Doesn't matter. Just get in."
"Fine, whatever." It beat standing outside in the summer heat, ignoring the stares of departing mourners and getting more blisters on his toes. Yuri hopped in on the passenger side and leaned back in the seat. "I don't want to talk about it," he said before Otabek even had a chance to broach the subject. Yuri knew he probably had a lot of questions, but he wasn't ready to talk about his mother.
Not yet.
"That's fine. Take as much time as you need," Otabek said, reaching over and placing his hand over Yuri's. His thumb rubbed soothing circles over Yuri's skin. "I'm here for you, though, okay? Me and Mila both. Whenever you're ready."
"Yeah, I know," Yuri said in a softer voice, head falling against the window pane. "Thanks."
DISCLAIMER: "Yuri! On Ice" doesn't belong to me.
AUTHOR'S NOTES: I hope you enjoyed this chapter! The next chapter should hopefully be posted in early April.
Feel free to follow me on Tumblr! My username is kaleidodreams.
