A/N: My apologies for the delay. This chapter proved more difficult than I'd anticipated, and I had an annoying possibly-migraine-related-episode-thing that left me unable to use my hands for a week, which delayed any writing and typing. I really need to find some good dictation software for next time this happens. Anyway, I hope you enjoy the conclusion to this little tale.

Yuri POV

"Morning Grandpa, Beka," Yuri yawned, slumping into his chair at the table.

"Morning," Beka replied, sliding a plate of potatoes and sausages in front of him. It smelled divine, and Yuri dug in with more enthusiasm than he'd been able to muster in days.

He'd been tossing and turning until dawn, wrestling with the impossible situation they found themselves in. He knew Grandpa was steadily improving, and that they'd soon have to make decisions that he desperately wanted to put off. He didn't know what he would do, where he would go; only that he couldn't bear to return to St. Petersburg. He dreaded having to share Beka with Mila, dreaded losing him to her even more. No. He'd have to go somewhere else - the only question was where. As for skating… Well. Maybe he could sweet talk Lilia into referring him to a ballet studio. Somewhere far away from Beka, and everything he'd lost. Somewhere like —

"Yuratchka."

Yuri suddenly realized that Grandpa had been trying to get his attention, and he felt his cheeks heat. "Yes, Grandpa? I'm sorry - I didn't hear…"

Grandpa snorted. "Evidently. I was just asking Otabek here if he'd drive us all down to the rink this afternoon. I've never seen him skate, and I'd love to see your routines in person."

The blood rushed from Yuri's face, and he felt faint. His ears rang, and he was having trouble focusing. The room went blurry, and he couldn't get enough air, and—

"Yura!" Beka's hands closed protectively around his shoulders and he took his weight, supporting and anchoring him. Yuri drew in a shaky breath, and then another, and the ringing in his ears faded as the room shivered back into focus.

"Thanks," he said softly, shrugging his shoulders until Beka's hands reluctantly slipped off. He glanced up through the curtain of his bangs and deflated at the hopeful look on Grandpa's face. How was he supposed to explain that he was never skating again, now? "I don't…" he started, not sure where he was going with it, since the only thing he could say wasn't an option. "That is…"

"It would mean so much to me, Yuratchka," Grandpa said, smiling that rare hopeful smile, and damn, Yuri couldn't deny him that.

"I — hell. Why not?" he said, defeated. "We'll go this afternoon."

"Yura—" Beka started, but Grandpa cut him off.

"No, no, Yuratchka," he said. "You've not been skating at all since you've been here, nor has Beka, here. I'll not have you hurt yourselves on my account."

For just a moment, Yuri allowed himself to hope that he'd escape the humiliation of skating with - in front of - Beka… but then Grandpa continued, blithely ignoring his distress.

"You'll just have to get back to practicing, work up to it. A week or so should do it, right Yuratchka?"

Yuri gave up, submitting to whatever forces were determined to break him. "Yeah, sure."

"Great!" Grandpa beamed at him, and the last vestiges of his resistance fell away. He couldn't deny him, not when he'd been so much better lately.

Beka patted his shoulder, in a gesture that was probably meant to be reassuring, but only sent tension sparking and fizzing though his blood.

"We'll head over there as soon as we clean up breakfast," Beka said.

Yuri groaned. The idiot sounded almost hopeful. Maybe he could accidentally injure himself while retrieving his skates from his closet? No. He was cursed with relentless grace. No one would ever believe that he'd become suddenly clumsy. Beka would never believe it.

"We'll go after we clean up breakfast," he repeated dully, rising abruptly to dump the rest of his potatoes. The last bite he'd attempted had turned to ash in his mouth, and he was afraid he'd vomit if he smelled them any longer. He just wanted to get this embarrassing spectacle over with. He refused to think about the hours he was now going to have to spend with only Beka and the ice for company. That he could now look forward to an entire week spent on the ice, where he had never been able to hide his feelings. If Beka didn't know how he felt about him now… Well. By the time this week was up, he would, for better or worse.

He felt a tiny tendril of relief curl around his heart, take root in his stomach and spread through the rest of him, bringing a curiously detached peace. By the end of the week, all of the heartache and pain and hopeless longing would be over.

Yuri was angry. This was nothing new; in fact, he almost always skated angrily. It was one of his main sources of strength, the secret to his ability to consistently push himself past his limits. But now he was frustrated and angry, and most of that anger was directed at himself instead of outwards. Across the rink, Beka skated as serenely as ever. Yuri desperately envied him his apparent peace of mind, and also hated it. He wished that Beka would just show some damn emotion!

"Yura!" Beka called to him, interrupting his train of thought. "Slow down! You've not skated in weeks; you don't want to injure yourself now!"

"Shut up, Beka," he snarled, the anger taking hold, "I'll do what I damn well please!" He felt guilty immediately, but when he turned to apologize, Beka had already skated away and was facing the far wall determinedly. He refused to look at Yuri again the rest of their practice. Yuri knew that Beka was right - he really hadn't skated in weeks, and he really did need to take it easy, it was true - but his annoyance at himself for snapping at Beka tapped into his growing frustration, and instead he pushed himself harder. He refused to stop until, panting, he nearly collapsed on the ice. As he did, he felt a sickening wrench in his calf. It didn't feel like a bad injury - probably just a pulled muscle - but it would still set him back several days if he didn't want to injure it further.

He tried to conceal the injury on their way home, limping as unobtrusively as possible, but Beka, as usual, noticed.

Otabek POV

Otabek quietly massaged Yuri's injured leg, ignoring a series of fumbling attempts to apologize. "Is there anything else I can get for you, Yura?" he asked, when he judged that he'd done all he could.

Yuri hesitated. "Read to me?" he finally asked, eyes cast down to focus on his anxiously twisting fingers, refusing to meet Otabek's amused gaze.

"All right," he said simply, trying to hide his amused smile. He didn't fool Yuri, of course, who looked up, eyes narrowing dangerously. "What shall I read?" he asked quickly, aiming to divert Yuri's legendary temper. He glanced around the room, brows drawing together in confusion as he took in the complete and utter lack of books.

Yuri snorted. "In there." He gestured toward the closet. "Top shelf. Take your pick."

Otabek gingerly pulled open the door, remembering the hazards of opening similar doors in Yuri's other living spaces… and smiled at the pile of stuffed tigers he found instead. His fingers extended, reaching for the nearest one, and then his breath caught as his idly wandering gaze landed on —

"Yura? Are these…"

He glanced back and was rewarded with one of Yuri's bright, unguarded smiles. "Yeah. Those were my mother's. Actually, Beka?" he asked, as Otabek's finger crept forward to caress the gilded jewel-toned bindings.

"Hmm?"

"The red one, maybe? It's my favorite." He flushed, anticipating the teasing, but Otabek merely smiled and drew out the red volume from its place, settled snugly between the blue and green.

"All right." He could feel his voice deepen, words rolling fluidly off his tongue as the echoes of his native accent crept in, caressing the words and amplifying their emotional punch – a legacy of his father and countless hours devouring tales at the man's knees. Yuri leaned forward, seemingly unconsciously, and Otabek allowed the sliver of a smile to escape. He was beautiful like this, soft and unguarded. He fought against the temptation to reach out and stroke the cornsilk strands of his hair, mussed from the fall, and the brisk winter air. It shone distractingly in the light that spilled across Yuri's rapt form, and if he stretched his arm out, just a tiny bit—

"Beka? Yuratchka?" Grandpa called from the living room, "Come out here and keep an old man company."

Yuri's expressive face morphed instantly into his indifferent, indignant mask and his eyes flashed, promising murder. Otabek smothered a smile and smoothly rose to his feet, tucking the precious book securely under one arm as he ruthlessly tamped down his errant attraction, and then offered the other to Yuri, wordlessly helping him into the living room. He didn't comment on how Yuri was allowing him to bear most of his weight.

Once he'd settled Yuri comfortably on the couch, he moved to sit in the other chair, but Yuri stopped him with an insistent hand on his arm.

"Sit by me? So I can see the pictures?"

"Of course, Yura," he said, sliding in next to him, careful not to jostle his leg where it lay propped on a stack of pillows, and beginning to read once more.

Yuri leaned his head against Otabek's shoulder and settled in to listen; Otabek struggled to keep his voice and heartbeat level. Yuri was right there; strands of hair tickling Otabek's neck, the light scent of his shampoo wafting up with every breath… He took a shaky breath, released it, begged his voice not to betray how much he was affected by the simple closeness. He soldiered on, and soon was lost in the story once more.

They made it through the red volume, and were well into the purple when he conceded that Yuri's leg was indeed recovered. He had borrowed a chessboard and checkers from one of Grandpa's neighbors, and had insisted that Yuri and Grandpa sit and play while he waited on them. Though, really, he'd spent more time reading and helping Yuri, who was far too impatient for chess.

Otabek watched anxiously as Yuri slid smoothly across the ice. He knew it had been a minor injury, one that didn't really require as much rest as he'd insisted on. Hell, Yakov would most likely have had Yuri back on the ice within the hour, with maybe a slightly-less-insane pace in deference to the injury.

He'd half expected Yuri to fight him, like the spitting tomcat he knew the small-but-fiery skater could be… but he hadn't. He'd rested until Otabek had relented and taken them both back to the ice - where he was now executing the most remarkable sequence of jumps and spins Otabek had ever seen. He snorted. That was all for him, of course - a nonverbal "See?" that rang out loud and clear because it was said in the language they both understood best.

He stared, unseeing, as the words rang in his head like a bell. The language they both understood best. Of course. He waited for Yuri to pause, then seamlessly slipped into his own jump sequence. But where Yuri had leapt, he swooped low; where Yuri practically flew, barely skimming the surface of the ice, he sped along it, bent low, grounded solidly to the ice and calling forth its drumbeat. Then he paused, expectant, waiting, eyes fixed firmly on Yuri's face.

Yuri's head was tilted, birdlike; his brow furrowed in thought. Otabek waited. If only… And then Yuri shivered to attention, his eyes lit with delight and competitive fire, and he was off, leaping across the ice, answering the unvoiced question.

They played their strange back-and-forth game for what felt like hours, caught up in the magic of call and response, question and answer, spin and glide.

They stopped together, gliding through one last, elegant loop and then halting with a quiet hiss of blades on ice. For a moment, they stared at one another, panting slightly, catching their breaths. The moment stretched out and out, trembling like a soap bubble on the edge of breaking. Otabek said the first thing that came to his mind, desperate to keep Yuri from withdrawing again.

"Did you get my messages?"

Yuri's eyes snapped up to his, searched his face. "What messages?" he asked, eyes narrowed slightly in confusion.

Beka frowned. "I sent several, the last few days before I got here. After I realized you might actually want to talk to me after all. I didn't at first, but Mila—"

Yuri cut him off. "Wait. No you haven't, I — Oh."

"What?"

"I think maybe…" Yuri grabbed his hand suddenly, dragged him back across the ice.

Otabek, off-balance, tried to tug his hand from Yuri's vice-like grip. "Yura, what are you—"

"Not now. I need to check…"

Yuri didn't speak again until he'd tugged him all the way back to his room, with only a curt nod for Grandpa as they passed. "Now where did I…?" Yuri muttered to himself, digging through his drawers. Otabek just watched, thoroughly puzzled.

"Aha!" Yuri exclaimed, unearthing his phone from the bottom of a drawer. Otabek realized, startled, that he'd not seen Yuri using it once while he'd visited, and wondered how he'd failed to notice its absence.

"I, uh, haven't turned it on in a while," Yuri said sheepishly, turning the phone to display the blank screen. "Hang on — lemme find the charger."

Otabek puzzled this over as Yuri impatiently flung things aside. "But, you said you talked to Mila?"

"Oh, yeah," Yuri said, sheepishly. "She, uh, emailed me. I used Grandpa's computer." He was frowning down at the phone now, as it reluctantly booted up, lip sucked between his teeth in a very distracting way. "Oh!" he exclaimed, cheeks flushing lightly as he scrolled through the messages - Beka winced as he remembered just how many messages he'd sent - "I didn't ignore them on purpose! I couldn't—" He smiled shyly up at Beka, who smiled shyly back.

"Good."

Yuri's eyes were soon glued to his screen once more, and he chewed his lip as he scrolled. Otabek tried not to look – he didn't really want to know his reaction to…

Yuri's hand flew to his mouth, and his eyebrows shot up nearly to his hairline. "I am an idiot," he muttered. Then he looked up. "No, you are an idiot. Why the hell didn't you just tell me how you felt?"

Otabek winced. "I… well…"

Yuri sighed. "Fine. I know why you didn't tell me. But why Mila didn't…"

"I think she felt it would be better coming from me?" he offered.

That earned him a snort. "She didn't want to risk my temper over her staggering idiocy, you mean. I suppose I can't blame her." His smile turned decidedly wicked. "But next time I see her..."

Otabek thought he probably ought to warn her, but part of him felt she deserved it for meddling as she had. She'd only been trying to help, but she'd nearly ruined things. Ruined this. In any case, she could most likely handle just about anything Yuri could dish out.

Yuri POV

The next time they skated, Yuri didn't waste time on Beka's subtle call-and-response game of the day before. He waited impatiently for Beka to pause, then grabbed his hand and swung him into a shaky spin. Beka wobbled for an instant, but quickly righted himself, taking control of the spin and leading Yuri across the ice. Perfect. He looked up, catching Beka's surprised gaze, watching it turn to interest and exultant anticipation. Then he nodded. Your move.

Beka took up the challenge with his usual stolid grace - he danced Yuri across the ice, dipping him, twirling him, tossing him into gravity-defying leaps and then grounding him again. They improvised their way into a passable imitation of a pairs routine, and Yuri loved every second of it. Dancing with Beka was the perfect combination of wild and restrained - like dancing with a tightly leashed storm. It was everything Yuri had always loved about skating, everything that had seduced him from that first moment he stepped out on the ice. It was wonderful. It was exhilarating. And the best part was the look in Beka's eyes, the look that said he felt it, too.

"So," he said, once he'd caught his breath. "That was something."

Beka nodded, hands on his knees.

Yuri grinned at him. "Since we've missed the deadline for competing this season and don't have new programs to work on… wanna work on a pairs routine instead? Just skate for the fun of it?"

Beka didn't answer him in words, but Yuri understood just the same.

They skated their routines for Grandpa at last. Yuri waited a beat after his final pose, then punched the air with an exultant fist. Yes! That was the best performance he'd done yet, and the excited gleam in Grandpa's eyes told him the old man knew it as well. He turned, heart in his throat, to look at Beka.

He was met with equally bright eyes, an incandescent grin, and a thumbs up. He laughed. Then he stood spellbound, rooted to the spot, until Beka struck his own final pose. Yuri felt a spark of jealousy when Grandpa seemed equally delighted - but not in the way he expected. Instead, he found himself miffed that Otabek's grace should be seen by anyone but him.

He gave his own thumbs up, then startled as Beka turned to him and stretched out his hand, echoing Katsuki's final free skate pose, that season that changed all their lives.

"Skate with me," he said, eyes bright and sparkling and crinkling up at the edges. "Skate with me in public, in front of an audience."

Yuri frowned at him. "Huh? It's too late for us to skate this season, Beka."

His eyes didn't lose their sparkle; if anything it increased, growing mischievous. "In singles."

Yuri waited for a moment, then gestured impatiently. "And? We skate singles, Beka."

"What if we didn't? Skate pairs with me this season, Yura? We can use the routine we've been working on. The other team had to pull out due to injury - we have time to sign up. If you want."

His smile was so hopeful and open that Yuri found himself powerless to resist. "I - hell. All right. But you're the one breaking the news to Yakov."

Beka's laughter, bright and free as it echoed around the empty rink, was the best sound Yuri had ever heard. He skated abruptly toward him, letting out a peal of laughter of his own as Beka stood, staring at him, up until the moment they collided with a startled Oof. They ended in a tangle on the ice, and it didn't escape Yuri's notice that Beka had somehow managed to arrange them so Yuri landed on top of him, completely unscathed. He rolled his eyes, lowering his head until his breath skated across Beka's face, ruffling his hair and bringing a delicious flush to his cheeks.

"You're mine. Idiot." Riding the high of the elation bubbling through his chest, he leaned down, brushed their lips together in a kiss gentler than he thought possible. Not that he should have been surprised. Beka had always brought out the best in him. He captured Beka's hands as he pulled him to his feet, pressed their palms together, and they danced.

~The End~

A/N: Thank you for reading! Comments, follows, favorites, etc. are always appreciated. If you like, you can find me on tumblr as whimsicaldragonette, where I gush about Otayuri, Victuuri, and Drarry and sometimes share tidbits of stories-in-progress.