A/N: This chapter is split into two sections: The first in Otabek's POV, the second in Yuri's. It should be clearly marked. This chapter was beta-ed by the lovely Altergravity. The song that goes with this chapter is "Someone Like You" by Adele

Otabek POV

Otabek checked his phone. Again. It had become something of a habit, in the weeks since Yura had abruptly left to stay with his grandfather. A tiny flicker of hope flared to life as he tapped the screen, opening his Instagram.

0 messages

He felt the flicker of hope die. Again. He hadn't heard from Yura - not once. Not a call, or a text, or an email. Not even a mention or a hashtag. Nothing. It was unprecedented. It was depressing.

Otabek slumped forward, ignoring the plate of pancakes in front of him. Mila deftly shifted it out of the way of his hair. He'd been dragged along on this 'traditional' diner run nearly every night since he arrived in St. Petersburg. He wasn't sure exactly what prompted the skaters to decide that any given night was a 'Pancake Night' - but he suspected it had something to do with getting yelled at in practice. Now that he'd spent some time in a rink with Yakov, he had a greater appreciation for Yura and Victor's stoic acceptance of his tirades. He also wondered how on earth they managed to keep their weight down eating like this nearly every night.

He appreciated their efforts to include him, truly he did, but he had little patience for Victor and Yuuri and Georgi's antics. Of all of them, Mila was the most sensible, but that wasn't saying much. He would attribute it to Russians being in general more prone to dramatics, except that Yuuri was Japanese. And, anyway, Yura was Russian, wasn't he? And he certainly wasn't as ridiculous as this lot.

He lifted his head enough to look around him, then dropped it again with a quiet thump. Honestly. How were these children grown adults? Hell, Victor and Yuuri were getting married soon, and they'd both been floating the idea of adoption. Not immediately, but, still. He imagined the two of them trying to raise a child and gave an involuntary shudder.

He missed Yuri. The spiky fluffball (as he privately referred to him) had grown on him. He missed him, as he had never missed any other human in his life. And he was obviously not missed in return. His fingers twitched toward his pocket and he jerked them back, cracking his wrist against the edge of the table in the process. He swore softly in Kazakh.

"Are you all right, Otabek?" Mila asked.

"Of course I—"

He looked up, saw the genuine concern in her eyes, and cut off the harsh reply he'd meant to make. He cast about for an acceptable answer that wouldn't reveal too much.

"I was just wondering what Yuri's been working on. He was having trouble with that jump, but I know he'd been landing it cleanly in practice, and then there's a new season's programs to work out, and—"

Victor looked up, puzzled, from his whispered conversation with Yuuri. "He's not."

Otabek frowned at him. "What do you mean 'he's not.' Not what?"

"He hasn't skated at all - hadn't, anyway, when I called him the other day."

Yuuri touched his fiancée's wrist, brows drawn down in puzzlement. "Victor… that was more than a week ago."

Victor's smile was bright, guileless. "Was it? You know, you really must try some of this, it's—"

Otabek surged to his feet, leaning over the table into Victor's space and slamming his hands down, without really registering what he was doing. The dishes rattled. "You haven't talked to him since?" His jaw clenched with the effort of modulating his voice, of maintaining a veneer of civility. He could hear his mother's strident voice in his head, admonishing him.

It's unseemly to make a scene in public, Otabek – lower your voice. Why must you be so hotheaded? I'm sure you didn't get it from your father or I. It's that coach of yours, isn't it? The American. She's encouraging your teenage nonsense. Do you want me to have to pull you out of your skating program?

Otabek blinked, shaking his head to dislodge the memory. His mother wasn't here; he didn't have to listen to a memory.

Victor looked up, frowning, from where he'd lurched forward to steady his wineglass. "No? I've only called him the one time. But surely you've talked to him since then, if it really has been a week."

"More like two," Mila muttered to Yuuri in the background.

Otabek's heart sank, but he ignored her. "I haven't talked to him at all. I didn't think he wanted me to. He hasn't contacted me." He sat down again, defensive, and suddenly worried. He met Yuuri's eyes, and saw his own worry reflected back at him.

"Has anyone talked to him since he left, aside from Victor's one phone call?" Yuuri asked, glancing reproachfully at his fiancée. He was polite – he, too, must have had civility drilled into him – but his flashing eyes and the tremor in his voice betrayed his urgency.

They all shook their heads.

"Has he sent anyone a message?" Yuuri asked, polite veneer slipping, hinting at the steel beneath.

Otabek shook his head, his phone burning like a brand in his pocket. He should have messaged him. He hadn't thought it would be welcome, but… He glanced around. They were all scrolling through their phones, but soon shook their heads. Victor looked puzzled and oblivious to the sudden tension. Georgi seemed to have gotten distracted with something on his phone. The worry in Yuuri's eyes grew, mirroring the worry Otabek felt.

He fished his phone out again and checked his email, his Instagram, his text messages… Nothing. He struggled to remember the passwords for some of the more obscure accounts - the ones Yura had badgered him into getting but he hadn't actually bothered to use. There weren't any messages there, either.

"I wonder…" Mila said softly, eyes distant.

Otabek snapped his head around to look at her, and she looked up, surprised, then shook her head. "Nothing. It's —nothing."

But her eyes said something else.

Otabek thought he was the only one who noticed. He was certainly the only one who received a very pointed look, once the conversation moved on, and a nod toward the doors.

"I think I'll head back," Mila said, yawning. Otabek thought it looked a little too forced. "Those sit spins are killing me."

She met Otabek's eyes again, and hers spoke volumes.

He waited for her to make her way outside, and then excused himself, as well, pleading exhaustion. It wasn't feigned - Yakov had made him practice his jumps today until he could hardly move, and he wasn't entirely certain he'd make it back to his apartment before falling asleep.

Mila cornered him by his bike. "It's you. It has to be. I mean, I thought so before, but—"

Otabek held up a hand, halting the rapid flow of speech. "Wait, what? What are you talking about?"

The words tumbled out of her with all the force of a stream swollen with snowmelt. "Yuri's had a crush on someone for-freaking-ever. He let slip that it was a guy, oh, months ago now, and someone he got along with - was friends with - and of course that's you, it has to be you. Who else has he ever considered a friend? Even though we are his friends, really, but—"

Otabek lost track of her words, tugged suddenly into a flashback, to a memory tinged with red and gold, a moment frozen in time, a bridge and a hand held out in question: "Are you going to be friends with me, or not?"

He shuddered, wrenching himself out of it, stared wide-eyed at a sober and oh-so-guilty-looking Mila.

"I was just trying to give him a little push, since he wasn't making a move…" She groaned and flopped dramatically back against the wall. "That's why he was acting so weird after the competition! He must have heard me ask you to go to the banquet with me. I thought I heard his shoes squeaking…"

Otabek scowled darkly at her. "What are you saying?"

"I'm saying that our Yuri is probably crying his eyes out and 'giving you space.' God he probably thinks he waited too long and I made a move on you."

"But he hasn't sent me —"

"Exactly. He hasn't sent anyone any messages. He hasn't posted anything on Instagram. Or any of his social media. It's like he disappeared the moment he stepped into that taxi." She looked earnestly into his eyes. "But, Otabek… None of us have contacted him either. Except Victor, but that hardly counts. The poor kid probably thinks we've all forgotten him."

Otabek's heart sped up with every word that passed her lips. His eyes opened wide, his heart pounded in his chest. He had to go. He had to do something. "Mila - are you saying I should call him?"

She shook her head. "No, Otabek. It's too late for that. I'm saying you have to go get him. You have to save him from himself."

Yuri POV

"Yuratchka! There's someone at the door!"

"I'll get it Grandpa!" he called back, tucking the strand of hair that was bothering him behind his ear again. "Don't get up!" He hurriedly scraped out the last of the batter, shoved the pan into the oven, and bumped the door closed with his hip as he wiped his hands on his apron.

The insistent rapping came again, and he clattered out of the kitchen without bothering to take off the apron. "I'm coming, jeez!" he shouted, wrenching the door open… then stopped, staring.

It was Beka.

Beka, dressed in dusty jeans and a leather jacket, motorcycle helmet dangling from his hand.

Beka, hair sweaty and disheveled, eyes dark and dangerous.

Beka, looking like he'd just stepped out of one of Yuri's fevered dreams.

"Beka," he whispered, hardly daring to believe. "What—what are you doing here?"

Beka didn't answer; he reached out toward Yuri's face, but let his hand drop when Yuri flinched.

"Sorry," he said, clenching his fists at his sides. "Only you've got flour…"

Yuri felt himself flushing and hastily scrubbed at his face with his apron.

"I was worried about you," Beka said softly, when Yuri looked up again.

And oh, it felt good to finally hear those words. Yuri's heart thumped erratically in his chest, and he felt a bit dizzy as his ruthlessly buried hope sprung suddenly to life.

"Mila knows I'm fine," he said, when he could breathe again. "I just talked to her."

"I know. She's the one who told me how to get here."

Yuri felt the glimmer of hope extinguish, and closed his eyes, trying to block out the pain. Right. Mila. Of course.

"May I come in?"

"Huh?" Yuri looked up, confused, and oh, he shouldn't have done that. Beka's hesitant smile was going to kill him. "Oh," he stalled, thinking frantically, "I'm not sure…" He glanced at Grandpa, pleading with his eyes for him to say no.

"Invite the young man in, Yuratchka," Grandpa said, ignoring Yuri's plea.

Yuri felt his eyes go wide with horror, mouthed No! The mischievous glint in Grandpa's eyes spelled trouble. Grandpa narrowed his eyes at him, and Yuri caved. He knew that look.

"I — okay," he said, turning back to Beka but not looking directly at him. He could do this. "Please. Come in."

Beka followed Yuri inside, leaving his shoes by the door and slipping off his jacket. He didn't speak - just followed Yuri to the couch, where he sat stiffly, every line of his body rigid with tension. Yuri perched gingerly next to him, at the very edge of the cushion, leaving nearly a foot of space between them. He felt like a startled bird, barely touching the ground, poised to take flight at the smallest provocation.

Grandpa looked between them, clearly amused.

"So, Yuri," he said, "Won't you tell me this nice young man's name?"

Beka, who looked every inch a dangerous rebel, glanced up, startled. Yuri couldn't hold back his snort. He knew Beka was basically a giant teddy bear, hiding his soft, gooey center behind a hard exterior, but most people didn't ever get to see that side of him. Of course, he'd realize soon enough that Yuri had told Grandpa all about him. And then Yuri would die out of sheer embarrassment.

The timer dinged, and Yuri leapt off the couch. "Oh! The cake. Um. Grandpa, this is Beka. Otabek. I'll just…" he motioned awkwardly toward the kitchen, then ducked through the door, grateful for the excuse to escape.