- Ticking - (Otabek x Yurio) (COMPLETED)

{ 11- Greasy Paradise }

"Yura. I'm fine." Otabek shook his head, pushing the angsty teenager away and keeping him at arm's length. He'd been doing this for the past five minutes as they waited for practice to begin, denying any help that Yurio tried to offer.

"No, you're not, you're sick. At least go take some medicine if you're going to insist on staying at practice," Yurio huffed, "like a complete moron."

He didn't know why he said it-- maybe taking care of Otabek was simply human instinct. An act of selfless worry and compassion to help those in weaker states, something that is hereditary through all living things. Or... not.

Yurio had already made this clear to Otabek, but he absolutely despised feeling indebted to someone, and that's how he was feeling now. The man had stayed behind to look after him when he was sick two days ago, and now he was sick as well. Coincidence? Yurio certainly didn't think so.

Not that he wasn't acting partly out of caring-- he was-- but he was foremost trying to rid himself of an icky word: burden. It felt drenched in oil, unclean; he hated the word and everything to do with it.

Burden. Burden, burden, burden. He cringed, swallowing harshly as his mind clashed against itself. He felt dirty now, as if mere thoughts could affect him externally; it seemed ridiculous, but he could feel the grease now. It enveloped him in a cushion of stench, and he tried desperately to get it off. He couldn't think, he couldn't breathe through the dense saturation of fatty liquid-- all he could do was scrub. Try to scrub away what was never gone, what he'd grown to waste away to attempt to purge himself of.

Yet no matter how much he scrubbed, what type of soap he used, how long he spent rubbing, it didn't leave his skin. There was always some shiny spot that reflected back at his eyes as a cruel reminder.

"No, I'm okay. You should be stretching." Otabek released his hold on Yurio's shoulders, giving him a grim smile as a way of telling him to quit arguing.

Too bad Yurio wasn't good at following directions.

"Well, you should be stretching your brain as you try to comprehend what I'm saying, dumbass! You need to go and--" Yurio drew his lips in a harsh line, the glyceride blanketing him all but forgotten.

"Yura. I'm staying at practice. I only have a one-hundred-and-one temperature, it's not bad." He interrupted Yurio, shaking his head with a sense of finality.

Otabek stood up, broad shoulders bared as a possible way of trying to intimidate Yurio into agreeing with him. He stepped a few feet away to reach into his bag against the wall, drawing out a plastic bottle and chugging it.

Yurio shuddered, looking away from the water dripping down Otabek's chin, muttering, "Plastic water bottles are bad for the environment. Thanks for killing the animals, they really appreciate it."

Yurio wasn't sure if Otabek heard him, but if he did, he didn't respond. Instead, he bent over to place the 'environment-destroyer' back into his bag, zipping it up loudly. He walked back over to Yurio, who was glaring at the ground as he tried to reason with himself.

There was nothing else he could do; Otabek had made it definite that he wasn't discussing his fever anymore. However, the oil was still covering him, still making him feel like a piece of meat at a state fair-- disgustingly buttery and waiting on a tray, lubrication spreading from him to the plate beneath him. The air was heavy and carried much weight, enough to taste it, but not only physical-- it was apprehensive. At any moment, he could be dropped into the frying vat and burned, cinched, before being removed without a single shred of gold left of him. Only dark brown so deep it could be black; only the worst fear he could imagine.