Titolo: разинув рот
Fandom: Yuri!!! on Ice
Personaggi: Yuri Plisetsetsky (menzione di Otabek Altyn/hint della Otayuri)
Genere: introspettivo
Avvertimenti: plot? what plot?, in inglese, missing moment
Parole: 1041
Note: allo', sì, allo' è vero che chi mi conosce o ha letto qualsiasi tweet recente dei miei SA BENE quanto odio Yurio fin dal primo momento in cui è apparso (e quanto odio le scene in cui prende la gente a calci o insulta la gente arrandom senza motivo), ed è possibile che questa ficcyna sia un po' OOC, visto che ho passato 10 episodi a odiare Yurio finché non l'ho visto saltare in moto dietro ad un ragazzo interpretato da Hosoya Yoshimasa e m'è partita la ship lol... però ho provato a capirlo come pg, quindi non è una fic fatta per bashare! Al massimo mi son bashata io da sola! WTF! XDDDD
Cmq è per il prompt "19. Perplessità" della mia cartellina per la Maritombola #7 \o\ volevo scriverci del porno, ma
Il titolo significa "agape" in Russo (almeno stando a sto dizionario che ho consultato), però pls non siate severi, non so un cazzo di Russo ma non sapevo che titolo metterci e insomma ecco lol bye-


Yuri's expression is always quite harsh, true. There is barely ever a moment when he does not look angry, or extremely displeased with the fact that half the world seems too lame to interact with, and the other half seems to look down at him like he was the lame one. Of course, the latter half can go suck a dick. His, possibly.
He's used to them finding him unapproachable, an asshole, he's used to them looking at him like some oddity that's better kept at bay, far from them. And you know what? It's fine. He doesn't need them anyway. He dislikes most of them, and he went on in his life without them. Well, almost without them. His grandpa is okay. Some of the other skaters are okay, as in he doesn't actively hate them. His fans are somewhat okay, although most of the time they're just annoying and the worst part is the most he tries to stay away from them, the more they run around looking for him. The more he makes himself appear far away and distant, the more they reach out for him.
Why do they try so hard, Yuri? Why don't they all flock to Jean-Jacques, or Christopher, or Viktor, or that fat ass pig (Yūri)? What do they see in me?
And what did Otabek see in him, when they met at Yakov's training camp? He sensed something ("eyes of a soldier"? Who even talks like that?), and it was something so strong that years after he looked for Yuri the first chance he could get, and straight up held his hand, proposing to be friends in a straightforward way. That is just something that popped out of one of those corny movies with bad special effects, it's not something that people do in real life. Not in Yuri's life, anyway.
But it was nice. Contrarily to all those people always reaching their hands, clinging to every bit of Yuri they see or get their hands on, demanding to own a word or a smile or any sign of recognition, Otabek simply stood there asking Yuri to be friends, giving him the choice on what to say, without any obligation to be nice or polite just because it should be natural, as a professional, to at least not insult them. Without being annoying as hell.
And it was nice. Sitting in front of two cups of tea in a cozy, quaint bar in Barcelona, talking and talking and exchanging anecdotes and impression, listening to Otabek's smooth (warm, somehow gentle and kind) voice tell him all about his travels after his training with Yakov was over, complaining about Viktor and his ridiculous love for that shitty pork cutlet that took him away from skating, and not feeling like he's wasting time in talking to someone. Because Otabek looks mysterious, sounds interesting, but it took Yuri five minutes of his company to appreciate the well-placed silences and the quiet he oozes. Just what Yuri needs. And he looks reliable, true, genuine. Maybe those impressions will be proved wrong in a few days, but for now a light blush appears on his pale porcelain cheeks while he looks at the city lights flash before his eyes as Yakov's car takes him to the hotel.

The moment he falls on the ice during training - early the next day, because somehow he could not just relax in his room and do something other than skating - after attempting the most basic triple toe loop... his eyes blow wide with shock, as if he was looking at himself from the outside despite the fact that he's training all on his own. There is nobody there, nobody saw him. He saw himself fall, and it doesn't even hurt. Not that he can tell, anyway, since he's been sitting there on the cold ice for seconds now, and pressing the palms of his hands on his cheeks. He's burning hot, almost sweating. What's this?
And then his hands trail down on his own chest, and even through the outfit he's wearing he can feel it. Thump, thump, thu-thump. What is that?
He stands up, letting the frustration catch up now, and growls sliding towards the radio where his Agape track is blasting and echoing raw, irritating even, against the ice rink's convex walls. Rewind, and restart.
He knows what Agape is now, he's been feeling it his whole life. And sometimes, he felt it from others too. But friendship, that is something he never tasted on his tongue. "Friend," he murmurs, preparing for a jump. Otabek's voice rings in his ears again like they were still in that bar, and then swirls around in his head, down his body, until his loins catch fire all of a sudden. But before falling again, he stops, his heart beating again.
His intestines seem to stir unpleasantly, and the throat-clenching thrumming in his chest seems to submerge him and leave him standing still on a pale floor of ice, wavering like when he was a kid and had just started slipping and falling on his ass like a little idiot.
The drumming beat against his ribs is strong, distracting, he could never focus enough right now. It's pressure, and need, and somehow without thinking much about it he knows what he wants to do, and by the way it seems that he'll need to do it as soon as possible.
"Let's hang out again." he types on his smartphone, tapping nervously with the tip of his skate on the ice as he leans against the board. And he pushes himself off, to skate to the center again, and yet somehow his eyes keep staring at the phone, and it's distracting. But it's not irritating. It's just... puzzling. He's made skating the center of his life, so how could he think of something else now? Or better yet, someone else? Someone he's just met, to top it off.
It's stupid, and annoying, but he can't help the little gasp pushing out of his lips and the rush towards his phone the moment a new message comes in.
"Okay. This evening."
He looks around well, making sure nobody sees him, before letting a little smile curl the corners of his lips.