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At the banquet after Worlds, the clock is counting down the seconds of the last official event of the season. Upstairs, a shiny new bronze medal is safely tucked away in Otabek's luggage in his hotel room. The second in a row. It's hard not to feel on top of the world when he's the only medalist from last year who managed to repeat his performance.
It's also hard to ignore the storm clouds gathering right next to him where Yuri is leaning against the wall, glaring daggers at everyone and not sharing Otabek's feeling of triumph at all. He's lost the gold to Katsuki, and has been moping ever since.
In a last ditch effort to upstage “Victuuri”, he actually dragged Otabek onto the ice with him during his exhibition skate this time. Whether they were successful or not Otabek doesn't know. The audience ate it up, the Angels are going insane online, but Yuri is still scowling, buzzing with an energy that spells trouble. It doesn't take long before those narrowed green eyes lock with Otabek's.
“Tell me you got the bike.”
There's a threat lurking in the growl of Yuri's voice, and a masochistic part of Otabek is curious what would happen if the answer was no. But of course he has the bike.
They're off into the sunset in no time, Yuri's arms wrapped around him like they have been on the ice, the faint smell of spring in the crisp air, promising the freedom of the off-season.
Exploring a foreign city like this is always an adventure. The direction hardly matters because every road leads somewhere new. Without Yuri's warm presence pressed close against his back, Otabek might have paid more attention to their surroundings. But the truth is, he's far less curious about where he's steering the bike than he is about where his friendship with Yuri is headed. Because they have been teetering on a dangerous edge from the very start, and Otabek can feel escalation looming in the air like the static energy before a thunderstorm.
A red light interrupts their journey, and Otabek slows to a halt for the first time since leaving the hotel's parking lot. A lone car crosses in front of them, then disappears into the night. No other traffic is in sight anywhere, no real reason to follow the rules, yet Otabek keeps waiting at the line, even though he can feel Yuri growing restless behind him.
It's also Yuri who crosses a whole other line, then, sliding a hand under Otabek's jacket, then under his shirt, cold fingertips dancing over his stomach, making his abs twitch.
“Yura,” Otabek hisses, grip tightening around the handlebars.
Yuri just laughs, a breathy sound drowned out by the slow purr of the bike. Otabek feels it more than he hears it, Yuri's chest fluttering against his back where's he's pressed oh so close against him.
Otabek's eyes remain glued to the red light, as if it changing to green will allow him to escape.
If only that were what he actually wants.
Yuri presses up closer against him, one hand sliding up his chest, thumbing over his nipple, the other dipping under the waistband of his pants. Otabek groans through gritted teeth and speeds off, red light be damned. The roar of the engine can't drown out Yuri's elated laughter. Two of Otabek's favorite sounds in the world, perfectly mixed together.
He tries to appease Yuri with speed, hoping the rush of it will distract him, make him hold on fast again instead of torturing Otabek with cold-hot touches.
It doesn't work.
Yuri's arm around his chest tightens, but the fingers of his other hand remain tucked into Otabek's pants, teasing, tantalizing, mere centimeters from his swelling dick. Maddening.
The street becomes a blur. This is dangerous in all the ways Otabek loves.
Rows of tall residential buildings are rushing by, standing brick-to-brick, rusty red and driftwood brown, hugging narrow alleys, blocking the lights from the main street.
It's too tempting to resist.
Otabek steers into the next best alley, kills the engine, drags Yuri off the bike and shoves him up the nearest wall.
Yuri's grin is gone, his green eyes are wide and expectant, a wordless taunt asking if Otabek was going to finish what he started.
And Otabek hesitates. Doubts are creeping in, warning him to be responsible, to not take this too far, too soon.
Yuri has no patience for that. The helmet that he never cares to fasten clutters to the ground. Cold fingers reach up under Otabek's chin to open the clasp of his own helmet and it follows Yuri's to the ground a second later.
A firm hand grips the front of his leather jacket and yanks him closer, a move that is almost familiar at this point, yet it still gives him a start every time.
Yuri gives him one last, fierce stare, daring him to back off.
He knows he should. He really should. But he doesn't.
It's all the answer Yuri needs. The next moment, he captures Otabek's mouth with his own, and the world erupts in sparks. He tugs Otabek closer, and Otabek follows willingly, blindly, desperately.
He feels the kiss in every last cell of his body, tingling through him from head to toe. He braces himself against the dirt-colored brick wall, crowding Yuri closer against it. Yuri tilts his head back in response, inviting him deeper. It makes Otabek dizzy. It reminds him of why this is a bad idea.
He draws back to catch his breath, to collect his thoughts and get a grip on the desire surging through him.
“This is madness,” Otabek mutters, “We shouldn't be doing this.”
Laughter rolls from Yuri's lips. Mocking. Challenging.
“But you want to.”
Denying it would be a silly lie. And before Otabek can find any words to reason with him, Yuri is already leaning in again, searching and finding Otabek's all too willing mouth.
Yuri's hands are all over him again, and Otabek yearns so much to respond in kind, to slip his hands underneath Yuri's clothes until he finds warm, soft skin and Yuri will gasp and moan against his lips.
He holds himself back, but Yuri doesn't. One hand dips dangerously low once more, and Otabek pulls back with a gasp.
“Yura,” Otabek tries to argue again, an almost desperate warning in his voice that only seems to spur Yuri on.
“What, Beka?” he challenges, his hand slowly sliding even lower.
Otabek inhales and closes his eyes, all senses zoning in on the warmth of Yuri's palm. His resolve to be the restraint to Yuri's recklessness has failed from the very first day they met. In truth, he's the butter to Yuri's hot knife. His willpower melts like ice in the sun while his dick grows rock-hard under Yuri's hand.
“Are you going to stop me?” Yuri rasps, a chuckle in his voice, because he already knows the answer.
Defeated, Otabek starts to shake his head, a minuscule motion that Yuri stops mid-way with another fierce kiss that sucks the breath out of him.
He'll let Yuri have anything he wants, and Yuri knows. Yuri knows, and he'll take it. It makes Otabek's heart pound faster.
Yuri fights his way into Otabek's pants more than actually trying to open them. It hardly matters. Otabek groans when cool fingers firmly wrap around him.
It's clumsy, a mix of inexperience and impatience, and yet Otabek comes embarrassingly quickly, all over Yuri's fingers, hot and messy and sticky.
He has no room for regret, though, because finally there's the triumph in Yuri's eyes that he so badly wanted to see.
That doesn't mean Yuri is satisfied yet, of course.
“Blow me,” he demands. The words are a hoarse whisper, almost getting carried away by the stinging wind blowing through the alley.
Otabek's knees are weak, his mind is even weaker. The smug gleam in Yuri's eyes never wavers, full of confidence that Otabek will obey. Full of trust. He knows he's commanding a starving man to eat.
Otabek's knees hit the pavement. Yuri, wide-eyed, fumbles to free his dick from his pants, flushed pink and dripping. It's as pretty as the rest of him.
Otabek parts his lips like he does on the ice to take off Yuri's glove, and Yuri invades his mouth like he owns it. Like he already knows Otabek can take it all. As if every iteration of Welcome to the Madness has been designed to measure the depth of Otabek's devotion.
Otabek has no intention of being found wanting. He swallows him down to the hilt, even as it makes his eyes water. He doesn't care. All he cares about is a sudden, new kind of resolve: to make sure that every time Yuri thinks back to this night it'll leave him hard and desperate and yearning. He knows it'll be the same for himself.
Now that all the lines have been crossed there's no reason to hold back anymore, and it's so easy to give in, to give himself over, to relax into the involuntary thrusts of Yuri's hips and just take all he has to give.
Yuri is trembling, slumped against the wall, hands searching for purchase to stay on his feet. Otabek slings an arm around him, meeting his eyes through the tears in his own as he does so and Yuri shakes even more. Otabek thinks he can feel every beat of Yuri's racing heart pulsing against his spit-slick lips. He tastes like heaven, hot and hard and heavy on Otabek's tongue. He would love to drag this out forever, but they're still out in the open, and Yuri is filling the alley with moans that are too lewd and too loud. Someone's bound to hear them and come looking.
But then Yuri comes so quickly, maybe they'll be fine.
Yuri's knees give out as he spills down Otabek's throat, but Otabek's arms are right there, holding him up while Otabek swallows every drop. When he is sure Yuri is steady again, Otabek stands up. Yuri looks dazed, eyes glazed over like freshly resurfaced ice. Otabek leans down to kiss his pink lips. Lets him have a taste of himself, tucks him back in while he does it, closes his own pants, too.
A voice shouts at them and light spills down from a window above. Otabek doesn't waste time checking where exactly it came from. He tosses Yuri's helmet at him, picks up his own, then takes Yuri's hand and heads for the bike. Jumping on it he waits for the familiar feeling of Yuri's arms snaking around his waist before he lets the engine roar. Someone shouts something after them in a language neither of them speaks. It's of no consequence.
Behind him, Yuri lets out a triumphant yell and laughs, and laughs, and laughs.