I'm sooo sorry for the huge gap in updating. Here's a 6.5k word chapter to make up for it.

CW: mentions of sexual assault, self harm, alcoholism, abuse. Discussions of racism.

The address wasn't one he recognised. His quick, ever-messy handwriting spelled out "11a Coastwood Road" on the back of his hand, and every five minutes or so he would glance between that and the Google Maps display on his phone to check that he was going in the right direction. The neighbourhoods of this town were like mazes; meeting at weird points, cutting you off where you least expect it, sending you in the entirely wrong direction and only realising it when you end back where you started. Viktor thanked luck that he didn't live too far from the school. Otherwise he would be the one turning up late every day, and it would be hypocritical for shouting at his students for doing the same exact thing.

He also quickly realised he was lucky for where in the town he lived. Sure, their apartment wasn't huge, and the walls needed a fresh coat of paint when he and Yuuri had moved in, but it was at least clean. The windows were in one piece. No crude graffiti covered their front door.

As Viktor drove further from town centre and into the suburban areas, subtle differences became more apparent and he found himself wanting to avoid the streets that were thrown into shadow by the high rise walls. Suspicious glances were aimed towards large groups that approached his car, fists clenched on his steering wheel, his neck was beginning to hurt with how excessive his hand-phone glance routine had become in desperation to find the right street. He wished he had thrown on his cheap jacket rather than his name-brand overcoat.

Finally, finally, after three illegal U-turns and an exotic variety of curses aimed towards his phone, he caught sight of the street sign he was looking for and let out a relieved breath. Even the sign made him cringe with its peeling paint and the cans of beer that lay strewn around it. It was also mostly covered in weeds and brambles- no wonder he drove past it several times- and someone had demonstrated their artistic abilities by changing "Coastwood" into "Cockwood".

Viktor sighed slightly. It was almost 4pm. As long as he was home by 6 at a push, Yuuri wouldn't suspect anything. He could see Yuri's house a short distance away, but for some reason he hesitated and felt like it would be better to just sit and… observe for a moment or two.

He leaned back in his seat, eyes fixed on the stretch of road, and waited.


Yuri felt empty. Not sad, not angry, not even aware of the blisters on his feet that had formed during his and Otabek's walk to his mothers. Just empty. A hollowness was clawing at his insides and he wanted nothing more than a cigarette or another drink or Otabek to fuck him somewhere gross and dingy.

He glanced at his friend, noticing the distant look in his eyes, and not for the first time that day wished he had never bothered to ask for help.

He wouldn't be in this situation if it wasn't for me. The words kept repeating in his head, and no matter how much he tried to distract himself by digging his nails into his arms, they wouldn't be silenced. Probably because they were true. If it wasn't for Yuri and his useless breakdowns, Otabek's father wouldn't have caught them sleeping in the same bed, and Otabek wouldn't be running for his life.

Maybe Otabek was angry at him? Maybe that was why he had been silent for almost ten minutes now? It would make sense- everyone was mad at Yuri at some point, just because he and Otabek were friends didn't mean the Kazakh was immune to how annoying and pathetic he was.

Yuri dug his nails in harder and kicked the ground.

His mother would be waiting at home. She would be calm when they walked in- she always was- but the liquor bottle in her hand would be enough proof that she was far from relaxed and happy. She would smile and show off her disgusting teeth, stand up shakily, and either smash the bottle over his head (providing there wasn't any precious liquid left inside) or hit him across the face with her hand. Always the right hand. It was covered in brass rings and hurt ten times more.

Then she would ask who the boy with him was, probably say something racist regarding Otabek's appearance, and disappear down the pub for the rest of the night.

"Bitch." Yuri muttered under his breath at the thought. The crescent indents in his arm had started to hurt.

"Hmm?" Otabek's deep hum almost made Yuri flinch and he blinked up in anticipation. "What was that?"

"N-not you. My mother." Why the fuck was he stuttering? Was he nervous? Of Otabek?

The Kazakh simply nodded slightly in response and the simple action made Yuri's heart sink into his stomach. He hung his head and fell a few paces behind.

Without any warning the emptiness had been replaced with something weird. Something almost foreign. Usually he didn't care about what his mother did to him; he was used to other people hurting him almost as much as he was used to hurting himself. A cut to the temple healed as easily as hand-shaped bruises around wrists. Yet thinking about going home, thinking about Otabek probably feeling annoyed and shitty and it being entirely his fault, send goosepimples across his arms and shivers down his spine. At least it made him feel something, he supposed, but it also made him feel vulnerable and he fucking hated it.

Yuri Plisetsky was anything but weak. Weak people wouldn't have survived 16 years of being beaten and neglected and hated by those who were supposed to protect. So why, all of a sudden, was he feeling an emotion he barely had any recollection of?

He was just about to return his nails into his flesh when he walked into something- or someone- solid and strong. His breathe caught in his throat and he looked up, expecting to see one of his mother's old creepy boyfriends for some fucking reason, but was met with Otabek's piercing stare. And god, did that man know how to stare. Yuri wanted to raise an eyebrow and straight right back but his friend's firm brown eyes were too overwhelming.

"What is wrong?" Otabek voice was gentle, although that was obviously because he was exhausted and not because he actually cared.

"Nothing". Came Yuri's reply; his instinctive answer to the rarely-asked question.

Otabek pressed his lips together. "Bullshit."

"Fuck you." Yuri's eyes widened. "Sorry."

"Sorry? For what reason?"

"Swearing at you."

Otabek frowned, eyes scanning over Yuri's face. He seemed torn between hugging the blond, asking what he was on about, or just shrugging it off and continuing their walk to Yuri's shitty neighbourhood. Eventually, once the silence was verging on becoming awkward, he settled on a simple statement. "You swear all the time."

That, apparently, wasn't the best thing to say.

Yuri gasped slightly. He took an unsteady step back, then another, looking as if he wanted to run away before he steadied himself and wrapped his arms across his torso in a protective stance. He desperately avoided Otabek's eyes and looked around them as if surveying for danger.

Even as he was doing these things he was aware of how weird he was acting. Like a kicked puppy or a frightened child. He wanted to scoff at his behaviour, wanted to roll his eyes at the way his body was trembling, but his brain wouldn't co-operate and he could barely move. He remained frozen in place, caught between fight or flight. A useless punching bag yet again.

He couldn't even see Otabek anymore. Not because he had vanished, but because Yuri's vision had glazed over and memories of past beatings were clouding his vision. The time he had to walk himself to the ER at five years old because one of his mother's boyfriends had kicked his ribs in. The time he had collapsed from hunger and pain and a concussion and had missed three days of school. The many, many times he had forced himself to walk through his front door, knowing that a bottle around the head would be ready to greet him.

Sometimes the verbal abuse hurt more. Of course he already knew he was useless and deserved to die, of course his mother would have been better off had he fell onto a train track as a child, but it still stung whenever she slurred the same old insults at him. Those words were the reason why he had started to hurt himself. Punish himself.

Fuck, did he wish he had a blade now.

Perhaps Otabek was talking to him. Perhaps he had said fuck it and left. Yuri was oblivious to everything around him; all his brain insisted on showing him was the images of bruises and cuts, all he could feel was the fear that had forced itself into his unconscious. If he hadn't mentally checked out he would be able to feel Otabek's strong arms holding him upright, since his knees had given out somewhere around the memory of boyfriend number 4 threatening him with a cigarette lighter.

Centuries seemed to pass before Yuri became aware of slight disturbances around him, tiny things that his senses caught on to. A whisper into his ear. Breath against his cheek. A pressure around his waist, a pressure that he gratefully sunk into because even in his ruined state he could tell it was a lifeline. His chin was pressed against something cold and metal and he was vaguely aware of an empty feeling in his stomach. There was a sense of nostalgia about his state, and it was the realisation that he had also blacked out a few days prior in front of Nikiforov that finally lifted him from his half-conscious slump in Otabek's arms.

"I've got you, it's okay, I've got you." Otabek was whispering into his ear, one hand stroking blond hair and the other wound tightly around Yuri's waist. Yuri gradually pushed himself upwards as the strength returned to his legs and he blinked up with wet eyes, searching for any anger in his friend's face, expecting to see fury and rage but instead only finding a confusing mixture of care and concern.

"Are you going to hit me?" The words were out before he could stop them; usually he would grimace at how frail and pathetic his voice sounded, but those concerns were far away. His heart was pounding far too loudly to hear them.

Otabek blinked a few times in surprise, then gently took Yuri by the shoulders and pushed him back slightly to get a closer look at his face. He looked over his features: chapped lips, undereye bags, tear tracks straining his flushed cheeks, the stray strands of hair that stuck to his forehead. And finally, his eyes, big and wet and full of pure, undiluted sadness.

"I… No, Yura. Why would I hit you?"

"Because I'm bad." The Russian's voice was scarcely above a whisper.

"Yura. Look at me." Otabek placed his hands on the side of Yuri's face, encouraging eye contact, and smiled when green irises met brown ones. "I would never hit you. No matter what. Okay?"

For a few seconds Yuri looked confused, then sceptical, and then finally accepting. He nodded slowly and forced himself to take a few deep breaths. "But, I… The whole reason we're here is because of me. If I hadn't come to you last night, or-"

"Hey, no, this isn't on you. You came to me for help. It's my father's fault for being a prick. Right now we need to focus on getting to yours and up to your room without incident, and when your mother leaves I'll make some tea. We'll be okay. Aren't we always?"

Yuri nodded. He couldn't disagree on that. Despite how much most of them had been through, they were still surviving, still clinging onto the last remaining threads of hope that they got from each other.

"Yeah. Okay." He took a deep breath. "Let's go and face the bitch."


Emil Nekola was high. Michele Crispino had initially refused to get high along with him, but after visually seeing the stress leave his friend like smoke from a fire, he had grabbed the blunt with a grimace and inhaled deeply.

A little too deeply. It burned his lungs and he spluttered like a moron. Emil had laughed and Michele was trying to not whack him across the head.

The second drag had burned a little less, and by the fifth his anger felt dulled and he found himself grinning along to Emil's stupid jokes.

"Dude, we should totally, like, do this more often." The messy-haired teen giggled and leaned back against the dirty brick wall. They were behind an old supermarket, surrounded by garbage and weeds and crumpled beer cans, and the scent of urine lingered in the air. Other than the occasional delivery van pulling in, they had remained undisturbed and peaceful.

"Just cause you're high doesn't mean you have to talk like a stoner." Michele responded in his usual irritated manner, however the smirk across his mouth was clear evidence that he wasn't really annoyed. In all honesty, he hadn't felt this relaxed in weeks. Months even. Before, he has regarded Emil as a "classmate only" kind of guy. Someone he wouldn't consider hanging out with outside of school. But Emil had made up some excuse about not wanting to go home and Michele was temporarily stuck with him.

Which turned out to not be a horrible experience, really, minus the burn in his lungs and the slight headache forming in the back of his skull.

Plus… Emil was a huge gossip. As someone who kept himself to himself, Michele tended to miss out on the drama surrounding the other fuck-ups in their class, whereas Emil couldn't keep his nose out of a good story even if you paid him.

"You heard about what happened to Leo the other day?" As if on cue, Emil raised an eyebrow in Michele's direction, details already on the top of his tongue. Michele shook his head. "He freaked the fuck out in the lunch hall, dude. Y'know that scary teacher who patrols around the hall to make sure the little kids are eating their greens or whatever? Yeah, well he shouted at Leo, and he did not appreciate that one bit."

"What happened?"

"Leo's got that problem with zoning out, right? Like, his brain totally just" Emil made a vague gesture with his hands "stops working sometimes. That's why he stares into space like a weirdo. Anyway, he started screaming after he got yelled at, and then completely blanked and refused to move. Sat there for hours. Eventually the nurse and the counsellor guy had to practically carry him out the hall."

Michele raised an eyebrow and hummed. He didn't really talk to Leo much. Or any of the other people in his class, unless he absolutely had to. Of course he kept a stern eye on his sister- Sara was his responsibility and she was under extra careful watch considering she had been acting out lately- but other than her and Emil he mostly minded his own business. Meaning he wasn't too educated about the personal issues of his fellow classmates.

"Do you know what happened to Leo? Like, why he's fucked up and in E2?"

Emil almost grinned, happy to show off the knowledge his nosiness had gained him. "He's got, like, hardcore PTSD 'coz he witnessed someone get murdered in Mexico when he was a kid. Been fucked up ever since and copes with shit by zoning out or hurting himself." The brunette shrugged. Michele noticed that his tone was one of nonchalance, almost deadpan, as if he were reciting the school rules rather than talking about a teenager's trauma and mental illnesses. "Teachers in regular classes couldn't cope with him so he got put in E2. He ain't too bad, though, just a bit damaged. There's worse people."

Beside him, Michele took a final drag of the blunt and then stubbed it out on the sidewalk. The sun was beginning to set and a chill had settled, however neither man looked like they were ready to leave.

Of course Emil had treated trauma like a casual conversation topic- why would they be shocked by it when leaning against a dirty dumpster in the cold seemed better than being at home?

"Yeah. There's worse people." Michele agreed and brought his legs up to rest his chin on his knees. "Who's the worst, would you say? Yuri? JJ? Mila?"

Emil shook his head, a small crease forming between his eyebrows. "No. They're violent and loud, sure, but predictable. Insult JJ's ego and you know he'll snap at you, Mila will start an argument if you look at her wrong, Plisetsky is the most fucked up 16-year-old I've ever met, but I doubt he'd do anything drastic other than shout or toss a chair around the room or punch Leroy if he's being a prick." He ran his hands through his hair and began to worry his lip between his teeth.

"That's true."

"Now, Seung-gil on the other hand…"

Michele looked at his friend incredulously, eyebrow raised. "Lee? Seriously? He's the worst one in the class?"

"Him and Otabek. They're just… They freak me out, y'know? No-one knows why they're in E2, or why they're fucked up, or anything about them. It makes me uncomfortable. Not knowing."

"I suppose it's kinda creepy how quiet they are. Seung-gil's been here almost six months and I still don't know if he can speak English or not. Otabek constantly looks like he's either going to burst into tears or start punching your face in. Or both simultaneously; that'd be interesting to watch." Michele laughed, but it was dry, humourless. The light-headed sensation that the weed had caused wasn't appreciated as much when they were talking about depressing things.

"I'm waiting for 'gil to freak out and smash a window or something." Emil stood up suddenly and brushed himself off. Goose pimples had spread over his arms and he decided to make the most of his remaining energy to drag himself home. Otherwise he and Michele would end up sleeping underneath a dumpster lid, because god knew they didn't want to go back to their families.

Michele followed his actions and stood up, too. And then decided to push his luck a little. "Freak out? Kinda like you did earlier?" A cringe spread across his face as soon as he said it, but luckily Emil didn't seem upset.

"Dude, that was so fucking mental. I'm so embarrassed it's ridiculous. But, hey, can't really blame me when Christophe was talking about sexual assault and I knew I had to go home to my dad later."

Emil laughed then. It was full of its usual life and warmth, and the smile on his face seemed so genuine that Michele thought he had heard wrong. It was only after they had separated and he was sober again did the Italian re-imagine the scenario thoroughly, and came to the conclusion that either Emil was just really good at faking laughter, or his friend truly was mentally damaged beyond repair.

The latter wasn't unlikely. After all, they belonged to E2.


Neither of them knew how they had managed to waste an entire afternoon, but the setting sun left no doubt that it was well into the latter part of the evening by the time Yuri's street came into view. Everything was the same as it usually was; no recent robberies had resulted in car windows being smashed in or trash cans set alight, but Yuri's skin crawled all the same. He found himself glancing down every alleyway, looking behind him every few steps, as if someone was hiding in the dead shrubbery that lined the inner sidewalk.

Paranoia was a bitch.

"You know phantom pain? Like, when amputees feel pain in body parts that aren't there anymore?" Yuri asked suddenly, raising an eyebrow at Otabek.

"Um… yes?"

"I'm getting, like, phantom pain, but for abuse. The closer I get to my house, the more I swear I feel the ache of a black eye and fucked-up ribs. Maybe it's a sign of what's gonna come when we walk through that door." For a second it looked as if he was going to try to laugh sarcastically, but he chose to sigh tiredly instead.

Otabek placed a hand on Yuri's shoulder and said nothing. What could he say, really? That it was going to be okay? Even though his own heart was beating with the knowledge that he could also get hit when they faced Yuri's mother?

He'd never met her before. He had an idea of what she was like from Yuri's descriptions of her, and he had seen the bruises that Yuri often came into school with, but an idea in his head was always different from reality. Walking into his house, making eye contact with the woman who had caused his friend so much pain, was bound to bring an onslaught of emotions that Otabek had no idea how to deal with.

His own home life was shit, but by now he was used to the slurs his father would shout at him and the cold looks he got from his mother whenever they were in the same room together. Never had they shown him any love or affection or acknowledgement that he existed other than hitting him when he done something even resembling wrong, but Otabek had one thing that Yuri didn't: money. Otabek could afford food and a jacket to cope through cold weather. If he cared about himself enough to, he could buy bandages and creams to treat his cuts; he didn't need to steal like Yuri did.

They say that money can't buy happiness, but if the highlight of Yuri's day was eating lukewarm food that Otabek brought in for him, then money had a lot more emotional worth than people wanted to admit.

"In advance, I'm sorry for what my mom is going to say about… you." Yuri mumbled regrettably. "She's very… well…"

"Racist?"

"Yeah."

"I hardly expect hospitality from your mom, Yura, it's okay. I'm used to stuff like that."

Frowning slightly, Yuri stopped fixating on a suspicious looking alleyway and turned towards his friend. "Really? Who from?"

"Oh, y'know, old shopkeepers. Kids in school. Jean-Jacques once asked me why I wasn't fluent in Mandarin and our at-the-time-teacher had to drag me out so I wouldn't punch him." A warm laugh left the Kazakh, who was entertained by the memory. It was a strange sound in Yuri's neighbourhood. Yet not unwelcomed. "Things were alright in Kazakhstan. Everyone was small and Asian, most of us were Muslim, so I would be lucky to get a second glance. Here I'm different. They think I'm an easy target."

"Easy? You? Beka, I've seen you angry once, and it was enough to know that I'd never want to get on your bad side." Yuri returned a small smile. The two of them took a small path down to the back lanes of the houses; Yuri thought it might be safer to come through the back door because his mother wouldn't expect it. Element of surprise or some shit.

"Yeah. Well." Otabek quickly took Yuri's hand in his and gave it a light squeeze. "It would take a lot for you to get on my bad side."

They were nearing Yuri's house. Otabek didn't know this because he recognised the building, having never visited before, but the way Yuri's breath hitched and how he kept clenching and unclenching his fists showed how anxious he was. And the anxiety was catching; Otabek's own palms were becoming clammy. He didn't have a good feeling about this.

Yuri could practically feel the atmosphere become icy as soon as the familiar outline of his house came into view. He hadn't faced his mother for the past 4 days. Which also meant not checking on Grandpa. Fear was contending with overwhelming guilt and he was starting to think turning around and finding a bench the two of them could nap on would be the safer option.

Still, he ignored the voice in his head that screamed for him to run, and pressed onwards.

Pass their junkie neighbour. Pass the old post office that had fallen into disrepair long ago. Pass more empty beer cans, more graffiti-covered walls, flurries of glass that carpeted the pavement.

His house looked like all the others: sad, grey, dirty. The gate had rusted and would creak horribly if he opened it, so instead he threw a leg over the disgusting metal and heaved his aching body over ungraciously. Otabek followed suit and did the same.

Then they stood, frozen, in front of Yuri's back door, and the Russian had to take a few deep breaths to stop himself from throwing up in knee-length grass beside the path. Logically he knew his mother couldn't do much- Otabek would protect him whether Yuri wanted him to or not, but that didn't stop the fear, or the dread, or the overwhelming feeling of being so fucking vulnerable.

There was no point in dragging it out for longer- best to just get it over with. Yuri took a deep breath and turned the door handle, wincing at the way it squeaked, and apprehensively stepped into the house. He didn't check to see if Otabek was behind him. Part of him hoped he had bailed out last minute and was on his way home.

Most of the time he would be relieved to not be immediately shouted at as soon as he stepped through the door, however now the eerie silence unnerved him. His mother wasn't in the living room, although new liquor bottles showed her presence nonetheless. A blanket was hastily thrown over the couch. Another weird man must have slept around recently. Grandpa's medication was fortunately in its usual place on the shelf above the half-broken television, but that was nowhere near enough to comfort him and convince him that everything was okay.

"Beka?" Yuri dared to whisper, heart beating too loud to hear Otabek's footsteps.

"Right here." Otabek lightly squeezed Yuri's shoulder to show that he was close, he wasn't going anywhere, he wouldn't leave Yuri to face her on his own.

Maybe she's gone out. Yuri hoped and prayed to a God he didn't believe in that she was already down at the pub, getting pissed and trying to sell herself for money to buy more alcohol. That way, he and Otabek could disappear upstairs and as long as they made no noise his mother wouldn't check his room.

He took a step towards the kitchen. Then another. And another.

When he was younger, he and grandpa used to bake brownies from cheap butter and eggs and cocoa powder in their tiny kitchen. Those memories were some of the few that made him smile. Back then, before grandpa got sick and his mother started drinking heavily, the walls were a sunny yellow colour and a few of his playschool crayon drawings were stuck to the fridge with ABC magnets. Their cupboards were never full, but they were getting by, and the air freshener was always filled with a lavender scent.

Now the walls had been stained to a disgusting beige and counters were scorched from cigarettes. The cupboards were rotting and falling apart. His mother had burned his drawings many years ago. The only scent that lingered now was that of alcohol and tobacco.

That scent was strong now and could be detected from outside. It made him sick to his stomach; a reminder of the pain he had suffered while curled up in the corner after a beating. Scars littered his fingers from smashed glass that he had to pick up from the filthy linoleum floor whenever she got angry and started throwing bottles.

Eyes squeezed shut, teeth biting into his lip, Yuri took a final step and walked into the kitchen.

In full view of his mother, who was sitting on the counter with a bottle in hand, and an unidentified man who looked disturbingly pleased to see him.

"He's just as beautiful as you said he was."

Yuri opened his eyes in fear and instinctively wrapped his arms around his head, expecting a blow, but none came. Otabek appeared at his side and discreetly rubbed circles into his lower back, but no act of comfort could silent Yuri's screaming head or quell the fear that burned in his veins.

The man was tall, tanned, with creases in his forehead that made him look permanently angry. He wore a dirty-looking vest top paired with equally stained sweatpants. Beside him, his mother sat drinking and glaring at Yuri.

"Where did you go? You left your grandpa in such a state. I thought you weren't coming back, so I told him so, and the poor man nearly had a heart attack." She tutted through her smirk. "Bad Yuri. Selfish Yuri."

Yuri gasped, feeling his blood leave his face as an overwhelming dizziness came over him. Of course he had never meant to hurt grandpa- he just wanted to get away for a bit! He just wanted to drink himself to oblivion and make the thoughts stop!- but he had failed to consider the health of the only family member who meant anything to him. Maybe grandpa was going to get even worse now, and it would all be his fault.

The grin on her face suggested she was lying, that she only wanted to scare him and make him feel like shit, and Yuri could admit that she had definitely succeeded. Yuri hoped with everything he had that he was lying. Grandpa had to be okay. Grandpa was one of his only reasons to stay alive. If grandpa died because of him, Yuri would give up without hesitation.

"I missed you, Yurachka." The snake-like grin hadn't faded and her eyes remained locked on his even as she took another swig of her drink.

Yuri felt anger from the tips of his ears to his toes; he wanted nothing more than to scream at her, to hurt her back as much as she had hurt him, yet he could barely manage to breathe. It was as if someone put a plug in his brain. The chemicals from all of his emotions were building and building until he could barely think.

"But never mind all that. You're here now. That's all that matters." There was no way Otabek could understand her with how much she was slurring. She glanced at the strange man, winked, and put her bottle down to enjoy the commencing show.

"I think you'll do nicely." The man took a step forward, hand outstretched, ready to grab Yuri. The blond shut his eyes and inhaled deeply, knowing he was about to get hit, or dragged, or worse, knowing there was no way his foggy mind was able to protect himself, knowing there was no way to stop this-

"Get the fuck away from him."

Yuri's eyes flew open in surprise.

Otabek had positioned himself between him and the man, arms crossed across his chest, looking so much taller than his 5"5' stature. His voice was deep and serious- and Yuri barely recognised it. Otabek was usually gentle and quiet. This tone belonged to a completely different person.

Then he realised why- Otabek was angry. And anger around his mother was a dangerous emotion.

"What the fuck are you supposed to be?" Yuri's mother laughed cruelly and followed her bitter question with a string of racial slurs that made Yuri flinch but seemed to float over Otabek's head. "Move or we'll fuck you up to." She pushed herself from the counter, stumbling in her intoxicated state, and grabbed an empty bottle by the neck.

Otabek stayed exactly where he was.

"You got a body guard, Yuri? Is that where you disappeared to? Pimping yourself out to find someone who pretends to love you?"

Her words stung, but the adrenaline dulled them slightly and gave Yuri the determination to keep standing. His head was too messy to fight or stick up for himself, but if he could stay on two feet and try to make sense of what was happening, maybe he could figure a way out of this. Without getting Otabek hurt.

Then the man took another step forward and all of Yuri's logical thinking evaporated as Otabek's fist flew out and connected with bone.

"Fucking cunt."

"I said: get the fuck away from him."

Yuri blacked out somewhere around the third or fourth punch.

He vaguely recognised the sounds of shouting, screaming, glass breaking and various insults, but everything was covered in a veil of grey. He had no idea if he had actually been kicked in the ribs or if the phantom pain was back. A ghost of pain to match the feeling of death that had settled in his heart. His last thought before fear and exhaustion dragged him deeper was of Otabek.


Otabek hadn't hit someone for a long, long time. He didn't enjoy causing pain to other people, and conflict made him anxious, so he tried to avoid such situations as much as he could.

But some people deserved to be hit. Especially when they were threatening his friend.

His left eye was flooded with blood and he was becoming dizzy from the punches that he was receiving, but still he kept giving, still he stayed upright and let his fists show how angry he was. Years of pent up rage accumulated from years of submitting and accepting and receiving could finally, finally be set free and taken out on the face of this fucker who wanted to hurt his best friend.

It was clear what he had wanted. Otabek would rather die than let that happen. Only he could touch Yuri in that way.

The only regret he had was that he was so preoccupied with this man that he had failed to see Yuri's mother slide around them and begin kicking and hitting the unconscious boy on the floor. It was then that Otabek's brain dramatically shifted from fight to flee and he roughly pushed the woman back, picked Yuri up bridal style, and kicked the back door open.

Out onto the streets. Blood covering him, dripping onto Yuri, bones aching and head throbbing. His attack had gained them a couple of minutes, max, and Otabek didn't know how far he could run in his state.

He gasped in cold air and hoped for a miracle.


By the time 5pm rolled around, Viktor was debating either giving up and going home or just politely knocking on the front door of Yuri's house. He had never been a patient man- perhaps that was due to being slightly spoiled as a kid- and sitting alone in a car was hardly fun. He tried to mark a couple pieces of work that his students had completed that day, but thanks to two absences and Emil's breakdown they hadn't been very productive.

Exams would be coming around next year. Some had made slight improvements, such as Otabek with his literature or Minami with math, but otherwise their progress had been a flat line. Perhaps focusing on their morality and politeness principles would come back to kick Viktor's ass.

Although, he knew that he personally would much rather have a kind kid than a clever one, so maybe it wasn't entirely a waste.

Yuuri would definitely be home now and wondering where he was. The thought of dinner cooking in the oven made Viktor's stomach rumble and he looked at his phone screen again to check the time. 5:46.

Why had he thought waiting outside would be a good idea?

Perhaps because he was somewhat nervous of talking to Yuri's parents.

Viktor had mentioned parents evening a total of once in his time teaching E2, and after being met with a chorus of nasty laughing and insults, he had accepted that he wasn't going to be meeting their mothers and fathers any time soon. Not that he was desperate to; meeting the people who had raised these kids didn't seem like his idea of a fun time.

What did seem like a fun time was going home, enjoying his dinner and making love to Yuuri before falling asleep before midnight for the first time in weeks.

He sighed and bucked up his seatbelt. Turned the keys in the ignition and looked around him to make sure the road was clear-

Movement! From Yuri's house! Viktor squinted, but the shapes were hard to make out against the darkening sky. It seemed like someone was carrying something- and stumbling? Limping? He pulled out slightly to get a closer look, stopping illegally in front of a turning, but too weirded out to care.

Not close enough. He creeped forward in a manner that suggested he wanted to remain undetected for now. His car wasn't a luxury brand but it seemed expensive in this neighbourhood and he didn't want to become the centre of attention.

Closer still. The figure came into full view as it stepped under a streetlamp.

"Oh my…" Viktor gaped, frozen in place, not believing what he was seeing. Otabek was covered in a red substance that looked sickeningly like blood and was holding a limp Yuri in his arms. The teen hesitated, looking in every direction, as if he was trying to find a place to hide, and Viktor willed his brain to just work so he could do something

Another movement, another figure coming from Yuri's house. A man, tall, also limping slightly and carrying something that caught the light of the streetlamps.

Otabek was evidently scared of this person. Viktor frowned, trying to make sense of the situation, but every train of thought crashed when he noticed the object that the man held was nothing other than a knife.

He didn't need to think about what he was doing; Viktor opened his car door and shouted as loud as he could.

"Otabek!"

The Kazakh couldn't have possibly recognised him just by his voice, but decided that trusting an apparent stranger was safer than being around this man, and he came running as fast as he could with his injured ankle. As he got closer Viktor could see just how hurt the two of them were.

"Who- Nikiforov?" Otabek gasped as he slid next to his teacher, looking confused and in pain. He still held Yuri awkwardly and Viktor had to help support the Russian as Otabek closed the door.

Otabek really should have got in the back with Yuri, but the law was the last thing on Viktor's mind as he pulled out and narrowly missed hitting the knife-wielding man.

"Hospital?" Viktor asked, looking at the teenager next to him to see if there were any life-threatening wounds.

"No. Please, just… I don't know. No hospital." Otabek wheezed.

"Okay, it's okay. I'll look after you both. I'm taking you back to mine."

He had no idea what had happened. His own heart was pounding painfully fast in his chest. But he could deal with the gritty details later.

For now, he had two hurt kids to look after- one of which was unconscious- and, when he returned home, a very confused boyfriend.

Viktor was scared, and concerned, and confused, and also upset that it had taken his car seats getting stained with blood for him to truly realise the kind of shit these kids had to deal with.

please review if you can spare a second! I hope you all enjoyed this chapter- I'm really looking forward to writing the next one:) expect some Viktor taking care of the boys' injuries and forcing them to talk about their home lives. Plus character development. Loooots of character development.