Work Text:
let's let the stars watch, let them stare
let the wind eavesdrop, i don't care
- the civil wars
Here's the thing – Yuri Plisetsky, 18 years old, two-time ISU Grand Prix series gold medalist, is not an idiot. He didn't wade into a relationship completely fucking blind; he made sacrifices. He's already put himself through a series of increasingly mortifying web searches and even endured an absolutely bone-rattling conversation with Katsuki fucking Yuuri in order to educate himself. He's still not sure how he survived the latter, but it paid off, because he is now completely ready to finally have sex with his boyfriend – after he wins a gold medal at his first Olympic event. Not before.
So, when he drags Otabek away from the team Kazakhstan dorms, down the halls, and directly into his own room, he honestly has no intention of doing anything beyond some aggressive cuddling. Pyeongchang is cold in February; that's the excuse he tells himself. The cabins in the Olympic village are heated, of course, but it's as good a justification as any to demand Otabek's arms around him. He may be a head taller than Otabek by now, but Otabek is still the superior spoon; that he can concede with grace.
Otabek is exquisite, but Yuri is not a fool: even the gentlest and least penetrative of sexual acts could still lead to strained muscles the next day, and he refuses to compromise his performance by even the smallest degree. Furthermore, considering how long he's waited – their relationship is long-distance for a large portion of the year, and the season takes up much of the rest, leaving very little time for actual relationshipping – he is frankly expecting to be fucked into a stupor to make up for lost time. If he can't walk, he can't skate; better to keep himself in check.
So he scrolls through social media, his legs in a horizontal split, while Otabek reads something from his appallingly huge collection of paperbacks; he unpacks just enough toiletries to clean his teeth before hoisting himself into bed; he scrunches the quilts up around him as he waits for Otabek to finish his shower. When he finally feels the bed shift and dip with his boyfriend's weight, he untucks a corner of the quilt to allow Otabek entry. The warmth emanating from him feels like it reaches deep past Yuri's skin.
Otabek, the monster, is already slightly scruffy when Yuri reaches up to scrub along his cheeks playfully. He gets a baleful look in return. “You know I can't help it,” he grumbles, ducking his face down a little. Yuri chuckles.
“You know I like it,” he reminds him, and kisses him to prove his point. He means for it to be a gentle thing – a good-night kiss, to settle, not excite – but his restraint melts away like butter when Otabek opens his mouth slightly. He tastes like toothpaste, and not even Yuri's preferred brand of toothpaste, but it's still somehow the best taste ever. With a muffled groan, he shuffles up onto his elbows so he can better angle his mouth, his tongue, and kisses Otabek deep.
He hadn't been lying; Otabek's stubble is a unique sensation against his cheeks, against his neck whenever he kisses there; he cherishes it. Yuri tangles his fingers in Otabek's hair, rising further out of the quilts with every motion, til he's hovering over Otabek, his hair falling everywhere, pressed against his chest. That, too, is fuzzy.
He swings a leg over Otabek's hip and feels his cock, hot against his thigh and stiffening; it stokes the fire burning just under his skin til his veins run with it, til he thinks he'll burn up entirely, a pyre of want. With a monumental effort, he pulls his head back; they're both breathing slightly heavier than they were. His hair, grown out past his shoulder-blades by now, frames Otabek's face. Spit glistens on Otabek's lower lip, and Yuri yearns to chase at it, return himself to that beautiful bitten-red mouth, but Otabek's gaze is rueful with understanding, and he holds himself back. They both have long hours of practice waiting for them tomorrow; at the very least, they should not delay their sleep any further.
“You're too eager,” Otabek tells him, though his face is flushed and his eyes are not quite focused.
“You're too tempting,” Yuri grows back, laying his head on Otabek's chest with a huff. Soon. Soon, soon, soon; the men's singles events end on day 8, after which his only duties will be cheering on Mila and fucking Otabek in as many positions as they can come up with on such short notice, preferably while they are wearing their medals. For now, he begrudgingly rolls off of Otabek, though he keeps his head tucked against him, and tries to calm himself down.
Otabek smooths down his hair where his grip had made tangles and presses a kiss to it. Yuri closes his eyes tighter, the gentleness of the gesture burning in an entirely different way, and sleeps.
–
He wakes up to the slam of a door being opened too roughly, an overly-cheery call of “YURIO!” from an overly-familiar voice, and the inescapable dawning realisation that he is, in fact, going to die before he gets laid.
He knows it, immediately and gut-deep, because the source of all the noise – the well-dressed whirlwind of expensive cologne and silver hair currently exploding into his room – could be none other than the man-shaped poodle, Viktor Nikiforov, five-time ISU Grand Prix series gold medalist, living legend, and eternal pain in Yuri's ass.
“What the fuck,” he croaks, scraping his eyes open. Viktor is inexplicably putting down several bags, each one at a volume several times higher than necessary.
“Good morning!” he sings. Actually sings – a hint of his natural vibrato comes out on the last syllable. Yuri is disgusted.
“What the fuck,” he says again, “are you doing here.”
“Yuuri and I weren't going to miss your first Olympics!” Viktor says excitedly, twirling around.
Yuri slumps back into the nice, warm, quiet pillows. “Get out.”
“Aww, come on! We came all this way!” There is an obnoxious amount of rustling; of a plastic bag, he assumes. “Yuuri even had to get a hotel, he's never been in the Olympics before and he's not legally your brother-in-law so he couldn't stay in here… he's gone to get breakfast with Phichit, but I brought you something!”
Yuri foggily tries to strategise – physically kicking Viktor in his old-man ass would be the fastest way to remove him, but that necessitates first leaving the bed, which is an unthinkable compromise at this time of day, so he will probably have to find a projectile – then feels Otabek stirring besides him, and ice floods through his veins, waking him in an instant.
He turns, desperately trying to do damage control, but it's too late; Otabek is rising, a rumple-haired mountain, one arm reaching around Yuri protectively. “Whazzgoinon,” he mumbles, squinting. Yuri, acutely aware of how swiftly the end of the world approaches, miserably chooses to spend his last few moments on earth admiring the sight of Otabek, expression soft with sleep, dark hair standing in curled peaks, his beard an exquisite shadow.
“Oh my goodness,” squeaks Viktor.
“Viktor, I swear to God,” Yuri roars, lunging from the bed; but Viktor has already made a break for the door. A camera shutter sounds, like a death toll announcing the end of everything he holds dear, then Viktor is gone. Yuri considers chasing after him, but the photo is doubtless in the cloud, online, and retweeted halfway around the world by now, and he'd rather spend the last few minutes of peace left in his life cuddling his boyfriend than murdering his ex-rinkmate. So he slams the door, throws the lock firmly, and turns back to the bed.
Otabek is fully awake, but quiet, and opens his arms for Yuri to collapse into without comment. His embrace is as warm as ever, and warmer still from the quilts, but Yuri feels cold. Nobody had known. He isn't so naïve to think that nobody had suspected – the teasing he put up with from Mila, Georgi, Viktor before he moved to Japan; the gossip online that he occasionally catches a glimpse of – but nobody had known, not for sure, and so he and Otabek had been left mostly un-harassed on the romantic front. He supposes that will end now, and their private lives will become a circus, and he'll never hear the end of it from Mila and Georgi and Viktor if he ever visits –
And the worst of it, the source of the cold lump in his stomach, is that Otabek will be caught up in it too. Otabek, the most private person he knows, who barely shares anything on social media, who refuses to give away secrets, from whom every smile is a rare gift. He'll hate it, and he'll hate Yuri, too, for bringing the storm down on him. Yet he holds Yuri as gently as ever, hands pressed to his back to tether him, his heartbeat steady where it drums against Yuri's own chest.
“Can we, um.” Yuri blinks very firmly and wills himself not to leak. He tightens his grip on Otabek's shoulders, pushes his face further into the crook of his shoulder. “Just. For a little while?”
“Of course, Yura,” says Otabek, very quietly, and holds him.
–
Minutes pass. The sky does not fall. The knot of tension unwinds itself slowly from Yuri's gut, though he remains on guard. However, twenty minutes on, their door remains unbattered, his phone has only chimed three times, and the sun is becoming insistent enough that they will not be able to justify staying in bed much longer.
“Okay, what the fuck,” he snaps, swiping his phone from the bedside table. “Where are the – hordes of reporters, and the screaming of my fans, that should be audible from here –”
“Reporters and civilians aren't allowed in here,” Otabek points out.
“Then where's Mila?” Yuri screeches. At the very least, he was expecting her to rain hellfire upon him for not telling her earlier despite her many (many) pointed questions. He unlocks his phone with frustrated trepidation; he has two messages from Viktor and one from Katsuki, and nothing else. Nervously, he opens the texts.
Viktor [07:43]: YAYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYY!!!!!
Viktor [07:41]: YURIO IM SO HAPPY! YOU'RE GROWING UP!!! i told yuuri and hes happy too!!! ive never been prouder!! pls invite us to the wedding!!!!!
Katsudon [07:45]: Congratulations! All the best to you two! (Unfortunately, Phichit saw Viktor's snap, but I'm keeping him in check. You guys can tell the world when you're ready.) - Yuuri
Yuri stares, trying to comprehend the implications. He glances at Otabek, who merely raises an eyebrow at him, then back to his phone to text Viktor back.
Me [08:08]: we're not getting married fuck off
Me [08:08]: fuck you learn how to knock
Me [08:09]: who else did you send that fucking photo to
Viktor [08:11]: :(((((( you have to make an honest man out of beka!!!
Viktor [08:12]: ????? i only told yuuri like i said!!!
Yuri stares.
Viktor [08:15]: are you mad about that??? i had to tell him!! hes my husband yurio we share a life!!!!
Me [08:16]: what do you want
Viktor [08:17]: what???
Me [08:17]: what do you want in return for not telling anyone else fucker
Viktor [08:18]: nothing!!! omg yurio! im not going to tell everyone!!! you didn't even tell ME, your loving older brother!!! you obviously want to keep otabek all to yourself!!!!
Me [08:19]: fuck off we're not related
Me [08:21]: are you really not going to post the photo
Viktor [08:21]: NO!!!! OMG :(
Yuri drops his phone and lays back in bed slowly, feeling like he's just come off the ice. Otabek looks at him expectantly.
“He didn't, um,” Yuri mumbles. “He didn't post the photo. He only told Yuuri. Nobody else knows.”
“Oh,” says Otabek.
Yuri sighs. “Well. The old man is more considerate than I thought he would be. I mean, him and his little piggy are always flaunting how disgusting they are everywhere.”
“Well, that's them,” Otabek points out. Something unfamiliar is in his voice. “They want to show off how happy they are. You know, together.”
Yuri whips his head around. Otabek is staring at the ceiling.
“Right,” Yuri says slowly, “but just because we don't make out in public doesn't mean we're less happy together.”
“Of course not.”
Yuri sits up. “Beka, do you – do you want to go public with our – with us?”
Otabek's gaze snaps around, and it's almost guilty. “No – no, Yura, I – it's not about me.”
“But what if it was? Are you – are you unhappy, hiding it?” Yuri screeches.
“Yura, I could never be unhappy with you,” Otabek says, sitting up next to him and reaching out. Yuri allows him to cup his face in one hand, one thumb trailing down his cheek, as his perspective on the publicity of their relationship rearranges itself wildly in his head. “You're – you're everything, I would never need more than you wanted to give me. But the idea of other people knowing how happy you make me – it's not…” he shrugs one broad shoulder, looking sheepish. “It's not so terrible.”
“But you. You never.” Yuri is very distracted by everything Otabek just said about him, but he perseveres. “You're so private. You tweet, like, twice a year. You're never on social media.”
Otabek peers at him as though perplexed. “Yura, I don't post on social media because I have nothing interesting to share. Almost all of my best moments from the last three years were with you. And you don't want anyone else to know.”
“Me,” repeats Yuri. Otabek shrugs again.
“You've always made it obvious what you think of Viktor and Katsuki's… indiscretions. You complain whenever your rinkmates ask you about us. You told your grandfather I was a friend right before you kissed me for the first time –”
“I mean, that's my grandpa –”
“If nothing else, I thought maybe you didn't like how it fit into your image? Your 'bad boy' persona?”
That was a teasing lilt at the end, so Yuri knows that Otabek isn't actually mad at him. As for the rest, Yuri has no idea how to respond.
Briefly, tentatively, he allows himself to wonder what it would be like to be – open, about their relationship. Of course there would be the initial wave of teasing and torment and fan outrage, and it'll be the worst thing that's ever happened to him, but what about after that? He imagines: holding Otabek's hand as they walk through Almaty in winter; leaning down to kiss him whenever he pleases; taking stupid couples selfies for his Instagram; booking one hotel room whenever they stay together and not caring who thought what. He'd keep the best parts for himself – the scritch of Otabek's beard in the morning, the way his voice dips when he says “Yura”, the way those sharp eyes soften when they're alone together – but sharing just enough to make obvious his joy. Just enough that everyone would know that – that Otabek was his.
Yuri stares at his lap, his face hot. Otabek was right. It's not so terrible.
“It doesn't make you nervous?” he says softly. “The thought of people… knowing?” The thought of people judging.
“Yura,” Otabek says, so gently it could almost pierce his skin. “The most beautiful boy in the world chose me. I couldn't feel anything but pride.”
“You –” Yuri tackles Otabek down to the bed, burying his red, red, red face in the covers. “You – argh! You can't just say stuff like that! Beka!” He wonders if he could sue for this. Emotional damages. Reckless flattery. Otabek laughs, and even through the embarrassed ringing in his ears, it's the best sound Yuri's ever heard.
Vengeance, he thinks viciously, and digs his fingers into the side of Otabek's ribs. There's a startled yelp followed by helpless giggling, but Yuri is merciless; he knows every one of Otabek's weak points. “I can't believe I'm dating a criminal!” he yells down at his victim, not letting up.
“What did I do!” Otabek gasps, shuffling frantically in the quilts, trying to dodge Yuri's jabs. The headboard rocks against the wall. One flail goes wide, and they both tumble out of the bed, landing in a pillowy heap on the carpet. Otabek manages to land on top, and quickly pins Yuri's hands by his sides, halting the assault.
“Stole my heart,” Yuri tells him grumpily, letting himself go limp. He turns his face away so he can pretend it's not still flushed.
“Hm, yes,” Otabek says. “Truly the perfect crime.”
The new carpet smell is very strong from this position. Otabek is heavy and warm and reassuring above him. His heart beats like he's just landed a quadruple Lutz.
“After the medal ceremony,” he says, still not making eye contact, “do you want to… announce it?”
“Only if you want,” Otabek says, in a rush. “Only if you're sure.”
Yuri looks back at Otabek, at his beautiful earnest face, all backlit in the morning sun and shining like something precious, and nods firmly. He does. He is.
Otabek kisses him, very softly.
“And after that,” Yuri says slowly, “will you please, please fuck me until this bed breaks.”
Otabek lets out a surprised snort and drops his head down on Yuri's chest. “Again,” he says wryly, “only if you want.”
“I do,” Yuri promises him. Then he pushes him off onto the ground. He has to brush his teeth.
–
(“Yuuri, I'll die,” Phichit groans, making weak gestures at Yuuri's phone. “Do you want me to die? Don't you care?”
“You won't die,” says Yuuri mildly, nudging his phone (and Viktor's blurry snap) a little further away from Phichit's sneaking fingers. “You'll get to post about it as much as you want once Yurio and Otabek give us permission.”
Phichit sniffs dramatically, facedown on the table. “That'll never happen,” he mutters, despondent. “Don't let them come to my funeral.”)
–
It was perhaps the longest week he had ever been forced to suffer through, but Yuri survived, and now – with no further commitments, a locked door, and nothing to fear – he is finally, finally at liberty to fuck Otabek on every surface in the Olympic village.
He supposes he is nervous, somewhere, under the thrumming excitement and desire, but he's wanted this for so long and he trusts Otabek with his life; he can't find it in him to fret. He's kissing Otabek almost before they're safely through the door, yanking at his jacket even as he throws his own team Russia jersey clear across the room.
If he'd any nerves left, any reservations, the sight of Otabek's broad chest emerging from under his shirt dashes them to pieces. Of course they'd both seen the other in several degrees of undress before; athletes don't have time to be shy about their bodies, and it was a short leap from that to the afternoons spent lounging over each other in only their underwear, but the high of his first Olympic event and the knowledge of what's coming – how much they both want this – catapult Otabek from the baseline “very attractive” he's been struggling with for over three years to a new level of “irresistible”. He can almost feel himself salivating. It's undignified, but he reckons he can see Otabek's dark eyes darken further as he strips out of his leggings, so probably it is also mutual.
He'd scooped up a giant handful of the free condoms on his way back from the podium; it's a bit grating to know he's so far from unique in his post-game depravity in the Village, but as long as it works out to their benefit, he'll tolerate it. He snags a few now, and digs through his suitcase to find the lube.
Otabek raises an eyebrow at the latter. “Is that for what I think it is?”
“Yes,” says Yuri firmly, dragging Otabek toward the bed with one hand and gripping his supplies in the other. “I want to do everything there is to do.” He glances over his shoulder quickly. “I mean. Unless you don't want to.” Which would be fine, Yuri reminds himself hastily. He has a mouth, he has two hands, he has – thighs, fingers, all manner of body parts that don't necessitate –
Otabek kisses him, firmly, bearing him down to sit on the mattress and crawling forward, moving to kiss his face, his neck. “I want to,” he says into Yuri's pulse point, then nips it slightly before pulling back. “I want to do everything with you, too.”
The fire is back, crawling under Yuri's skin, flames licking up the sides of his face; he's sure he'll start smoking at any point now. Otabek, heedless of the the flames, dives back in, kissing and sucking from Yuri's throat to his collarbones; probably intent on leaving marks like he was never quite allowed to before. Yuri's fingers find their way up past his rough buzzcut and tangle into his coarse hair, still a little tacky with product, and has the abrupt and mortifying notion that he'd like to make it sticky with something else. He tightens his grip and pushes the thought away, for now.
“Beka,” he gasps, and his voice sounds ruined already; perhaps the fire Otabek's touch fanned to life had damaged his throat. He arches upward as Otabek's teeth find his shoulder. He's dying; he can't breathe like this; he hauls Otabek's head back up to his own, kisses him like he's drowning, rolls them over so he's crouched on top. Otabek's broad palms settle on his waist, two searing brands, as he obligingly allows his head to be tilted for better access to his mouth.
Yuri loses himself in the glorious warmth and familiar motion of kissing Otabek, remapping his mouth though he has long memorised the shape of it, til his hips flex down of their own accord and a shock of pleasure runs through him, abruptly reminding him of what he shoved Otabek onto the bed to do in the first place. He pulls back; Otabek is flushed, visible despite his complexion, which means Yuri himself is probably a lost cause and likely bright red down to his breastbone by now.
“So,” Otabek whispers, a little out of breath and staring mostly at Yuri's mouth. The heady weight of that gaze makes Yuri feel similarly winded as he fumbles for a condom. “How do you want to do this?”
“Well,” Yuri says, tapping a foil square against his chin in mock contemplation, projecting more calm than he feels, “you won the gold. So, I think I should get to be on top.”
Otabek's eyes focus; they almost twinkle. “Are you sure?” he murmurs, leaning up, his mouth kiss-bruised and a whisper away and a goddamn temptation, even at this time. “That'd make two wins for me.”
“I'll find a way for you to make it up to me,” Yuri promises, and leans down to kiss him again.
–
Afterwards, when Otabek is slumped against his shoulder with one warm, heavy arm slung over his heaving chest, Yuri gropes for his phone.
“What,” Otabek mumbles, muffled in his skin. “Right now?”
“We've gotta give them something better than whatever Viktor can come up with,” Yuri says, swiping the camera into selfie mode and raising it over their heads to find a good angle. It has to be communicative, but still on the safer side of risqué. He nestles a hand in Otabek's hair for effect, admiring how sated and smug he looks, even in the front camera. Otabek squints, but obligingly throws up a sleepy victory sign.
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yuri-plisetsky he got the gold, but i still won