It's not that Yuri devolves back into what he used to be – nothing so dramatic. Yuri leaves home for Moscow and for the most part, his entire world stands still.

The season is over but it's still winter in Russia, and the snow crunches familiarly under his feet when he and Grandfather unlock and slump through the front door of the dilapidated little house on the hill. Ice has overtaken the building as though freezing it in time, and everything is still in the same place Grandfather left it when he departed for Barcelona. Familiar scents and distant memories rise up to the surface of Yuri's mind, and they don't hurt anymore, but they also don't do anything else.

"We could probably move," is the first thing it occurs to Yuri to say the moment the door is closed and his grandfather starts kicking the snow off his boots.

"Hm?"

"With the prize money," he elaborates, pulling off his hat. "I've already paid off Yakov's coaching fees in full from the junior competitions. We could use the Grand Prix prize money to move somewhere…"

Yuri looks up and around. The wallpaper peels away from the corners, the ceiling is cracked and leaks water during snowmelt days. It's too cold in the winter, too hot in the summer, and sometimes when Yuri walks past his mother's old bedroom he gets a whiff of her perfume and feels like he's going to cry for the rest of the day.

"I don't know," Yuri says, "somewhere. Maybe into Moscow. We could afford it now. And we wouldn't have to burden Uncle Anton anymore."

Grandfather frowns at him, then looks into the cramped little sitting room like he's really seeing it for the first time.

"I don't know, Yura," he says, "there are so many memories here."

"Maybe too many," Yuri agrees, shrugging off his jacket once he's stomped off most of the loose snow on his boots.

"This is where your mother grew up," Grandfather continues. "This is where you grew up, learned to walk, learned to skate."

"We wouldn't have to leave the memories behind, dedushka."

But he doesn't look convinced, and Yuri's too jetlagged to keep fighting him. "Never mind," he says after the lapse of silence. "I'm going to shower and then bed."

"Want me to wake you up for lunch?"

"Might as well get back on Russian time," Yuri answers, trudging up the rickety stairs two at a time.

His cat is curled up in the middle of his bed. Yuri smiles, drops his bag by the door, and scoops her up before collapsing back down and letting her settle back down on his stomach. His room is tiny, more of a closet than a bedroom, and the ceiling sags in the middle. His window holds out the cold with duct tape. The whole place feels like a relic from a different, more painful time in Yuri's life.

He reaches into his hoodie pocket and pulls out his phone. A few Twitter DM's from fans, a tag on Instagram, and a text from Otabek. He swipes right on the text first.

Let me know when u get back to Moscow

Yuri must have missed the alert in the airport. He taps up the keyboard.

I'm home, he writes and sends.

Then, Long fucking flight shitty fucking cold home fuuuuuck

After a few seconds, the status switches from "DELIVERED" to "READ 09:22". Then—

If u hate the cold u picked the wrong day to live in Russia

Yuri grins and sends back the poop emoji. Then drops his phone onto his bed and looks back up at the ceiling.

He misses Otabek already, and it's barely been a day since he last saw him. Memories of their last time together in Barcelona flash through his mind's eye, his hands fisted in Otabek's lapels, his heart thundering against his ribs.

Yuri sighs and picks up his phone again. There are three little dots blinking one after the other, signaling that Otabek is typing something. Yuri waits.

The dots vanish.

Then they come back a moment later.

Then they vanish again.

Yuri frowns. He wonders what Otabek is not typing, while Yuri himself does his best not to think about the way he so nearly went crashing into a kiss with him.

Then he opens Instagram and posts a picture of his cat sleeping on his stomach (#catsofinstagram #thismotherfucker) and reads the hundreds of all-caps comments from fans to distract himself before eventually taking that shower and falling asleep.

Time happens, in the only way it can: slowly, and then all at once.

Winter ends eventually, leaking through their rickety roof most days and going blessedly down the drainpipes the rest of the time. Yuri and his grandfather eventually agree that they should probably move to Moscow, but neither of them so much as thumb open the real estate section.

In the clear spring mornings, Yuri wakes up and can see the little pond from his house, now thawed, his mother's headstone in full view, even blinding bright with the reflection of the sunlight. Yuri thinks about going every day but never does.

He texts and Skypes Otabek most days, more frequently than what he suspects is appropriate, even between best friends. Otabek sends him breathtaking pictures of Almaty, of the resplendent gardens out back of his house, of gorgeous breakfasts his mother cooks for him, of the new ice skates that arrive in the mail. They talk about visiting before the season starts almost constantly, but neither of them formalize anything or buy tickets.

That is, until one day.

Sept 24ish?

It's the first thing Yuri sees when he squints at his phone that morning. He tugs the charger out and rolls onto his back, swiping open the Messenger app.

? is all he sends back.

The response comes back when Yuri's brushing his teeth a few minutes later.

For visiting. Mom's gonna be in Dubai on business that whole week anyway.

Yuri gives a bit of a start around the toothbrush in his mouth. He holds it in place with his teeth to tap out a response.

Rly?

Yeah is that a good time? Otabek answers.

Yuri abandons oral hygiene, spitting out his mouthful of toothpaste and quickly opening up his calendar. He has an interview for Russian TV on the third, but the second half of September is pretty quiet, it looks like.

Yeah definitely, Yuri answers, feeling a swell of excitement in his chest.

Let me check flights and I'll get back to u. Pick me up?

Absolutely, he answers, beaming down at his phone, so happy that he doesn't even mind the minty burn moving down toward his chin. Can't wait!

The three dots blink at Yuri for a while, then disappear. Then reappear. Then disappear. It's been happening so much that Yuri's just gotten used to it. He quickly rinses out his mouth and runs down into the kitchen to tell his grandfather the good news.

"Good!" Grandfather thumps Yuri's shoulder. "It's about time I met that boyfriend of yours."

"Dedushka!" Yuri says, a bit too loud and far too shrill. "He's not – we're not!"

"Oh, aren't you?" He takes a sip of his coffee, apparently unfazed. "Well, my mistake, then."

Yuri tries to keep being upset, but it's really hard. He's actually going to get to see him again, before the season starts. Even though it's only been about six months, it's felt like so much longer.

Otabek has finally settled on his reply text: Looking forward to it yura

Then he sends a cat emoji. Yuri bites his lip to keep down the grin.

The excitement builds at an asymptotic rate all through August until, by the end of September, Yuri is filled with dread.

What if Otabek hates it here? Yuri wouldn't blame him if he did. It's the shittiest outskirt of Moscow in the middle of nowhere, and their house is tiny and falling apart. There's really not all that much to do, even in town, unless you're a fan of shitty pubs and Soviet-era antiquing.

He thinks several times of texting Otabek some lie about his house burning down or something, but by then it's too late. He bought the tickets. This is happening.

But even though Yuri is a nervous wreck, waiting in the airport lobby and bouncing his heel against the tile, when he first sees the familiar head of hair come around the corner—

"Beka!"

He bounds to his feet and sprints his way through the crowd, knocking over several commuters in the process before hitting him hard in a flying tackle of a hug. All he can hear is a winded oof, and he barely manages to catch himself, although his rolling luggage clatters onto the floor.

"Yuri," he laughs. "Wow, hi."

"It's so good to see you!" Yuri says, drawing back just enough to look at him, and at the same time, they both seem to realize the same thing:

"You got tall," Otabek says. "And…"

His eyes move down Yuri's body.

"Yeah," Yuri says. "Puberty snuck up on me, beat me up, and stole my wallet."

He'd gained about four inches, by his grandfather's estimation, since before the start of the Grand Prix, almost all of it in the legs. He let his hair grow out, more from lack of will to drive all the way to Moscow to get it cut than anything else. After eyeing Yuri's legs, the first thing Otabek's eyes linger on his his hair. It's nearly brushing his shoulder blades.

"And you let your hair grow out."

"Yeah," he says, not quite able to recognize the look on his face.

As for Otabek, he didn't grow so much up but out. His shoulders are broader than Yuri remembers, his chest more barrel-like.

It's not a bad look on him. Yuri tries very hard not to imagine the dark hair surely growing under his t-shirt in a long, narrow V.

"You look good," Otabek says, somewhat belatedly.

"Thanks. I mean, you do, too."

Exactly half of Otabek's mouth cocks upward into a smirk, and Yuri melts into his shoes.

"It's kind of small and shitty," Yuri says as soon as they're in view. "Dedushka and I keep talking about moving, but…"

Yuri puts the aging, rattling, beat-up Volkswagen in park, and the sound it makes sounds suspiciously like a groan of relief. Yuri unfastens his seatbelt and climbs out.

"You grew up here?" Otabek asks, surprised.

"Yeah," Yuri answers, not particularly proud. "Poor as fuck for as long as I can remember."

"How'd you afford Yakov as a coach?"

"I paid him in winnings once I started competing." He heads up to the front door and unlocks it. "We got a special deal for the skates. I'm still kind of amazed I was able to get training at all."

"Wow," is Otabek's neutral answer. They come into the foyer, such that it is, aging staircase on one side, claustrophobic sitting room on the other.

"We don't really have a guest room, per se, but…"

Yuri starts up the staircase, Otabek at his heels. At the very end of the hallway, nearest the linen closet, is the only door in the house that stays reliably closed, first because his mother was allergic to cats, and then because it hurt too much to open it.

It's cleaned up now for company, the sheets washed, the comforter's dust beaten out of it. Many of the personal photographs are tucked into a drawer under the vanity, a job which Yuri had not at all enjoyed. It's small, and it's dusty, but it's fine.

Otabek puts it together at once, of course, he's not stupid. "This was your mother's room?"

"Yeah."

"It looks…"

Yuri nods knowingly. "Like it's been abandoned for years and only recently made livable? Yeah, well, that's because it was. It's what we do instead of grieving in the Plisetsky family."

"That doesn't sound healthy," Otabek says.

Yuri shrugs. "It's not."

Otabek sets his bag down on the foot of the bed and smiles. "Well, it suits my needs fine."

"Once you're settled and dedushka wakes up from his nap, we can drive into Moscow," he says, leaning against the doorjamb and grinning. "God knows there's nothing worth doing in this shit fuck of a town."

"Not even dinner?" Otabek asks. "I wouldn't mind having real Russian piroshki."

Yuri grins. "I've got good news for you about my grandpa."

Being with Beka again is exactly as wonderful and uncomplicated as Yuri was desperately hoping it would be.

If he's uncomfortable in Yuri's shitty, dilapidated house (Yuri knows that Otabek grew up in moneyed comfort), he has the decorum not to show it. He's polite and taciturn, so of course Yuri's grandfather takes to him immediately (though Yuri could deal with all his side-comments about just why he isn't dating this lovely young man, Yuratchka). But perhaps the best part is he never really got to explore Moscow, so everything Yuri gets to show him is new and fascinating and quickly gets put up on Instagram.

"I'm glad you like the city," Yuri says, grinning at him as Otabek carefully selects the appropriate filter for St. Basil's Cathedral.

"I do," he says, settling on Juno (#stbasils #moscow #wow). "I hated that I never got to really explore the city when I was here at boot camp."

"Better late than never." Yuri can see the likes popping up within seconds. Otabek has quite a dedicated fan following himself, and Yuri has always been privately jealous that they are so much more sophisticated and polite than his own.

"I wouldn't mind seeing a little more of your town, though." Otabek stuffs his phone into his pocket.

"I promise you, there's really nothing to see."

"Not a thing?"

"I mean, there's a pawn shop," Yuri says doubtfully. "And a bar that sells sub-par Vodka starting at eight in the morning. Honestly, I hate everything about it."

"Then why not move?" Otabek asks. Yuri sighs and leans on the fence encircling the cathedral.

"Honestly, I don't know," he answers. "I want to. We can. The winnings from the Grand Prix haven't done shit except accrue interest, but…"

"… but your family has trouble letting things go," Otabek guesses.

"So dreadfully obvious, aren't we?" Yuri sighs.

Then, Otabek reaches up and cards a hand across Yuri's hair, and his heart stutters. He looks up at Otabek, who's smiling.

"Nothing about you could ever be obvious," he says.

Yuri realizes that he has completely forgotten what they were talking about ten seconds ago. He feels like the universe begins and ends at the tips of Otabek's fingers as they glide over and through his hair.

"I…" Yuri says, but gives up halfway through.

"In fact, everything about you and in your life is so extraordinary that when you're confronted with something so simple and straightforward as grief, none of your usual tactics work. Sadness is a simple problem that demands simple solutions, after all."

When Yuri can't remember how words work, a look of worry and doubt flashes across Otabek's face.

"I, uh," he says, withdrawing his hand, "sorry, should I stop—?"

Yuri feels like he blacked out. He has never felt anything as wonderful as Otabek's hand in his hair.

"Look, Yura," he continues, letting his hands drop down to the fence, which seems to Yuri like a waste of two perfectly good hands, "I know about grief. How it twists you, how it drains the life out of you and everything around you. There's only ever been one remedy for it – letting yourself move on."

Yuri manages to tune back into the conversation. "Move on? You think I haven't moved on?"

"I know you haven't," he says. "You're sitting on a few million rubles in prize money, but you still live in the run-down, too-small house where your mother lived. All her things are everywhere, all these years later. Not to mention every time you come up to her room to let me know dinner's ready, you stare at the vanity or the chair or the chest of drawers like it's the most painful thing you've ever had to do."

Inexplicably, Yuri feels ashamed. He drops his chin to his chest, folds his arms over his stomach. "I suppose I am obvious after all."

"Not obvious, Yura," he says, "just human. It was the same way with me after my father died. I couldn't skate for years because it reminded me of him. For me, moving on meant going back out onto the ice, not because it didn't hurt, but because it was reclaiming a part of myself the grief had taken from me. I…"

Otabek sighs, like he doesn't know where he was going.

"I don't know. It's just that you've had those soldier's eyes every day since I met you – like you've been through a little too much pain. I'd just rather see you happy."

"You make me happy," Yuri says before he can stop himself. Otabek freezes.

"I…" he begins, but trails off. He's looking down at Yuri like he's right at the edge of a cliff.

"Maybe you're right. Maybe I have to move on. Maybe that starts with…"

Or maybe Yuri is just making excuses to himself because he wants to kiss him. But it doesn't feel that way.

"Back during the Grand Prix, I was a mess," he said. "I was working myself to the bone. I skated on a sprained ankle because I was so obsessed with – with this idea I had in my head, this obsession with being anything but normal, predictable, imperfect – anything but obvious.

"I was fried and depressed and close to snapping, and then you just swept in on that fucking motorcycle of yours and—!"

The look on Otabek's face is somewhere between terrified and hungry. Long fingers wrap around the same slat of fence that Yuri's are gripping. Skin on skin, electric.

"And you were so smart, and interesting, and you reminded me what I loved about skating without even meaning to, and I could stay up with you until three in the morning talking about everything and nothing and I—"

Otabek grabs him by the face and kisses him.

Yuri drops the phone he'd been gripping tightly in one hand; the rubber phone case lets it bounce harmlessly off the pavement. He throws both arms around Otabek's neck and kisses him back like he's making up for lost time, because he is.

Hands slide backwards, through his hair, and lips part just slightly. Breath and tongue and teeth, fingers in his hair, Yuri feels like he is on fire.

When they break apart, it's shaking and gasping for air that both forgot they needed.

If there are things that Yuri should be saying to him, he can't remember them. Otabek leans forward, presses his forehead into Yuri's.

"And you were worried about being obvious," he mumbles.

Yuri kisses him a second time.