Otayuri | complete

Smirk- Plot

Word Count: 690

"Can I borrow a hair tie?" I grumble, searching my pockets and coming up empty.

Otabek touches the band holding up his own bun first before remembering the extra on his wrist. He wordlessly places it in the palm of my hand. His fingers momentarily brush my hand, leaving me a blushing red mess in the wake of his touch. I begrudgingly thank him, binding my hair in a careless rush. Meeting the usual crowd of skaters for dinner has never been a painless affair, and tonight I think will be no different. Otabek makes it bearable at least, I suppose.

"You don't look happy," Otabek hands me a helmet as he mounts the motorcycle. "It's your birthday," he continues, "you should be happy that your friends care and want to meet you for dinner. At the very least that means you don't have to pay." Otabek has insisted on picking up my tab.

"Sure," I huff, my eyes rolling back to examine the contents of my skull. It's too dark in my head to see much; just about as black as my heart in there. "'Friends,'" I scoff, Russian accent thickening with my disgust, "you're my only friend Otabek."

I mutter and grumble but Otabek seems unfazed, supplying an amused half-smirk. He turns around and fixes my helmet when I clumsily land behind him.

"Safety first," he pulls the helmet down to my eyebrows, hiding my perpetually angry glare.

"Yeah, yeah-- whatever. Can we go now, please?" I push the helmet backward to sit on my forehead again once he turns around.

"Yep," he says simply, the bike noisily rolling forward.

We ride in silence-- silent only ignoring the roaring wind and noisy technology propelling us forward. I sort of like the way the road pops loudly beneath the wheels, and the way the world just sort of blurs and buzzes into the background. This is nothing like skating and yet oddly akin to the feeling of effortless gliding. It suits Otabek.

I'd be perfectly content to ride on the back of his motorcycle forever like this, but we do stop eventually. As we come to the door of the restaurant I almost feel as if we've wasted our time together in silence. But time with Otabek is never wasted, and the silences are long and comfortably so.

"What's the reservation under?" I mumble under my breath to Otabek as we enter the restaurant.

"They made it under Plisetsky for you," he half-smirks again.

The smirks would annoy me if he were genetically capable of anything more, but he isn't genetically capable of anything more, so I'm forced to give him a pass. Not that it would even matter if I were to get mad. Otabek is impossibly hard to hold a grudge against-- and I'm one to try. Not that I've had a reason to be mad at him, but that-- in itself-- is infuriating because he's so damn perfect--

Focus.

"Thanks," I reply under my breath to Otabek.

I clear my throat before redirecting my voice to the man at the front podium. "Reservation for Plisetsky."

He runs his forefinger down a list, glancing up at us skeptically once. Otabek and I exchange a disgusted glance. I tighten my hair band indignantly as he takes his time.

"Oh, here you are," the man suddenly replies briskly, brightening. "Right this way, sirs."

We follow at a slow pace, taking in the atmosphere as we go. Victor and Katsudon better not have beaten us here. Their annoyingly adorable little one is staying home tonight, but Victor is enough of a nuisance to make up for the absence. The usher seats Otabek and me at an empty table, as if in response to my inward prayers. Could I actually be on the verge of a good birthday gathering?

"No friends yet," I mutter anyway once Otabek and I are alone again.

"What happened to me?" Otabek kicks me under the table, half of a grin painting his face.

If I'm not blushing brightly enough to reflect red off the pearly white table cloth-- Oh boy, here they come.

"Yurio!"