Chapter 19: Ice

The voices from the living room were muted by the wooden door. Once in a while Otabek could hear a barked laugh or Anka's piercing voice, but it soon melted into the constant buzz of sounds again that only seemed to emphasize the silence in the hallway.

"You're not Korean", Zhenya said after a moment, making Otabek listening up.

"What makes you think I am not?", he asked. Not that he had ever suggested that he was.

"You don't sound Korean", the boy explained, leaning against the wall and seemingly looking over to him. "You sound more like you're from the south. Uzbek maybe. Or Kyrgyz."

Otabek hummed. "See, that's what I meant when I said you are smart. I'm Kazakh."

"Why does everyone call you 'the Korean' then?"

"I look Asian I guess", Otabek explained. He wasn't sure if it was smart to tell Zhenya that but on the other hand it was in his new papers anyway. Nad had them ordered to state that he was born in Semei at the eastern border of Kazakhstan. It was one of the cities in Kazakhstan he knew best, because his father had worked there for a while and he and his mother had visited the city for holidays. It would be convincing that he was from there, if someone ever asked him about it. At the same time it was far enough from Moscow so that most likely not very many people knew anything about the place other than that the nuclear arsenal of the Soviet's had been tested there. There had been countless cases of children born with disabilities because of the radiation around the time of Otabek's birth year, so even if someone would ask they would probably not probe to much once they realized that he was obviously unharmed but that maybe his family had been affected by the tests. They'd avoid the topic and he was safe.

Zhenya tilted his head. "What do you look like?", he asked. "Everyone says you're good-looking. I don't know what qualifies at good-looking though. Can I…" He stopped, then shook his head. "No, that's too much I guess."

"Can you what?", Otabek asked.

"Nothing", Zhenya replied and chuckled. "You won't let me."

"You can not know that", Otabek gave back. "What is it?"

With a sigh Zhenya sat up. "The thing is", he said hesitantly, "even if you tell me what you look like, it's not like I know what it means. When you say, you have blonde hair, I don't know what that is. Theoretically I know, blonde is light and then there's brown and red and black and grey and even white. But I don't know what it means. Same for skin color and eye color and stuff. I don't discern people like that. When you say you look Asian, I know that they differ from people from Scandinavia and Africa and stuff, and I know the eye shape is different, for example, but it's not like I can picture it."

Otabek hummed affirmatively. "How do you discern people then?"

At that Zhenya laughed. "By literally anything else. It takes a little longer, but I get to know people by their voices, their smell, the way their breathing sounds, something like that. And once I get to know someone better by the way they… feel." He looked a little helpless, then continued: "It helps me to touch people. That way I can make a picture of them in my head."

"And that's what you wanted to ask me about?"

Zhenya shrugged. "It's okay if that's too much for you. We are strangers after all."

It was easier to make out Zhenya in the darkness now that Otabek's eyes had adjusted to the dim flickering light of the lantern down there on the sideboard. The boy had turned his head to 'look' down the stairs, his eyes half closed. He was pretty with his pale skin and thick dark hair, his lashes curved just like his expressive eyebrows. He didn't look like Maksim at all. He must have a really gorgeous mother, his sisters just as cute, but different from them Zhenya had already lost the innocence that naturally surrounded the triplets. He was way too mature for his age, likely due to the blindness, a certain sadness shimmering on his pretty face.

Otabek couldn't imagine how it must feel to not be able to see anything at all. How it was to hear everyone talking about what something looked like and never know. He imagined what it would have been like if he had lost his eyesight because of the injuries he had endured. One of the attackers had broken his nose and his forehead had received a serious blow that had split his eyebrow. What if they had damaged his eyes? He would have never been able to notice the weird plant on the pedestal. Had never been able to see the tears welling in his father's eyes. Had never noticed how Zarina looked exactly like Khaligaz. He had never recognized the tattoo on that guy's neck outside the Chinese restaurant. Had never been back there in the club to lay eyes on Yuri in the pink and blue spotlights dancing like there was no tomorrow. Had never ever seen those pretty eyes again. Those eyes that were vital to him. Those eyes that meant the world to him.

And now he sat here next to a young boy who'd never know all this. Who was by himself in the darkness of this hallway when everyone else was having fun just next door but still in another world. Just - he wasn't alone, was he?

"You know", Otabek said and he could hear the smile in his voice himself, "when Boris invited me to come to celebrate tonight I asked him why he would want me here. I arrived in Moscow not even two weeks ago and I got to know the man only last weekend. And he said to me that once I was part of this clan, part of this bratva, it was as good as being a part of the family. So, it's up to you to decide, but if you like we don't need to be strangers."

Zhenya turned towards him with a strange smile. "If you ever want to get rid of that fairytale hero image you really should stop being so goddamn nice…"

"Maybe tomorrow", Otabek said chuckling and sat up too. "Can I take your hand?"

Biting his lower lip Zhenya nodded and held his hand out.

Otabek took it and carefully directed it to his left cheek. Zhenya's fingertips were cold, like they were made of ice.

"Shit, you're hot, what are you, the human radiator?", the boy said and smirked. When Otabek let go of his hand he let his fingertips dance over Otabek's cheek, then downwards to where the scar was. He let his index finger follow it down his jawline to his chin. He rose his other hand too and touched Otabek's other cheek softly. "I thought you were bearded", he confessed with a smile.

"Asians rarely have beards", Otabek explained and Zhenya nodded slowly. His left hand remained on Otabek's cheek, the other travelled back up until it reached his ear, then a little farther. "Short hair", he murmured, but when he touched the longer top corrected himself: "Undercut. Pretty cool. Can I touch your nose?"

"Sure." Otabek closed his eyes as Zhenya's fingers wandered downwards, over the line of his eyebrows and then farther south along the scarred bridge of his nose. Reaching the tip of his nose he broke contact and gently placed his hand on Otabek's cheek again.

"I think they're right", he murmured and Otabek opened his eyes again. "You look kinda okay, I guess, your ears are just as big as fucking lettuce leaves."

It made Otabek laugh lowly. "Thank you for nothing!"

Sitting back the boy placed his hands in his lap and smiled. It was a very peaceful, content smile, and pretty, even in the dark. "So, why are you so nice to me again?"

The question came surprisingly. But just as surprisingly Otabek didn't have a hard time coming up with an answer: "I think we are alike", he murmured

(and Yuri stares back at him, like he wants to disagree but for some reason he just doesn't. He looks at him like Otabek isn't the total weirdo who brought him up here to tell him the awkward story about how he fell in love with him. Not that he said it exactly like that. And maybe beating around the bush made it sound even more like he's a creep. But Yuri doesn't object. He doesn't run away or calls the police or insults him. He just looks at him and Otabek has so much hope all of a sudden.

"So", he says, slowly, "what is it? Friends?" And then, in this moment wonderful beyond words Yuri holds out his hand.)

Zhenya smiled.

а

Otabek had only heard of the Tor network, but it turned out to be very useful.

The smile of the girl at the reception desk had once more reminded him that he needed to find another place to stay, the sooner the better. The internet had provided him with the idea. The network allowed him to interact with other users completely anonymously. All he needed was the program that allowed him access and at the same time encrypted his access as well as the counterpart's. That way he could look for a small apartment and even pay for it without any risk to be discovered. The funny thing was that using the network and the coins to pay for it once he had found one, it was entirely possible that he had just rented one of Orlov's apartments without any of them being aware of it. The bratva was in possession of a majority of the real estate in Moscow after all, so it was likely that the small flat only a few minutes from the Kompaniya was one of Orlov's objects.

It had been pure luck that Otabek had seen the address in the log. It turned out that the apartment was not only tiny and only accessible through a backstreet, but also conveniently close to the building that housed the Orlov Kompaniya and - more importantly - the loft of Katyusha Anatoliev Orlov.

When Otabek stepped inside the apartment on friday it felt more like a cold store than a place to live. The landlord had quoted that the flat had been empty for some time and that there was nothing in it. He had not understated. Looking around Otabek found only blank concrete walls, bare lightbulbs hanging from the ceiling, a lone heater under the two windows. The bathroom left to the door had a shower that looked like it had been installed subsequently, a toilet and a sink with a mirror with one missing corner. There wasn't even a shower curtain, so after putting his suitcase down Otabek left the flat again to go and find a furniture store.

He found one that even allowed him to rent a car to transport the mattress he had bought along with a blanket and pillow as well as some sheets back to the flat.

It might have been some kind of office he thought when he had carried the mattress up there. The single room was located above a warehouse that still had the sign of a printing company bolted to the outer wall, the colors ironically fading away and making the letters hard to read. Underneath the old sign was one of newer origin that had the name of a hauling company in Turkish painted on it with black paint on light blue background. The shutters of the driveways as well as the gate to the parking lot were closed whenever Otabek came across them though, so he suspected the company was closed on fridays because of salah al-jum'ah, the friday's prayer, or didn't run anymore. He was fine with that though. The less people saw him here the better.

After returning the car to the store he went to a small shop some streets from his new home that sold used electronic and household goods. He purchased a small electric cooking plate and a kettle, a mug and a tea pot. Afterwards he headed to the department store to get smaller things such as towels, shampoo and a box of black tea.

It took him until night to make the flat look sore or less inhabited and even when he was finished it was cold and inhospitable. The mattress on the floor under the two windows next to the heater with dark grey sheets, the old cooking plate with the plain kettle on the floor in the far back and his black suitcase made the room look more like someone had forgotten some things when moving out instead of the other way around. It was empty. But it was all he needed for now.

He tried to sleep, waking up again and again, irritated by the unfamiliar surroundings. At one point he had trouble falling asleep again; there was a streetlight right in front of his windows and after some time staring at the two bright squares on the opposite wall he got up with a groan. He still had the cardboard boxes and the wrapping paper the mattress and the cooking plate had come in and peeling the duct tape from the sheets' foil the managed to cover the window panes with the thick material shutting the light of the outside lamp out. He looked at the windows frowning. It reminded him of the window in Yuri's old room back in the apartment where he had lived with his grandfather, the one he had covered in ripped off wallpaper and pages from textbooks. He felt something but it took him a few minutes before he recognized the emotion, laying down on his improvised bed: it was yearning. He missed Yuri. He wanted to see him.

Closing his eyes he recalled this night a few days ago when Yuri had come to his hotel room. The mess of his wonderful hair against Otabek's skin, the fragile ribcage under his fingers, his lips on Otabek's neck, so soft. His hand found his way down there beyond the waistband of his jerseys. He thought of Yuri's hands grasping his shirt, his beautiful hands, the white of his complexion even fairer when in direct contrast to Otabek's own tan skin. His scent, so vivid, so young, so pure despite all the things he had gone through. He thought of Yuri on his couch in Almaty, the slightly parted lips as he looked up to Otabek, those pretty lips he wanted to kiss, eventually, please. He thought of Yuri stumbling out of the night club, his legs so long in those incredibly high heels and the fur of his coat caressing his white throat. His eyes wide when he recognized Otabek and this little blush on his nosetip. His lashes a dark gold, like honey, and his eyes as green as lake Balqash where the Karatal river fed it.

"Yuri", he whispered when he came into his hand, eyes squint shut even in the pitch black of his room. He wiped his hand on the inside of his jerseys and fell asleep immediately.

The sound of his phone made him startle awake in the middle of the night again. His heart had skipped a beat, but he took a deep breath comprehending that it was only an incoming call. Probably JJ again, who wanted to ask how things were going.

The number on the display read 91617050829 and he picked up with a weak "Hello?"

There was a moment of silence, then Otabek heard a heartbreaking sob from the other end of the line. His mind raced before he perceived that it couldn't be JJ. He had changed his card a few days ago - the only one in the world who knew this number was Yuri!

"Yuri", he said as calm as his heavily beating heart allowed him to. "Yuri, is that you?" When the person on the other hand started crying audibly he recognized the voice. "Yuri", he called, panic rising in his chest. "What's wrong, why are you crying?"

Again this terrible sobbing was to be heard then Yuri with shaking voice and barely understandable managed to get out: "Where are you?"

"I'm here", he replied. "I'm in my room. What's wrong Yuri, why are you crying? Did something happen?"

It was hard to make out the words in between the heavy sobs. "Where are you?", Yuri repeated.

"I'm here. I'm here on the phone with you." He sighed. "I'm worried, Yuri. Are you alright? Did something happen to you? Are you hurt?"

"I am!" The sudden yelling made Otabek flinch. "I am fucking hurt, you asshole, what do you think?! I came to see you and you are not here, what did you think I would feel like?"

A suspicion arose in Otabek's throat, making him swallow hard. "Yuri", he said slowly. "Tell me where you are."

"I'm at your fucking hotel, bastard, where you are not, according to that little bitch at the reception!"

Of course he was. Otabek ran his fingers through his hair in a desperate gesture. Yuri had gone there once when he had felt the urge to see Otabek. Of course he'd do it again. Otabek could only imagine what it had felt like when the receptionist had informed Yuri that he was gone. Even after repeating so often that he'd rather have Otabek as far away from Moscow as possible he had clung to him like it meant dying if he let go of him. Of course he had come back. And Otabek had not told him that he'd move, that he'd find another place to stay, a place that was secure and hidden and where no one would find him - not even Yuri.

"Did you come with your car?", Otabek asked, getting up from the bed.

"Yes." Yuri's voice broke, so he continued whispering: "But you're not here."

"Stay where you are, I'll come pick you up."

"Otabek", Yuri whined, his anger vanishing into thin air and the sobbing coming back.

"Yuri, stay where you are. I'll be there in a few minutes, okay?"

"Okay", the Russian sniveled and Otabek hung up.

He didn't even change out of his jerseys, just put on a sweater and his shoes and jacket before hurrying outside. He ran over to the main street to fetch a taxi, and told the driver the address. "I'll pay you double if you make it in less that 10 minutes", he promised and the man nodded, accelerating like Colin McRae had returned from the dead.

I'm on my way, Otabek typed. Wait for me.

The symbol in the lower right corner indicated that Yuri had read the message, then a reply came in:

91617050829: ive always waited for you

Otabek could only stare at the line. He couldn't even avert his eyes as the text disappeared after 30 seconds.

"Hurry", he said and the driver did so.

Thanks for reading! Check out my tumblr captainoceanwhirl for background information on this story, like a timeline and a layout of Otabek's flat later. 3