Otayuri Oneshot Collection

4) There's Only One Chair

"Congratulations, Yura." He spoke softly, not sure of his welcome, yet. Half of him almost wished that Yuri wouldn't hear him; that he'd keep talking to—

"Beka!" Yuri whirled around, cutting JJ off mid-sentence (he was probably bragging about recovering from his uncharacteristic stumble earlier - it would have been even more uncharacteristic for that to have actually taught him humility). He hurled himself at Otabek, who caught him easily, as if this weren't uncharacteristic of either of them, as if it happened all the time.

The other skaters in the changing rooms stared with open interest, conversations forgotten, as Yuri wrapped his arms around his neck and squeezed him tight.

He marveled at the strength in Yuri's tiny frame, the sparkle in his brilliant green eyes. The embrace went on for far too long to be purely friendly, but he certainly wasn't going to say anything. This is what he'd worked for, trained mercilessly for, these past five years, and it was already better than he'd ever imagined.

JJ was trying to get their attention, but they ignored him. Otabek knew that Yuri had never had a particularly friendly relationship with JJ, and while he didn't hate him with the fiery passion that Yuri displayed, he certainly wouldn't say that he liked the man. He generally regarded him as one of the small, biting insects that swarmed in clouds during the warmer months: irritating and whiny, but ultimately unimportant. It was easy to ignore him, especially now, with Yuri's warm body pressed so close to his own; he had eyes only for Yuri.

"That idiot's medal should have been yours," Yuri grumbled, jerking his chin toward the spluttering man behind them, and frowning darkly.

He didn't disagree, exactly - he'd felt good about that performance, and personally felt that JJ had made far too many mistakes to rate a medal - even bronze. He'd even been annoyed about it earlier, which is why he'd escaped the stifling press conference (the only benefit to not medaling was not having to talk to the press) to go for a quick jog and clear his head. But he'd take Yuri's comfortable weight in his arms over the weight of any medal around his neck. He blushed at the thought and ducked his head, hoping no one noticed. He realized his mistake when his nose ended up buried in Yuri's cornsilk hair. It smelled like Yuri's shampoo - something light and fruity - and the unmistakeable and intoxicating scent of Yuri himself. He groaned softly, a low rumble that he hoped no one else had heard, and that was entirely unintentional.

He wrenched his head back up before he embarrassed himself further, only to be met by Yuri's inquisitive stare. Fuck. He braced himself for Yuri's inevitable disgust, for the small body to be torn from his grasp, but Yuri only blinked at him.

For a long moment they stared at one another, dark eyes drowning in curious green, and then Yuri huffed softly. "Put me down, Beka," he said, "and give me five minutes to get changed out of this." He plucked at the sequined bodysuit irritably, and Otabek winced, remembering how much the things itched. "And then," Yuri said, the corner of his mouth tugging up slightly in a smirk, "what say we blow this joint? You owe me a cup of tea."

"Mmm." Otabek smiled at him, as he set him down, relieved but puzzled. "Not that I don't mind skipping the festivities, but don't you have a banquet to attend?" He flicked the gold medal slung around Yuri's neck.

Yuri grimaced. "Ugh. Not if I can help it. Last year was bad enough - I don't wanna be anywhere near those two once the drinks start flowing." He hooked a thumb toward Victor and Yuuri, who were nestled together in the corner, staring openly at them and whispering to one another.

Otabek nodded agreement. He'd heard stories about last year's banquet, and Yuri had shown him enough pictures that he had no qualms in skipping it. It wasn't like anyone would be interested in the fourth-place skater, anyway. But still...