Yuri on Ice sample

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Empath Victor ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The world is a maelstrom of fears and hopes and anxieties and angers that living day to day is almost more than it's possible to bear. The only peace he gets is at night, when things are finally quiet but for the far-off violet tang of fear in a child's nightmare. Late nights are when Victor functions best, when he can finally think, when there isn't a torrent of thoughts all crowding inside his head, uninvited guests, nothing his own mind can claim.

He never sleeps. Why would he waste the precious hours of quiet snoozing when he could be out there accomplishing something?

When he does manage to force himself into sleep, it's always the most inconvenient places. Desks, counters, quick snatches of shuteye trapped behind an ancient babushka in line at the airport, and always, always, always with too many feelings at once pressing toward him from all sides. He's under constant attack from the same flurry of emotion, most of them negative, all of them too much. Joy is there, too, waves of cheerful yellow that rush to embrace him, but it gets lost in the midst of worry and fatigue, of angry outbursts and righteous outrage bathing him in streaks of red.

Victor does what he can to stay active, burning off his energy in the rink through increasingly complicated programs, because the cold touch of ice is leagues better than the too-hot press of warm flesh against his skin and it's enough to make his stomach clench and roil at the thought. Never mind that the real deal is worse, every emotion amplified a hundredfold through skin-to-skin contact. It's part of why the world's most eligible bachelor has never been spotted arm in arm with a lover before, and why there are rumors abound of his germophobic tendencies. Let the others think that Victor Nikiforov is an untouchable god with no care to consort with the peons below him. His distance is a product of necessity, but it's not as if he can actually come out and say so.

The roar of the crowd in his ears greets him with palpable excitement he can feel in the air as shivers of green and gold that warp the space around the massive rink. His is a performance the entire venue, the entire world, has been waiting for in the final stretch of the Grand Prix Series. All he needs to do is skate his best and let the weeks, months, and years of his experience carry him through. If there's one thing Victor has faith in, it's his own skill and the ability to draw out the feeling he attempts to convey with each new program he creates.

An audience's reaction, on the other hand, poses a complication.

Ever since his first step onto the ice, Victor has always sought the element of surprise. Unpredictability and eccentricity are his calling cards, all so he can catch glimpses of that bright shock of pink from the corner of his eye with every daring flip. It led to him pushing his limits, jumping beyond his body’s means, and clawing forward inch by inch until he reached an international stage. Keeping his people on their toes keeps him going long past the time most expect him to quit, and with this latest program, he intends to put all rumors of retirement to rest.

As the orchestra swells, Victor’s awareness sharpens to a pinpoint-- all he concentrates on is the feel of his skates beneath his feet, balancing on a knife’s edge and keeping him grounded at the same time. The distant faces of his audience grow hazy, but the crisp smack of their eagerness, blue as his eyes, remains crystal clear. With his first flourish, longing joins it in creeping tendrils, always reaching, always grasping. Longing is perfect, the ache of yearning is precisely what he wants to evoke.

"Sento una voce che piange lontano. Anche tu, sei stato forse abbandonato?"

Muscle memory takes over as he leads into his first leap, the step sequence as easy as breathing after spending so long drilling it into his body. The cheer that follows sounds as though it’s from far away, but after Victor’s signature move, the quadruple flip, they disappear completely and all that’s left is him, the music, and wave after wave of emotion that assures him he’s getting the exact response he needs to from the crowd. Before long, even the music ebbs and he’s surrounded on all sides by a feeling that tugs at his clothes and his hair, strips him down to nothing, and it wants.

It stays with him through the close of his routine, lingers at his side in the kiss and cry, and settles into his bones as he accepts the weight of gold around his neck. He’s only brought back to reality in the wake of the medal ceremony, when he’s finally free of all the press and can lead the pack of exhausted competitors trudging back to the venue hotel to lick their wounds. Victor is in the middle of some wisecrack about running out of medal space on his shelves before there’s a hand on his shoulder wrenching him backward.

He feels the intent before he sees the right hook coming, and as much as he's celebrated for his grace and dexterity on the ice, Victor has no experience in dodging punches. The hit lands right where it's intended and he stumbles back to hit the wall behind him. Worse than the crack of pain across his face is the rage that ripples red-hot throughout his entire body, joined by shame, envy, and insecurity all mixed together. For a moment, Victor is  consumed by that same anger, fingers clenching to form a fist that he intends to send flying, before he realizes that these emotions are not his own and he can breathe as the worst passes.

In front of him, Cao Bin is shouting something he can't parse while his coach and Yakov team up to hold him back, but the sound is meaningless white noise in his ears. He doesn't need it anyway; the ugly emotion snapping at him like a rabid animal tells Victor all he needs to know. Before he knows it, Victor's hustled somewhere private while Cao Bin is hauled off to face the music, a glass of water is pressed into his hands, and a ice pack is held to his swelling cheek.

“A first-timer,” he chuckles ruefully as the door opens, assuming it to be Yakov with painkillers in hand. “I’ve never said two words to the kid, and he’s so sure he could overwhelm me that he does this instead of face the facts.” The growing lump twinges as Victor prods at it then gropes blindly for his misplaced ice pack. “Guess this means his first time will be his last. It’s a real shame, too; it might have been nice if I was overwhelmed by something else for a change.” The sigh that leaves him clings like a stubborn grey stain. “It might be the welt talking, but I’m getting so tired of it all, and--” Choosing now to finally raise his gaze, Victor immediately regrets it. “... And you’re not Yakov at all, now are you?”

Nailed it.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Post-series Yuuri ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It was strange to think how quickly Yuuri adjusted to sleeping with another person that the act of waking up to empty space beside him felt so unnatural. The haphazard tangle of limbs and blankets and a furry body wedged firmly between the two of them was a familiar weight at this point, comforting in its solidity. Finding himself without it usually meant that he'd slept in and would pay for being a night owl the moment he crawled out of bed. His eyes felt like they were glued together, they were that unwilling to open, and for a few minutes Yuuri wondered how he could be so sleepy when he turned in at a relatively early hour by his standards.

Negotiating a treaty with his fatigued eyes and persuading them to finally open answered that question. The sky was just turning brilliant shades of pink and orange, a sight he'd only ever caught at the tail-end of an all-nighter, and suffice to say it wasn't any more magical or majestic now that he was seeing it from the other end. Man wasn't meant to be awake this early, and while Victor Nikiforov might have been a god temporarily taking human form and fully capable of keeping hellish hours, a god Yuuri Katsuki was not. Fully intending to spend a little more quality time with his pillow and kiss all thoughts of sunrise goodbye, a flash of gold out of the corner of his eye caught his attention.

His arm stretched, reaching for the vacant side of the bed where its other occupant had left it, an unconscious mirror of the night they had first exchanged their rings. In the early morning light, his ring gleamed like something that hardly seemed real, as if the weight of it on his finger was an illusion. Using his thumb, Yuuri spun it a few times, watching how the weak sunlight played off the metal. It might have just been his imagination playing tricks on him, but it felt warmer than usual, no longer a piece of cold metal and instead something alive.

Thinking about them in a context separate from the hasty, cobbled-together definition he'd used to save face felt alien. In any ordinary relationship, there would be no question of what two gold wedding bands represented, but Yuuri had insisted on giving them a different meaning. They were both a thank you and a plea to watch over him at once; when he'd bought them, he still fully intended to retire. Now that he was supposed to continue skating, god only knew what they were now.

No matter how hard he tried, everything in him rejected the idea of their engagement being a fact of life. It wasn't because he disliked the idea or Victor as a person, but because it went against everything he'd considered a hard truth for so many years of his life. People like Yuuri weren't meant for people like Victor Nikiforov; even the name came with status he couldn't hope to measure. Having his idol take an interest in him was more than enough, asking anything more of him would be taking what he didn't deserve. Freeing Victor of any obligation was the one thing he could do himself, something that proved he wasn't as selfish as he felt by wanting Victor all to himself.

Yuuri might have been happy to take Victor away from the world, but he couldn't bear the idea of taking the world away from Victor. He spent the entirety of what he thought would be his final season working toward delivering Victor back to the ice. And now? What did he have left to offer?

Chasing his thoughts around in circles wouldn't get him anywhere. Maybe it was time to clear his head the only way he knew how, despite the early hour. Leaving the warmth of their bed was more a chore than he cared to admit, but soon, Yuuri was bundled up and ready to head out. He had learned the hard way during his first few days in St. Petersburg that while he might be able to tough out a Japanese winter with minimal effort, Russia was not to be challenged without plenty of layers close at hand.

The rink that Victor seemed fond of was cozy, its homey interior a stark contrast to Ice Castle Hasetsu's more modern design. He'd only met the couple who owned it once or twice, but they had taken his clumsy grasp of Russian in stride and allowed him the same freedoms they did with his so-called "special someone." It almost felt like getting acquainted with a pair of in-laws, if Yuuri's nerves were any indication. At least it was worth having free reign of the rink during the off-season. With his skates in hand, Yuuri made his way toward the ice in silence, but from the echoes in the spacious room, it seemed he wasn't alone.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Coach Yuuri ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Figure skaters were competitive only for a short time before the strain on their bodies and energy of their younger competitors overwhelms them and they retire, sometimes in a blaze of glory, and sometimes after a crushing defeat. This was a fact that Yuuri had accepted, and thus, it came as no surprise when at his first and final entrance to the Grand Prix Final, he fell into the latter category of skaters whose careers came to an end when he placed dead last.

It was an underwhelming end to an underwhelming career.

Returning home to Hasetsu had been a blessing, even if Yuuri considered it akin to a walk of shame after finally giving up on what had been his dream for so long. Nobody at home seemed to blame him for his decision, no one expected him to continue despite the fact that his heart wasn't in it, and strangely enough, it wasn't as if they had anticipated him burning out from the beginning, either. His hometown had hoped for his success and took his failure for what it was with no further fuss. That was that.

Yuuri only wished he could let the loss roll off his back as easily. Professional competition was beyond him, that was for certain, but it didn't mean he had to give up on skating for good. After a few months of cycling between depression, boredom, regret, and more boredom, he asked Yuuko if there was anything he could do to fill the days beyond helping out at his family's hot spring. The passion for skating was fleeing Hasetsu in search of newer heights and busier cities, leaving only fisherfolk and the elderly behind.

It was like watching his career die all over again. Yuuri wouldn't let that happen.

For the first time in the months leading up to his retirement, he felt determined, driven to action by something other than low self-worth. If there was something he could do, anything to bring hope back to a struggling town that raised him up and believed in him, this could be it. He made calls to the surrounding cities and towns, sat in on meetings within the community, and visited elementary and high schools to convince students the benefits of taking up skating, with Yuuri as their coach.

Kids and teenagers were often far more free with their words than their parents and siblings, and eventually, the question that always came up when he was dealing with a younger crowd was this: "Why should we learn from somebody who couldn't win any medals in the Finals and came crying back home?" At first, Yuuri was floored by this, too dumbstruck to provide an answer, but after enough people asked, he soon found it.

"So you can go further than I ever did one day."

It seemed that his simple response hit home, because within a month, he had three prospective students looking to learn the basics of ice skating. Ice Castle Hasetsu had so few hours they were booked, Yuuri had free run of the place and all the time in the world to hold lessons for as long as his kids were willing to practice. It was a good thing he had extraordinary stamina; the children were balls of energy that took a lot to tire out, and each session seemed to run longer than the last.

Things were looking brighter the longer he worked, though Yuuri did find himself calling Celestino back in Detroit for crash courses in coaching on more than one occasion. He was growing more confident in his abilities than he ever was as a competitor, with three young people that counted on him to be at his best and pushed him to guide them on the right path. Maybe his retirement was a blessing in disguise, for all that Yuuri thought it a death sentence.

Exhausted after another day filled with drilling the basics and giving demonstrations of different jumps over and over again, Yuuri was eager for a little quality time spent in his family's hot spring to soothe his weary muscles. He had just managed to get past the entrance of the inn before his mother tugged him aside (more like wrenched, really; heaven help the man who underestimated Hiroko Katsuki's grip strength.) Through furtive whispers, she told him there was a new arrival at Yu-topia, somebody clearly foreign and, most important, they were looking for him!

The fact that their inn had new customers was surprising enough; the only people that ever passed through their tiny resort were regulars that had been doing so for years, but searching for him on top of that? For a split second, Yuuri's nerves threatened to overtake him, making him seize up and wonder what they could possibly want from him, before a thump on the back from Hiroko brought him back to the present.

"What are you just standing there for? Go on and say hi! And remember to make a good first impression," Here, her grin turned impish, "You know how well foreigners tend to tip when they're happy."

With that in mind, Yuuri felt a little better about approaching mysterious strangers and hoped with all his might that they weren't looking to break his kneecaps and sell his kidneys on the black market. Squaring his shoulders, he put on what he called his Coach Face and made his way toward the outdoor spring as his first destination. If that was a bust, he'd check the rooms next. Luckily enough, there was one lone figure still soaking, and even from a distance, Yuuri could tell it wasn't some middle-aged businessman looking to warm his old bones.

"Excuse me," he called, the steam fogging his glasses as he stepped outside and approached the water's edge. "I'm Yuuri Katsuki-- I heard that you were looking for me?"

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Escort Yuuri ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Some people made their living as a performer, putting on shows to entertain an audience through daring stunts or displays of glitz and glamour. His way of making ends meet was no exception, though it was a trade that people often looked down on if they managed to openly acknowledge it in the first place. For all that the world did its utmost to convince him otherwise, Yuuri knew the truth: His was just as much a craft that took an artist's touch as any dancer or daredevil.

Officially, he was a companion, with intimate knowledge of everything the city had to offer, able to cater to any interest no matter how eclectic or niche. The way he presented his suggestions for food and entertainment, it was easy to assume he came by every bit of his information from personal experience, but all it took was a little quality time scrolling through search results and a confident delivery. Off the books was a different story, and there were certainly enough niche interests for Yuuri to get plenty reference of a different sort.

On paper, the agency he worked for was as reputable as they came, laying out the full breadth of their services and what clients could and couldn't request. It was a cut above most pedestrian escort services, which meant for the amount of money a client paid for entertainment tailored to their wants, their escort had to exude an air of poise and professionalism. Every moment of their allotted time spent with a client was perfectly innocent, and if an escort chose to get a little closer once their shift was finished, so long as no money exchanged hands, his agency turned a blind eye.

Was it illegal in the eyes of the law and shameful in the eyes of the public? Absolutely. Was that enough to stop him from making a living good enough to afford a place in the heart of Japan's busiest (and most expensive) city? Absolutely not.

While it wasn't the sort of thing he could mention offhand to his parents back home, this job was something Yuuri genuinely enjoyed. It was a far cry from his childhood dream of being a professional figure skater, but he got to go places he'd never visit otherwise, meet people that were each unique in some way, and the gifts he received on a regular basis were nothing to sneeze at. Even the sex had appeal; everything was as safe as he could make it, and any client who laid a single hand on their escort was blacklisted by every service provider in the prefecture. Their most valuable assets needed protecting, after all.

More than new experiences, the thing Yuuri enjoyed most about his job was the chance it gave him to become somebody entirely different. Not the timid little piglet too shy to meet anyone's eye on the street but somebody confident, exciting, someone who could capture a person's gaze and hold it. A pair of contacts, hair gel, and high-end clothes shouldn't have made as much of a difference as it did, but when he was at work, he stopped being Yuuri Katsuki and instead became Yuri, a common enough name that it effectively made him anonymous.

People in a business like his always made use of false names in the name of discretion, obscuring a client's identity with nicknames or code words, sometimes as simple as an initial or as silly as a pun. Yuuri's latest, initially introduced as G.P. but offered up his full name in a matter of minutes, spent the entirety of their walk around a city park weeping into his handkerchief about his lost love. It wasn't an uncommon story by any means, and Yuuri had long practice in providing sympathy, but even his coy offer to take poor G.P.'s mind off of it was rejected. It seemed that an ear to listen and a shoulder to cry on was all his client needed, and though nothing remotely illicit had happened, he still bought Yuuri a bottle of expensive cologne as a present.

In the past, Yuuri might have been frantic, too upset with the prospect of putting somebody out to accept such an extravagant gift, but Yuri would never pass up the opportunity. Little bonuses like this were a client's way of showing their appreciation, and it would be a poor way of thanking them if he refused. The way he rationalized it, nobody was obligated to spend their money on him; they did it because they enjoyed his company, and accepting gifts when offered assured his client that he enjoyed theirs. Everybody benefited.

After he parted ways with his latest (and tried in vain to wipe off the flakes of mascara from his shirt), Yuuri shrugged on his coat and hoped that if he closed his eyes and clapped his hands like he did believe in fairies, the black smudges would disappear like magic. No chance of going back to change; he was on a tight schedule and it looked like this next client could afford more than an hour or two of his company.

All the information he needed was sent over text to his work number, with details like his client's alias, their age, and what they requested of their escort. Yuuri only skimmed that, instead choosing to focus on where they were supposed to meet up. From the looks of it, they were just flying into Japan. Two foreign clients back to back, now that wasn't something he saw every day. Usually the people who chose his agency were local, but the ones who weren't tended to be generous tippers. That was even better. Maybe for this, he'd wear G.P.'s cologne; from the sample he'd tried in store, the scent was crisp and not heavy enough to be oppressive.

Feeling better already, all it took was a quick check of train schedules and he was on his way. The airport was crowded with people, only to be expected with the early rush, and for a moment he wondered how he would ever find his client with so much chaos happening all around him. Another check of his phone told him to be on the lookout for a specific outfit, and once he was out of the busiest traffic off to the sides, Yuuri scanned the crowd for anyone that didn't look to be in a hurry until--

There! With a sigh of relief, he approached his intended target from behind, voice raised to combat the white noise of the crowd. "Excuse me, I'm Yuri, and I believe you've been expecting me?" Adopting his warmest smile, he continued, "Why don't you tell me a little about what you're interested in doing today?" It was an old trick, but one that worked. Yuuri was already perfectly aware of what the client specified, but asking directly made it feel as though they were two acquaintances on a date, and everyone liked to be included.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Post-series Otabek ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Otabek found it odd how getting news in the middle of a mundane task can ground everything to a halt for one person while the rest of the world was still speeding along as always. It was during something as simple as breakfast, deflecting his siblings' attempts to steal his remaining baursaki with the ease of long practice, that his mother sat down across from him, expression grave. Though he wasn't the type to take wild guesses when the answer would reveal itself if he waited patiently, something told him that this wouldn't be a scolding for forgetting to call his grandmother that week.

The sense of wrongness only grew when she took his hand, giving it a firm squeeze and shook her head as if at a loss for words, something he's never experienced before in all his years. "We just got a call, you know how the families of skaters like to keep in touch, and..." Here, she drew a breath. "It seems that Kolya had a heart attack last night. They're not sure if he'll make it. Oh, Beka, I'm so sorry."

It took a moment for the diminutive to translate in his head; his mother was overly familiar with everyone and it made keeping names straight a challenge, but then, it finally clicked. Kolya. Nikolai Plisetsky. He'd only met the man in person a few times, but from the way that Yuri talked about him, there was so much love there it was plain to see for anyone with a functioning pair of eyes. After a long stretch of silence wherein the last of his baursaki had mysteriously disappeared, Otabek stood abruptly, sending his chair toppling to the ground.

"I've got to go," was all he said, and his mother, intimately familiar with his moods, grasped immediately what he planned to do.

"I'll call ahead and make sure you've got a flight waiting for you. Grab your coat and keep your phone on you. Oh, and Beka?" Already heading for the door, he paused to look back while the rest of him itched to keep moving forward. "I want to tell you not to be gone long, but I'm sure that boy is going to need you. Just please call as often as you can."

A rare smile tugged at the edge of his lips, making him look tired more than anything. "I will, I promise. Keep these little monsters in check for me while I'm gone." He didn't wait to hear the protests that followed him out of the room. So intent on dropping everything and leaving as soon as he was physically able, it prompted a stern reminder that he couldn't show up with nothing but the clothes on his back, and that meant packing, phone calls, and bank withdrawals.

Every extra minute Otabek had to spend fussing with what he considered insignificant details made his impatience grow to a boiling point and turned his normal stoicism into a mask of frustration that could intimidate steel into warping at the sight of him. He was only able to relax when, true to his mother's word, there was a flight leaving for Russia that evening with seats left to fill. Though the news and preparation drained him to the point of exhaustion, there was no chance of Otabek sleeping.

Three hours of flight would give him plenty of time to think and make plans, and it was something that, at the very least, he could feel grateful for.

He's never been a fan of flying, not his first time as a child spent wailing and clutching his father's leg, and not now that he's a grown adult who was more than capable of handling himself in other aspects of life. A little ironic that Otabek had ended up picking career that revolved around travel, but this wasn't a flight for business or pleasure. He'd just have to suck it up even if his pulse still raced and his fingertips grew cold as his plane lifted off the runway. Once they were in the air, he could relax, but taking off and landing were always the worst parts.

With little else to occupy him, Otabek tried reading and ended up skimming the same sentence over and over. Talking with his seatmates was a bust; a couple of Germans who didn't speak a lick of Russian, Kazakh, or any of the languages Otabek was familiar with. He was a poor speaker regardless, and his wasn't a face that invited anyone to open up with chatter about the weather, so it was probably a good thing that he couldn't understand the usual small talk. That left boring a hole into the seat in front of him, causing its occupant to look back in a mix of terror and confusion, because there was no way he would risk glancing out of his window and seeing miles of empty air between him and the ground.

A little green around the gills but no worse for wear and Otabek was finally back on land. It was full dark when he exited the gate and retrieved his luggage; this airport was familiar enough that the crowds of people didn't have him turned around. There were always taxis available driving in and out of the airport, and after he consulted his phone for directions to the hospital Yuri's grandfather was supposed to be staying at, all it took was repeating them to the driver before he was on his way.

"So, are you visiting somebody? Family, maybe?" It wasn't the driver's fault that his attempt to make small talk only served to agitate Otabek further; to anyone else he would look like a typical tourist, but it still made the urge to kick his seat painfully hard to resist.

"No," Otabek responded instead, voice clipped and inviting no further comment. "Just a friend."

The rest of the ride passed in uncomfortable silence, and upon getting out, he ended up tipping the driver a few extra rubles in exchange for his admittedly poor attitude. Here he was, acting more like Yuri did to others just after their first official meeting, all the pent-up worry inside of him turning his notable long fuse the size of a matchstick.

That thought shamed him into behaving with extra politeness once he reached the front desk. At his inquiry of where he would be able to find Nikolai Plisetsky's room, the nurse shook her head, telling him with regret in her tone that they weren't allowed to release information to anyone that wasn't family. Seeing Otabek's expression fall, she mentioned just above a whisper that a family member of his should be somewhere on the hospital grounds, and the prospect of seeing Yuri brightened his outlook enough for him to take off at a trot.

The only problem with that nurse's helpful hint? It was too vague to be of any use. Hospitals were huge, holding visitor lounges, cafeterias for the staff and patients to eat, a gift shop, even gardens on the premises. Otabek hadn't the faintest clue of where to look, so his only choice was to try them all. After scaring no less than two children by glowering into the windows of the cafe and souvenir shop, he was ready to give up and try again tomorrow morning.

Limbs heavy, head aching, stomach still upset, there was still one place left to try. It was noticeably colder in Russia than Kazakhstan this time of year, prompting Otabek to huddle closer into his leather jacket and cursing himself for not putting on more layers, but there had been no time. The garden area was just about devoid of people, something that nearly had Otabek turning on his heel to go rather than brave the chill, before he caught a glimpse of another person amidst all that greenery.

It was still too far to say for sure whether they were who he was looking for, but Otabek took his gamble and approached anyway, hoping that he could soften his features enough not to terrify a hapless passerby if he turned out to be wrong.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Biker Otabek ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"-- masterful performance from Russia's own Victor Nikiforov! He's showing no signs of stopping for even a moment, leaving his competitors in the dust at every single turn leading up to the end of the Grand Prix series! There's still tomorrow's free skate left to go; it just might fall to one of these up-and-coming youngsters to wrest gold from what can only be called a living legend in the--"

Rather than listen to another second of commentary, Otabek swooped in to grab the remote from his youngest sister, ignoring shrieks of protest as the channel turned from sports to the blessed monotony of medical melodrama. With his height, he kept his prize well out of reach to the average ten year old, but from the way she looked to be sizing up his kneecaps, it seemed Alina was intent on seeing him topple like a great tree by any means necessary. "I was watching that!" she said with a stamp of her foot.

"And now you're not," came his reply in a tone that left no room for argument.

From the look in her eyes, he could see the gears turning and map out her retort before she got a word out. It was an argument the two of them had every single time she insisted on watching figure skating with him present, escalating until the elephant in the room was addressed and Otabek could do nothing but storm out in a temper that wasn't explosive but iced over everything it touched.

Tonight was looking to be one of those nights, and rather than endure the scathing remarks that hit far too close to home, he chose to skip the song and dance and leave before their shouting match caused a scene.

His mother caught him on his way to his room, her tiny frame blocking the doorway. If he had wanted to, he could have pushed past her with ease, but despite the fact that she was so much shorter than he was, Mrs. Altin's presence commanded so much respect that she seemed to tower over him regardless of their actual heights. The door to his room was open, and he could see his jacket flung across the chair, expecting him. "Could you move?" he asked, impatience making him sharper than intended.

Wrong answer. "Beka," she began in that stern voice of hers that warned he was on paper-thin ice. "You take your poor mother away from making dinner because you can't keep from tweaking your sister's tail? I know I raised you better than this, why can't you let Alina watch what she likes?"

Shame coursed through him, and with it came a healthy dose of outrage. If she couldn't understand after all these years why he didn't want to go poking at his sore spots, then there was no point in wasting his breath by arguing. "Forget it," he muttered, turning away and stalking toward the entrance of their home.

From behind him, he could hear her call, "Where are you going? I'm talking to you, Otabek!"

"Out!" With every intention of slamming the door after him, Otabek paused with it half open, allowing the sounds of city traffic outside to travel in. His mouth hardened into a grim line as he sighed and turned toward the photo placed so that it would greet anyone coming or going from their home. A younger Otabek, his smile radiant, sat on the knee of a man whose uniform and soldier's eyes said as much about his character as the laugh lines and matching grin. "... I almost forgot. I'm sorry, Yeka. I'm going out now." Back the way he'd come, his mother waited, arms folded, face expectant. Even softer, he tried to appeal for forgiveness. "Sorry, Sheshe. I lost my head."

"Hm." The term of endearment, something Otabek hadn't used in years, wasn't enough to thaw her completely, but it did soften her gaze enough for him to know that at least he wouldn't come home to a locked door. "Just don't be too late in coming back. I'll leave dinner on the counter for you." That was as good as he was going to get. He dipped his head in agreement and turned to go before one last thing occurred to her. "Oh, and Beka? Sooner or later, we're going to have to talk about your future."

That took the wind out of his sails, but he nodded anyway and left before he was pressured into responding. In the driveway, his pride and joy waited, the bike he'd saved up for countless birthdays and family holidays to buy on his own the moment he got his license. Otabek's motorcycle was his baby, and it showed in the way he tended to it obsessively.

Hands curling over the familiar shape of his keys in his pocket, he began feeling better once the roar of the engine drowned out all of his other thoughts and he took to the streets at long last. The route he took was one he knew by heart, one he could navigate blindfolded if he had to, so all Otabek had to concentrate on was the wind in his ears and the handles in his grip. The cold winter temperature cut through his thin shirt and made him regret not making a grab for his coat after all, but he'd learn to deal with the chill.

Stetson was a bar that acted as their regular meeting place, and even now he could see a couple of familiar faces loitering outside, greeting him with waves and friendly claps on the back as he pulled up. Calling them a "gang" in the traditional sense wasn't accurate, since at least while under Otabek's watchful eye, nobody caused trouble, preferring to leave vandalizing and roughhousing to the smaller groups of punks that thought themselves hard customers. As long as they kept their noses clean and paid their tab, the staff wouldn't give them a hard time.

"Hey, Otya, you made it!" There was Kirell, a member of their group longer than Otabek himself, big and broad enough to make anyone think twice about fooling around with him but too good a soul to ever hurt a fly. "Place is crawling with tourists, you think we should call it for the night and head somewhere else?"

"Yeah, s'a lot more than usual," someone-- Amir-- chimed in. "Guess Almaty's holding some figure skating thing just a ways up this year. Who gives a shit about some hoity-toity twinkletoes sport-- Ow!" With a dirty look shot Kirell's way, he rubbed the spot that had been elbowed.

"C'mon, dude, Otya's right there. Use your head, yeah?" This was hissed as they made their way inside, giving him a chance to warm up.

The two of them talking like he wasn't there made Otabek want to sink into the ground, but it was nothing new. While he hadn't exactly made a big deal about his circumstances before, word got around. The rest of his group tried their best to be considerate and keep from running their mouths.

To pretend he hadn't heard, Otabek turned his attention to where two more familiar faces, these ones belonging to a group of thugs the bar's staff didn't look upon with fondness, seemed to be giving another patron a hard time, but about what wasn't clear. All it took was raising a gloved hand to silence Kirell and Amir and bring their gazes to the same scene in front of him. "Should we go say hello?"

Without glancing back, he knew the idea had them grinning; as a general rule, all of his boys delighted in the chance to shove a couple of punks around as long as it was within reason. Two taps on the shoulder of the guy nearest to him was enough to get their attention. "Something the matter here, boys? Don't tell me you're bothering tourists now."

Three on two didn't make for good odds, and it was lucky their new friends were smart enough to realize that. They slunk away with their tails between their legs, flipping Otabek the bird just to make a point. He motioned for Kirell, the most intimidating of the three of them, to follow just in case there was more trouble outside. That taken care of, he turned to address their apparent target. "Sorry if they caused you any trouble. It doesn't look like they were housebroken and those types love sniffing at anyone who's not a local." After a moment's thought, he amended, "Or people who look like they're not local, anyway."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Faerie Hunter Otabek ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

People often said that spring was the season when Fae ruled, giddy with the prospect of new growth and renewal that it sent them into all sorts of mischief. Every recent mother clutched her newborn babe all the tighter once the snows began to melt lest it be replaced with a Changeling child. Iron crosses dotted doorways, children wove rowan and yarrow into chains instead of daisies, and in the distance, one could always hear bells.

While it was definitely true that the Fair Folk gathered and celebrated during the warmer months, it was winter that Otabek knew was the most dangerous season for those targeted by their otherworldly neighbors. Their magics were flamboyant and showy in the spring, their tricks mild to complement the weather, but when the nights grew longer and colder, that mischief turned sinister.

It seemed impossible for such beautiful scenery, with its untouched snows and frost-tinged trees, to hold peril for any human that strayed without protection, but at only eighteen, he'd had plenty of intimate experience with pixies, sprites, and goblins to name a few. There was a reason he kept iron on him when out on business, though for his day-to-day errands, he considered himself safe enough among humans to venture without it.

Otabek's family was notoriously reclusive; instead of living nestled within the confines of the nearby village, they made their home on the very outskirts, which meant daily trips to the market for basic necessities as well as items most didn't suspect were related to fae-hunting. At the shopkeep's odd look when he requested holly berries after spare nails, he forced a hapless smile. "My gran, she's got a grudge against these mice in our pantry. Hopes these berries will set our problem straight."

"That so? Make sure to keep 'em away from the littles; stuff could prove fatal and not just for your wee mice."

With a nod to show his understanding, Otabek bundled his purchases underneath his arm and left the shop. There was still some time before he was expected back, so surely he could have some time to himself and enjoy the peace, with no overbearing expectations or clients demanding he rid them of their Fae problem. Though small, the village did boast a well-maintained fountain that went unused in the cold season, and over time it had become one of Otabek's favorite spots to be alone with his thoughts. Once spring rolled in and turned to summer, it would be crowded with loud and obnoxious folk, but for now, all was blissfully silent.

The quiet was a blessing that couldn't go long without interruption, since soon Otabek's private space was intruded upon by the sound of footsteps crunching in the snow. Reflexively, he reached for his usual iron charm, only to find that he'd left it at home. It was silly of him to think he would meet anything dangerous here of all places, and it was a mercy that he could pass off his embarrassed flush as a result of the chill.

"Do you have some business here?"

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~