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Otabek Altin – quiet, stoic, powerful – has always been a bit of a mystery to the world of figure skating. His social media channels are woefully underutilized, mostly populated by reposts of official organizations sharing his standings, or where he’ll be competing. It took Otabek’s fans 3 months to work out that he’d fractured his ankle, whereas Yuri Plisetsky’s followers have websites dedicated to tracking how often he cuts his hair, what new freckles he’s sprouted, and how many cat hairs they catch on his clothes every day. Where Yuri is noise, Otabek is silence, and where there is silence, people see a vacuous space that they ought to flood with noise.
Otabek is so odd, he’s heard. Their noise tries to make sense of him; he’s probably thinking about skating – no, women – no, isn’t he dating Yuri? – no, he’s plotting his next murder – or free program – or maybe he’s just shy. Otabek isn’t bothered by the noise. In fact, he’s entertained by it all. Especially because he’s winning. Because so far, these whispers have yet to stumble onto the truth – and Otabek continues to bet that they won’t.
The truth is that Otabek’s thoughts are largely preoccupied by a running string of bets he’s constantly making with himself. I bet the store will be out of Frost Glacier Gatorade today. I bet Victor will kiss Yuuri no less than 4 times during dinner. I bet it will rain. I bet JJ has a new tattoo. I bet I’ll nail the quad toe. And then there was I bet Yuri will make podium at the Olympics, which was the winning bet as of yesterday, when Yuri shattered another world record with his free skate in Lake Placid, New York, USA. He'd forgotten to bet about his own performance, utterly shocked to come in third. It had been the only time he’d ever made the kiss and cry live up to its name, shedding tears into the stuffed bear he’d picked up from the ice while his coach squeezed him into a hug so tight he could hardly breathe.
What he had remembered to bet on, though, was the hope that he and Yuri might be afforded some free time after their tremendous victories, and he’s pleased to have won that bet, too. Yes, sure, they’re just walking to the drug store to grab some Advil and Band-Aids, but walking anywhere next to Yuri’s physical body as opposed to carrying his voice around in AirPods is immensely satisfying.
A large pop-up sign in front of the store barfs red and pink hearts all over them, promising enticing sales for Valentine’s Day, which, in the excitement of the literal Olympic games, seems trivial. Otabek quickly bets that Yuri will be physically incapable of walking past the sign without making a fuss, biting down a smile.
Yuri produces an overdramatic retch, the entirety of his thin frame lurching like he’s about to fall over. 4 rubles, Otabek smirks, adding it to the running tally of prize money he owes himself.
Otabek can’t restrain the snort before it barrels out. Yuri whirls on him and he’s caught, hand halfway to his lips as if he could have held it back, mottled pink across his cheeks. Yuri swallows down the bubbly feeling brewing in his tummy when he sees Otabek like this - smiling, guilty, flushed - and chalks it up to hunger.
“What?” Yuri demands.
“Nothing,” Otabek purports, holding his hands and his eyebrows up in innocence, but the mischievous glint in his eyes tells a different story. “Just… you’re mad at a sign, Yura.”
“I’m mad at the institution,” Yuri grumbles, and takes out his frustration on a nearby pebble. “It’s a stupid holiday with stupid traditions and stupid people.”
“Valentine’s Day isn’t that bad,” Otabek counters, gentle and almost thoughtless, following close behind his friend as they pass through the automatic doors and begin to peruse the convenience store. When Otabek turns his head to look at the opposite aisle, his breath stirs over Yuri’s hair. Yuri shivers. He blames it on the fridge that’s more than 5 meters away.
“There’s usually free chocolate,” Otabek adds. “And free – ”
“Lube?!” Yuri gasps, louder than he’d meant to, earning a few angry stares from parents who are holding the hands of their little children. He dashes into the aisle to explore the buy-one-get-one sale, leaving Otabek to mouth his chagrined apologies to the mother whose son is now tugging at her hand and demanding to know what lube is as she desperately tries to distract him. Otabek ducks into the aisle after Yuri before he dies from a look that could kill.
“Okay, maybe it’s not so bad,” Yuri’s decided to cede with a smirk as he dumps four bottles of lube into his basket and reaches for two more.
“Oh my god,” Otabek marvels, eyes locked onto Yuri’s foraging. He’d bet that Yuri was going to take two bottles, not 6.
“Don’t even judge me, Mister jerks-it-in-the-Olympic-locker-room,” Yuri protests, but the violent scowl does little to conceal the flaming heat in his cheeks.
Otabek visibly winces.
“I told you, I thought I was alone –”
“It’s a public space, dumbass!” Yuri hisses, jabbing his bony shoulder into Otabek’s bicep even as the familiar giggle bubbles out. Yuri will never forget the expression on Otabek’s face when Yuri had walked in on him three days ago, and it will never be anything less than fucking hilarious. There are a few other visuals that Yuri won’t be able to forget from that moment, but somehow they aren’t quite as funny. Yuri speaks to distract himself from the memory.
“I’m just saying,” – he counts off the points he makes on his fingers – “we’re both embarrassing, you cannot afford to judge me, and other than the discounts, Valentine’s Day is the stupidest day of the year. That is what I’m saying.”
He scoops up his basket, the bottles rattling together as he hoists them all up at once.
“I bet I can change your mind,” Otabek blurts, and he doesn’t even realize he’s said it out loud until he’s swimming in Yuri’s oceanic, questioning gaze. It’s easy to lose himself there.
“Ah - well - I mean…” Otabek is painfully aware of the heat blooming in his cheeks. Fuck, he’s just promised his beautiful best friend the Valentine’s Day of a lifetime.
“How much are we talking?” Yuri presses, smirking as he balances his basket against his hip. “100 American dollars, or what?”
They spend the rest of the time in the store discussing the parameters of the bet - Otabek will design their day together, cheesy couples’ discounts definitely have to be involved, meal plans don’t matter, Yuri promises to be honest about whether or not his opinion is actually swayed, 150 USD is on the line, and sex is a banned element. (“I’m not risking our friendship over a bet,” Otabek tells him firmly. “You think you’ll be that bad?” Yuri teases, but secretly he’s grateful. He’s not sure he could survive platonic sex with his best friend. “Fuck you,” Otabek sighs. “I thought you weren’t allowed,” Yuri smirks back.)
Neither of them sleep well that night, Otabek staring up at his ceiling and Yuri blindly scrolling through Instagram. Both of them are ricocheting with the same nervous energy, the same frantic question; what the hell did I just agree to?
~💕~
Somehow the day in between feels both eternal and instantaneous. They’re glad for the distraction of the ice dancers’ programs. They’re not quite as glad to be subjected to Victor’s excited ramblings about his plans for Yuuri on Valentine’s Day. Otabek takes frantic mental notes, betting himself that if he takes a single idea from Victor, his day with Yuri will be over before it even starts. When Victor finally leaves to go find his Yuuri, Otabek feels bony fingers clamp around his forearm.
“If you pull any of that same bullshit, tomorrow will be over before it even starts,” Yuri hisses in his ear. And then, with a scowl and a shove - “What’s funny?”
“Nothing,” Otabek snickers. 12 rubles, he thinks, awarding himself extra points for the near match in wording.
~💕~
The next morning, Yuri spends 7 minutes just staring at himself in the mirror. He scoops his hair up - but it’s just Beka, dumbass, what are you doing - and lets it cascade over his shoulders again. Then he scowls - but it’s Valentine’s Day - reaches for his makeup bag - yeah, but with BEKA - and his hand falls limp. Yeah, but Beka. Beka indeed. Beka, his best friend, who’s seen him at his highest and lowest; Beka who probably won’t even pay attention to what he wears, who probably will never see him as anything more than a little brother, a friend. Yeah, but Beka. Whose smile could melt the Siberian tundra, whose body could shape mountains, and whose heart is wide and righteous enough to hold within it everything he touches. Yuri wants to be touched.
~💕~
“Aww, you put on makeup for me,” Otabek grins the moment he opens the door, sweeping a single rose towards Yuri in a gesture almost like a bow, and okay, Yuri’s glad he’s done it, glad the light foundation can conceal the heat in his cheeks.
“First of all,” Yuri sniffs, tossing his hair behind his shoulder, “It’s not for YOU, it’s for the integrity of the bet. Secondly,” – he snatches the rose and wriggles it in front of Otabek’s face – “this is dangerously Victorish. Your ice is already thin.”
“I understand,” Otabek nods grimly. “Accepting that risk, I felt I had to honor the tradition. But that’s why…” from behind his back he produces a frothy pink Starbucks frappucino.
“Oh fuck,” Yuri’s salivating at the sight of it. “Gimme.”
Otabek holds up a hand.
“Ah, first you have to agree to be my Valentine.”
“I hate you,” Yuri tells Otabek and also his heart for deciding to produce some kind of flutz at the idea of being Otabek’s anything.
“This is the cheesiest part of the day,” Otabek promises. He’s betting something won’t go to plan and hasn’t even set the wager yet when Yuri lunges at him, using his unfair speed, agility, and knowledge-of-the-spots-where-Otabek-is-ticklish advantages to wrestle the drink from his hands without first agreeing to the terms and conditions. He spills some whipped cream over the both of them.
~💕~
“What?” Yuri demands after the fifth time Otabek has glanced at him from the driver’s seat of their rental car. Otabek’s embarrassed to have lost his own bet that Yuri wouldn’t have noticed him staring. He’s supposed to know better.
“I just don’t want to miss your reaction when you see it,” Otabek hedges. He sucks in a breath. “Also, I… you look really nice.”
There’s silence. Two pounding heartbeats.
“Don’t say shit you don’t mean,” Yuri grumbles down at his feet, crossing his ankles.
“Didn’t,” Otabek replies.
Yuri’s eyes shoot over to him, wide, searching, but he’s met with the familiar blank-slate expression in profile as Otabek stares doggedly out the window ahead. Yuri turns to looks out his own window just as Otabek glances Yuri’s way again, concern rippling over his placid surface, their gazes just missing each other.
Then –
“Oh my god.”
Yuri’s body language shifts, straightening up in his seat, nearly pressing his nose against the window.
Otabek grins. He sees it.
“Oh my god, seriously?” Yuri’s close to bouncing, full of sugar and caffeine and excitement.
“Yeah, seriously,” Otabek chuckles.
They’re hardly parked before Yuri is leaping from the car and dragging Otabek behind him by the hand. Heat zips up Otabek’s arm from where they’re connected.
“You’re crazy for this one,” Yuri giggles, turning back to Otabek while he bullies his way through the door.
No, I’m not, Otabek thinks, blinded by the brilliance of Yuri’s smile, the effervescent green of his eyes shining through a curtain of mascara-swept lashes, the way the sun skates figures over his golden hair, catches the sparkles dusting his cheekbones.
“Crazy is whoever decided you should be allowed to strap knives to your feet,” Otabek replies with a shrug and a halfway grin. “What’s it matter if you’ve got axes in your hands?”
~💕~
The place is dingy and a heavy smell hangs in the air, some putrid mix of Febreze and sweat, but Yuri can’t care less as he pulls Otabek up to the front desk, behind which a pride flag is tacked to the wall. The sight of it balloons a forgotten lightness in Yuri’s chest. You belong here. Here, with Beka, who steps up to the counter to stoically claim their couples’ discount, a two-for-one axe throwing session. Yuri snorts and hides his face in Otabek’s leather-clad shoulder. It’s warm there, against him.
They keep score, and Otabek’s bet will be close, with himself hitting the board almost every time but missing center, and Yuri missing nearly every time, but slamming in only bullseyes when he does make contact.
“They’re neck-and-neck,” Otabek announces in a cartoony commentator’s voice, squinting down at his score sheet while Yuri hops from foot to foot and does circles with his arms to warm up for his next throw. “One more bullseye from Yura, and it could clinch his spot in the finals.”
“The finals?” Yuri laughs, exasperated. He swipes his wrist across his forehead and it comes back damp. He’s had to put his hair up, and his makeup is failing him, splotchy pink fighting for purchase across his heated cheeks. “God, my arms are going to be so sore… I’ll have to skate my exhibition like a stick.”
Otabek laughs at the idea of it, all legs and no arms.
“One more,” he barters. “Otherwise I win, and you’re my Valentine.”
“Dammit, just as I was starting to for-get!” Yuri grunts out the last syllable as he lobs the axe towards the target. He hits a bullseye and leaps into the air with victory. Otabek is there to give him a perfunctory high-five.
“Hell yeah!” Yuri beams. “Suck it, Altin! I’m nobody’s Valentine, bitch!”
~💕~
They’ve both worked up a sweat and an appetite, so it’s time for lunch, next.
“Okay, if I thought you were crazy before, you’re definitely proving it now,” Yuri declares, his eyebrows creeping up almost halfway to his hairline.
“You said unconventional, and the panel took the feedback into serious consideration,” Otabek replies diplomatically.
They’re blinking up at a bright orange sign with an owl in the middle, its eyeballs made up of the two O’s. Hooter’s.
“You couldn’t find like a… Rooster’s?” Yuri wonders.
Otabek snorts.
“Yura, it’s just lunch. C’mon.”
He pushes open the door and lets a busty blonde girl guide them to a booth and pat menus onto the sticky table in front of them, promising their waitress will be with them soon. She knows not to bother swaying her hips as she walks away.
“Dick’s?” Yuri offers delicately over his menu.
Otabek chokes on his water, having briefly forgotten the earlier conversation.
“Woody’s?” Yuri presses forward, placing his menu down and folding his hands under his chin, a wicked flame burning in his eyes. Otabek recognizes a competition when he sees one.
“Rod’s?” he offers up.
It’s worth the internal chagrin to see the way that Yuri’s face ignites with glee before he tempers it back down to a simmering mischievousness. They rapid fire innuendoed restaurant names back and forth until they’re interrupted by a brunette girl with glasses.
“Hey, welcome, Happy Valentine’s Day,” she says. “I assume you’re here for some wings?”
Otabek nods.
“Let’s see em,” the waitress grins, holding out her hands, and Otabek produces two photographs, displaying them to the waitress for approval before handing one of them to Yuri. He blinks, finding himself staring at the glossy blue eyes of his old rink mate and ex-boyfriend, Artyom.
“I… have so many questions,” Yuri announces, stunned. He scowls at Otabek over the picture. “You were carrying this jump scare in your pocket all day?”
“It’s for our Valentine’s Day special,” the waitress cuts in hastily to explain. She sounds anxious, and Yuri can imagine why when she finishes her explanation; “Bring in a picture of your ex to tear up, and you get a free plate of wings.”
Yuri laughs, thinking it’s some kind of joke. Otabek just smiles and points to the card on the table, detailing the particulars of the sale.
“What the fuck,” Yuri whispers thrice, first to the card, then to Artyom’s smarmy face between his fingers, and then to the fidgeting waitress. “Yeah, okay.” He holds a hand out to Otabek. “Who’d you bring, then?”
“Natasha,” Otabek admits, showing Yuri the picture of the girl who’d tried to cut Yuri out of Otabek’s life a few years ago, uncomfortable with their closeness and her boyfriend’s dubious sexuality. Him or me, she’d said.
“Damn,” Yuri’s eulogy is short and sweet. He shrugs - “Okay, fuck it” - and rips a line straight down the middle of Artyom’s photo. He has to admit, it feels kind of nice. Cathartic. Hearing Beka rip up that girl’s picture feels a little bit better, though. And the wings are pretty all right, too.
~💕~
After returning to the Games for the ice dancer’s free dance, Yuri and Otabek take an evening stroll around the Village and find an empty hot tub. After weighing their options, they simply strip down to their boxers and sink into the warm, bubbling water, sighing as the heat soothes their arms that ache from the axe throwing and the bruises still fading around their hips from falls on the ice.
“We’re done now, right?” Yuri asks up at the inky black sky, wishing it was the kind of night where he could see the stars. He closes his eyes. “Ready for my verdict?”
“Not done yet,” Otabek tells him.
Otabek grunts softly, reaching for something, and the water laps against the edges of the hot tub with his movement. Yuri doesn’t open his eyes.
“While I was planning everything out, I came across this spa retreat place,” Otabek explains, settling back down. Something in his tone sounds nervous. “Ah - I would’ve taken you there, but it’s in California. Also, it’s kind of… Victorish. So… we’re bootlegging it.”
Yuri pries a single eye open and activates it’s full glaring power.
“We’re… bootlegging a spa? What the hell did Hooters put in your drink?”
“The experience,” Otabek tries to clarify. “Spa… experience… okay, you know what, it’s just about bonding, okay? Couples reconnecting. No phones, just conversation.”
“You’re the one with a phone,” Yuri points out, raising a damp finger to aim at his target in Otabek’s hand. This must’ve been what Otabek had reached for.
“It has the questions on it,” Otabek explains. His exasperation presents dangerously close to a whine.
“Is this a game?”
“No,” Otabek sighs. “It’s… they have this package for couples who want to connect more deeply, and…” he sees the way that Yuri’s physically restraining himself, the desire to mock and deflect sparking in his eyes, but it doesn’t happen. “Can we just try it?”
“Yeah, sure,” Yuri agrees, settling back down, closing his eyes with a peaceful breath. He’s too tired to pick a fight. “Ask away.”
They start with easy questions - first crushes, romantic ideals, would-you-rathers, and it soon becomes clear that they have to skip ahead, because they know most all of it about each other already. Still, Otabek learns. He learns that Yuri used to be afraid of Baba Yaga when he was little, that he would rather be loved than respected (because even though he says the opposite out loud, Otabek can tell when Yuri is lying), that he wants to try incorporating food in the bedroom, that he doesn’t believe in luck (only hard work), and that he’d thought about kissing Otabek, more than once. Yuri learns, too - that Otabek would time travel to Ancient Rome, that he thinks everything happens for a reason, that he thinks he’s really only been in love once (though he won’t share with whom), that he punched a kid in the jaw when he was five, and that he’d thought about kissing Yuri, too. More than once.
Over the course of their conversation, they’ve drawn closer, like magnets in orbit, focused so intently on the discussion that when the words die down they both wonder how it came to be that Yuri is leaning against Otabek’s shoulder, back against his chest, nearly sitting in his lap, and Otabek’s hand is playing with the free floating strands of Yuri’s hair. His hand pauses for a moment as they both try to puzzle out what had happened, thinking of the questions that made them creep closer, to listen more intently or to share a laugh.
Yuri turns to look up at Otabek through the lashes that are now damp, mascara that’s been smudged by sweat and laughter and chlorinated water. It doesn’t make him any less beautiful. Otabek moves to swipe the makeup away, slow and tender and careful, and then he’s just… cradling Yuri’s cheek, and they’re staring at each other, conversations racing wordlessly between them, between their eyes that flicker in a desperate quest for answers.
“Beka,” Yuri whispers, turning to fully face him, folding his knees underneath himself, and oh, shit, that brought them a lot closer than they had been, even with the loss of contact along his shoulder.
“Yeah,” Otabek whispers back. Has his hand pulled Yuri even closer?
Their noses brush against each other, featherlight.
“Maybe we should… just try it,” Yuri offers up. His breath is hot against Otabek’s lips. He feels drunk, dizzy, floaty. “If we’ve both thought about it, I mean-”
Otabek nods. His eyelashes kiss Yuri’s cheek. There’s a kindling heat in his belly, delicious and spicy and sweet and he wants, god he wants…
“Yura…” it’s soft and earnest as a prayer, the distance between them too small and too vast and they pull each other closer, closer, and when their lips touch there’s a tiny gasp, a stuttering breath that warms their mouths, and it’s gentle, everything is so gentle, a gossamer thread they’re afraid might snap. Someone moves first, slow, careful, quaking, transforming the warmth of a touch into the intention of a kiss. It blooms in both of them, honey drizzling into their bellies as their lips meet more fully, more earnestly, still slow, still gentle, just understood.
Otabek moves a trembling hand to stroke Yuri’s hair, to pull him closer, to deepen the kiss, and then Yuri lets out a noise just shy of a moan when Otabek’s fingers catch on a knot in his hair.
“Oh,” Otabek breathes against Yuri’s lips, pulling back fractionally, and holy fuck, Yuri can feel the white-hot smirk against his lips, the same one that’s kept him up at night more than once. He nips at it, trying to reshape it into something less… provocative, but then Otabek bites back, and this time it’s a whimper he earns, and Yuri has to fight back, has to maintain an upper hand. He has to climb into Otabeks lap, drag his nails through Otabek’s undercut, open his mouth to Otabek’s tongue, and it’s because he’s fighting back, it’s not because he needs Otabek, needs him like he needs air, wants to be kissed and bitten and licked and loved. Love – his mind catches on the half-formed thought. I’ve really only loved one person, I think, Yuri hears Otabek’s voice echo in his mind. Still do.
Ah. Well. There’s that. Yuri tries to ignore it, push it down, focus on the sensations of Otabek’s lips trailing underneath his jaw, breath hot and ragged, but now the thought is tugging at his consciousness, dragging him out of the moment.
Yuri pulls back, breathless, legs trembling around Otabek’s. Otabek looks drunk, lazy and happy and messy-haired and it’s adorable, it’s the hottest thing Yuri’s ever seen, and his body is begging him to stay, to lose himself further and deeper, but he knows better, he has to know better, he has to be better.
And then Otabek presses a kiss to his earlobe, sucks and bites at it, and murmurs, hot, low, teasing,
“Can I assume I won, then?”
The words zip through Yuri’s hazy mind as he searches for their meaning, feeling something snap, hurt, inside of him, before he’s even figured out why. And then – the bet. Valentine’s Day.
“Asshole,” Yuri gasps out. He hits Otabek’s shoulder, hard. “Asshole! You fuck.”
Yuri climbs off of him and the water sloshes as he moves to leave the jacuzzi.
Otabek blinks, stunned, before springing to motion, catching him at the waist. Yuri struggles against him, standing on the top stair, calves still under the water.
“Yura. Wait, Yura, what -?”
Yuri whirls on him. He’s shaking, and wipes a chlorine-stained hand across his lips. The chemical tang makes the aftertaste of Otabek’s kiss bitter, toxic. This is right, Yuri decides, his punishment for acting so stupid.
“I don’t want to be kissed for a fucking bet,” he hisses, knocking another fist against Otabek’s chest.
“You’re - we’re not - I’m not-” Otabek is fumbling and afraid he’s failing, feels this precious moment with Yuri slipping between his fingers.
“You’re in love with someone,” Yuri accuses, and Yuri hates the way his voice has to be dredged out of his chest, hates the way it scrapes on the way, hates the tears he feels prickling at his eyes when he says it, when he admits it, Otabek’s in love with someone, how much it fucking hurts. “You should be spending the day with them, not wasting your time with me!”
Otabek’s eyebrows draw together in confusion, then shoot up, disbelief written across his face. Finally, his expression softens into something Yuri can’t place, something placating and warm and he feels like he’s scrambling again, left in an ether of confusion, when somehow, everything makes sense to Otabek.
“Yura, I am,” Otabek says, calm and soft. He reaches out to Yuri’s hand and Yuri pulls back, scowling, crossing his arms across his chest, defensive. Otabek is trying to suppress a smile, and Yuri’s trying to suppress the urge to punch him in the nose.
“Wasting your time with me?” Yuri tries, and somehow this hurts worse, that Otabek would openly call their time together a waste.
“No, spending my day with them,” Otabek corrects gently. A corner of his lips twitches upward. “Him.”
“What, after you’re done fucking around with me?”
“What?” the word comes out in an exasperated laugh.
“What?” Yuri pouts, out of options, equally exasperated. He hates being left in the dark.
“Yura, look at me. Look at me.”
Yuri does, but he’s pouting, and the tears are threatening to bubble over, and Otabek looks a strange combination of amazed and terrified, and somehow it’s still hot and Yuri hates it and loves it and wants him and -
“It’s you, Yura. I was talking about you.”
Yuri’s eyes narrow, calculating, and he squeezes his arms tighter across his chest to shield himself from Otabek’s words and from the nighttime air, shivering.
“What?” It’s sharp, skeptical. There’s no way.
“It’s you,” Otabek says again, whispers, murmurs. He lays a hand on Yuri’s arm, and this time Yuri allows the touch, allows Otabek to pull him closer, to brush the waterlogged strands of hair from his face, desperately searching his eyes. “You’re the one I’m in love with.”
Standing so close to Yuri, Otabek is privileged to every tiny change in his face; the way his eyebrows knit and then slip upwards, the brief flurry of startled, halfway blinks, the way his pupils grow by millimeters, the way pink brushes across his cheeks, a finishing touch on the work of art that is Yuri.
“So, were you just… never gunna tell me, then?” Yuri’s voice is soft, desperate, wavering. It’s too good to be true, and he has to sniff out the lie. But everything in Otabek is impossibly earnest. There’s no way.
Otabek’s gaze slips over Yuri’s shoulder and towards the line of trees along the horizon as if his answer can be found there, amid the leaves that slowly dance together and apart. He worries his lip, thinking. He has to get this right.
“I think… I always told myself I was waiting for the right moment,” he works out slowly, and pulls his eyes back to Yuri’s. “First you were too young, then we were too far apart, then, well… Artyom, and Natasha…” his lips slide into a lopsided grin. “And we can’t forget your ‘slut season’…”
He's using finger quotes and Yuri’s own words to poke fun at him. Yuri wants to scowl, his lips twitching with the effort to form one, but he snorts out an ungraceful laugh instead, leaning in towards his friend, and Otabek is grateful for the whispers of Yuri’s body heat in the face of the frigid air. He also feels like it’s easier to keep talking when they’re both smiling.
“It was easy to make excuses because I didn’t want to fuck us up,” Otabek murmurs.
“Yeah? And how’s that going for you?” Yuri teases, cocking a hip. The wind hits him, and he’s racked with a violent shiver, which somehow takes any ferocity out of his challenge. Otabek’s hands reflexively come to make friction over Yuri’s arms, rubbing quickly to try to warm him up.
“You tell me!” Otabek says. He uses exasperated laughter to conceal his anxiety, but Yuri knows him too well, knows the hitch of his eyebrow, the tilt of his lips when something’s important to him.
“It’s going okay,” Yuri smiles, tender and kind of shy, gone soft at the earnestness in Otabek’s expression. “A little awkward, but very Beka.”
The way Otabek’s shoulders drop nearly three centimeters in relief elicits more tentative laughter between them.
“Shit, you were really scared,” Yuri realizes aloud, questing a gentle hand through Otabek’s hair, pushing it back from where it had flopped over his forehead.
“Well, yeah. You kind of matter to me, in case that wasn’t clear,” Otabek murmurs.
They’re hit by another breeze, another shiver. Somewhere in the distance, they can hear conversations, whoops, laughter, shouting, other Olympians celebrating their victories.
“You actually love me? Like, more than friends, like, in love?” Yuri whispers. He’s afraid that putting the question out into the air between them will solidify it, make it real, make it hard and heavy and too much of a burden, like Yuri’s love always has been to everybody else.
No, he expects.
“Yeah,” Otabek says.
Everything in Yuri swells, a great wave of affection cresting forward, surging to kiss Otabek again, and he relishes in the way Otabek’s whole body startles and then melts, surprise and wonder, acceptance, happiness, and a little bit of hunger.
“Is it – safe to assume – you feel – something similar?” Beka breathes out between kisses.
“No, this is a platonic makeout session,” Yuri chides affectionately. “Dumbass.”
Otabek’s expression rests somewhere between blank and pained. He blinks.
“Yes, I love you too, oh my god,” Yuri groans, rolling his eyes, but he can’t sustain the façade, breaking into a giggle before reaching to continue their kisses.
They kiss until Yuri stumbles over the edge of the hot tub and nearly falls, Otabek there to catch him. Two mischievous pairs of eyes meet, and then they’re scooping up their clothes, laughing, racing each other up to Yuri’s room. They slop wet footprints through the lobby, smear the stainless-steel finish of the elevator’s back wall, kissing each other up against it, ignore Yakov’s screams as they barrel past him into Yuri’s room, and end up in the shower, the water steaming and warming their numb, tingling, cold skin.
“Okay, I know this,” Otabek pants, still breathless from their run, squinting as he studies all of Yuri’s hair products. He points, hoping he’s right. “This one first?”
“Yes,” Yuri breathes, nods, laughs. His knees nearly give out when Otabek presses warm, strong hands into his hair. “I can’t believe you actually paid attention to the hair lecture.”
“You always have my attention,” Otabek whispers, kisses him again, rinses the soap out of his hair, watches as the suds run down his slender back and catch against his boxers. He points. “Still need those?”
Yuri laughs, shakes his head, pushing the shampoo out of his eyes, and then stumbling to use the corner of the shower to hold himself upright as Otabek shifts his attention to the lower half of Yuri’s body.
“Just – don’t forget the conditioner,” Yuri gasps out, knotting his fingers into Beka’s hair. It’s the first time anybody’s ever laughed around his dick.
~💕~
“We never settled up,” Otabek realizes, curled up beside Yuri in his wonderfully not-cardboard bed, fingers stroking through his still-damp hair.
“Damn, what else do you want me to do?” Yuri grumbles, raising his head from Otabek’s chest to glare at him.
“No, the Valentine’s Day thing,” Otabek laughs. He kisses the angry line between Yuri’s eyebrows, and it softens under his touch. “Did I change your mind?”
Yuri opens his mouth, takes a breath, and then closes it again. And smirks.
“Beka.”
“Yeah.”
“That money totally would’ve been yours,” Yuri grins. “Best Valentine’s Day ever.” He drums his fingers on Beka’s chest, tilts his head as if he’s considering something. “Thing is, I feel like completing the banned element makes the agreement null and void.”
“Ah. Fuck.” Beka nods.
“Yeah, therein lines the problem.”
Otabek sighs, shifts in the bed so that he’s lying more on his side.
“Can I at least have a consolation prize?”
Yuri raises a dubious eyebrow, wondering what more Otabek could possibly want.
“Be my Valentine?” Otabek asks.
It’s cheesy and disgusting, but the moonlight is reflected in his eyes, Yuri is reflected in his eyes, and Otabek’s cheeks are pink and his lips are swollen and smiling and there’s no saying no to something so sweet, so earnest.
“Fine,” Yuri tries to grumble, but he can’t get the smile out of his voice, so he just wraps his arms around Beka and tucks his head under Beka’s chin instead. He feels Beka’s chest stutter with the warm chuckle, feels lips press to his forehead. It’s the last thing he remembers before falling asleep in his best friend’s arms.
Otabek quietly files the 150 USD into his mental reward pile, since rightfully, he’s won the Valentine’s Day bet. There’s no imaginary reward for the tangible one between his arms. He never would have bet on being lucky enough for Yuri to return his feelings, never would have bet on any of this happening in the first place. But now that it has, he’s betting on the two of them forever.