A/N: Written for Otayuri Week 2017, Day 1: Confessions / First Times

"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…

"Yura…"

"Yuri rolled his eyes. "Beka…" he retorted, as he grabbed his bag from his locker. "I'll just be a minute."

He stood staring after him for a moment a no-doubt goofy smile on his face. Then the muttering and frantic whispers behind him pierced the lovesick fog he was wrapped in, and he dropped his face into his hands, groaning.

He chanced a look behind him, and saw Katsuki advancing determinedly on him, with Victor right behind. JJ was staring at him, jaw actually dropped, and it would have been funny if Phichit hadn't suddenly lunged into view, frantically snapping photos, and God. He scanned the room for an exit, but the only doors were on the wrong side of the advancing skaters.

He did the only thing he could think of: he spun around and speed-walked toward the changing rooms. He was determined not to call it running.

"Yura!" he called frantically, scanning for those unmistakeable leopard-print shoes. He was wearing them, wasn't he? He had to be. He always wore them to competitions, for good luck, and—

There! He knocked on the door, wincing at how frantic he sounded but somehow unable to stop, and then slumped forward against it. Or, he would have, if Yuri hadn't chosen that moment to open it.

"All right, all right. Geez. What's so important that—Oof." He staggered back under Otabek's weight. "What the hell, Beka?" He looked up then, at the rapidly advancing mob of skaters, and paled. "Right."

He backed quickly into the stall, yanking Otabek after him, and then slammed and locked the door.

"Ha! Take that, suckers." He turned, arms folded across the chest of his familiar hoodie. "Now. Care to tell me what that was all about?"

Otabek, slumped now on the chair in the corner of the small room, picked absently at the sequins on Yuri's Agape costume. The fabric was still warm and smelled unmistakably of Yuri. Holding it was like holding a shadow of Yuri himself, in an echo of the surprise embrace not ten minutes ago, which had immediately become the best moment of his life.

He refused to look up. He could feel the tips of his ears heating, knew they were a fiery red. What had he been thinking? The other skaters didn't mean any harm. He knew that. He'd just… panicked. He wasn't good with people. Oh, sure, he was supposed to be. He was supposed to be "cool." He drove a motorcycle. He DJ'ed at fucking clubs. But that was different. That was a persona he could slip on along with the leather jacket and stylish shades. This was just Otabek. Shy, quiet, terrified-of-just-about-everybody-that-wasn't-Yuri Otabek.

"Hey," Yuri said, softer now. "Beka? It's OK. I don't know what happened out there, exactly, but… I'm here."

He crept forward, hand outstretched, as if he were approaching a scared kitten. But then, Otabek thought, as Yuri's hand reached the last tantalizing inch forward and stroked hesitantly through his hair, maybe it wasn't that different after all. He nuzzled into Yuri's strong fingers, and Yuri responded by increasing the pressure. It felt wonderful.

"Beka," Yuri laughed, moving closer, until the scent from his body overwhelmed him, clouded his mind and eroded his self control. "Are you sure you're not actually a kitten?"

"Mmmm," Otabek said, half answer and half purr. "I thought so, but… it looks like I might have been mistaken."

Yuri laughed again, sliding his other hand into his hair and scratching gently at the nape of his neck. "Not that I mind, of course. But there is one problem with our current predicament."

"Hmm?" He tried - and failed - to find the words to answer, but every movement of Yuri's fingers sent them skittering away again. His eyes drooped shut as his anxiety seemed to liquify, sliding away along with his command of coherent language.

He yelped in shock, eyes shooting open, as Yuri abruptly settled onto his lap, dragging his hands down the back of his neck and then resting them on his shoulders. "Yura!"

Yuri snorted. "Remember that problem I mentioned?"

Otabek tried desperately to think, but the feel of Yuri's thighs wrapped around his waist, the warm, solid, moving weight of him - don't think about it, don't think about it! - was enough to steal his breath.

"M-maybe," he stuttered, finally, hoping he'd managed to say it in one of the languages they shared.

Yuri nodded, brilliant green eyes going suddenly hooded. "The problem, you see," he said, leaning forward to whisper the words in his ear, punctuating them with puffs of warm air against his neck, "is that we have both been on our feet all day, and there's only one chair."