One

Preface

The first time Otabek saw him, his golden hair was cut short, hanging loose around his sharp jaws. He was only thirteen, but already then, Yuri Plisetsky seemed to look at the world through cold eyes that had seen far too much already. But Otabek could see it even then- how the young boy tried so desperately to be all sharp edges. And he might have angles- cutting bone structure and nothing more than skin, muscle and bone- but when he moved he was soft like a feather. Graceful, in a way thirteen year old boys couldn't be without being judged, laughed at. He never got to talk to him, he only saw him passing by on his way to practice, or eating his lunch alone. After all, he was two years below him so they didn't practice in the same age group. He only saw him that summer, but Otabek always wondered what happened to the young boy and wherever he'd come from in the first place. He just didn't seem to belong to this world.

Yuri

"Again." He bends his knee, prepares and then push himself up, putting all his weight on the toes of his left foot. He twirls, lands and regains his position.

"Again." He repeats the pirouette, his feet sore, his muscles burning. This is how it continues. Everyday for as long as he could remember. Was it pain more than passion now? No. He can not recall ever feeling anything when he was not on the ice, or in the studio. Not since that day. And he has been training now, training for so long and he is so close. It makes him forget his sore feet, covered in blisters, forget how every single movement hurts at the end of the day.

"Again." Lilia Baranovskaya barks and once again, he complies.

The rink is cold, but when he is finished, he can barely feel it anymore. Sweat covers his forehead and he gathers his hair into a ponytail to keep it from plastering to his skin. When he removes his skates he is shaking, vibrating. He lets out a few unsteady breaths. The ice before him holds expectation and a promise. A promise of something more.

When Yuri turns the key and walks into the small apartment, he finds a letter resting on the doormat. A letter in a red envelope. He gingerly picks it up, puts it on the small table. He takes off his coat, goes into the bedroom and lies down on the bed. He closes his eyes for a few moments, takes a deep breath. So close. He stands up, walks over to the phone hanging on the wall. He pushes in the well known number combination. It only rings once before there is a click.

"Yurio?" The same voice that always answers.

"Grandfather. He's back." There is a short silence.

"I will call Yakov. He will take you in." Then the line goes dead.

Otabek

At eighteen years old, Otabek can almost touch his freedom. He is back. Back in Russia and training for Yakov. He is training for real this time, for nationals, for the grand prix final. There is barely time for school anymore, just straight to the rink after it and then back to the small apartment where he's staying. But that isn't his home- the rink is his home now, his sanctuary. He's always felt a little trapped back in his hometown, the same town he's been in all his life. The only time he's left was when he'd gotten a spot at Yakov's summer programme, three years ago. And during those two months in Moscow he realized that if he worked as hard as he could for the next three years, he could actually make something- he could be someone. And it was back in Moscow that he saw him again- exactly the same, yet so incredibly different- as if he'd endured a thousand lifetimes of pain.

"Good work Altin. You might actually have a shot in the finals." Yakov says, giving Otabek a slap on the back before walking out of the rink. Otabek sits down on the bench, unstrapping his skates slowly. His muscles are sore, but in a good way- in a way that make him feel stronger. He is just about ready to leave when he hears a soft melody coming out of the speakers. He frowns and cranes his to see a small shape enter on the other side of the rink. Short and lean, the figure skates out to the center and Otabek inhales softly as the shape is brought to light. The blonde hair that used to stubbornly fall into his eyes is now long and braided on both sides, meeting in the middle. This only shows off the sharp cheekbones, defined eyebrows and the striking green-blue eyes, still as distant and cold. But then he raises a pale, petite hand and starts moving and it takes Otabek's breath away. Because where Yuri Plisetsky had tried so desperately to be sharp, he has embraced everything he'd been teased about, everything that made him the laughingstock. He is vibrantly feminine as he started to move- soft and graceful across the ice and Otabek has never seen anything so beautiful.