A/N: a shortish kind of thing i did for otaburis' bday on tumblr. enjoy!

Yuri Plisetsky is, unquestionably, a blunt sort of person. This is what is said when in polite company - or, as Mila would put it, sugarcoating it. When asked a different sort of people or on more casual settings, however, very different words would apply. Asshole being probably one of them.

Whatever.

Point is, Yuri Plisetsky is not a wishy-washy sort of person. Personal circumstances have made him who he is today: someone who doesn't wait around for other people to do things for him, or who expects them to. Over the course of his short life he has learned one thing above all else: if you want something, you go and get it.

Go and get it, he repeats to himself as a cold sweat builds its way up his back. Go and get it.

'It' being, of course, a very delectable, very smooth-looking, very golden-brown and finely shaped hand. A hand that belongs to Otabek Altin, the one person Yuri knows who has earned the right to be his only and most favourite friend all by his own effort of dealing with Yuri.

So maybe Yuri is the first to admit he has some issues with making friends, but whatever. He's got Otabek.

Otabek, whose hand he wants to hold so badly, and who seems completely oblivious to his friend's internal turmoil.

Yuri is back to sweating again.

Is this like a thing they should talk about? Should he just go ahead and do it? Should he take a page from Otabek's book and go in blindly with something among the lines of so are we going to hold hands or not? Yuri hasn't been made for this affection stuff.

He doesn't even have a good example to follow. Just look at his supposed rolemodels: Mila, who picks up and throws around anyone who annoys her; Viktor, who is still King of Bad Decisions for a bunch of reasons Yuri doesn't feel like going through again, even within the privacy of his own mind; Georgi, whose solution to go through a breakup is to paint half his face in dramatic makeup and do his best Disney-villain impression on the ice; Yuuri, who deals with failure and sadness by getting himself drunk and grinding against his idol in a public setting.

Granted, that last one had ended well enough, but still.

"Yura?" Otabek's voice comes, amused. "You're glaring at the wall."

The wall, Otabek says, as if his hand isn't the major culprit in this situation. As if it's not calling out a siren song to Yuri's poor heart, or at the very least making a very good imitation of one. No, surely it must be the cement lying beneath it, gently touching the fingertips and palm Yuri is itching to touch, and he contains the urge to scoff.

"It's shitty cement," he says instead.

Otabek looks like he's containing a smile. "I didn't realize you were an expert in cement these days."

"Yeah, yeah, you know what I meant," Yuri mutters back, taking out his phone and pretending to scroll through it.

The best solution, of course, is to find an excuse to do it. No need to own up to something if it doesn't look like it's something important, after all, even if he might feel slightly guilty about it later.

Otabek has never been less than completely honest with him before, though. Yuri makes his mind.

"Beka-" he begins to say, but is interrupted by the Kazakh spontaneously rising from his seat next to him.

"There's our bus," Otabek says simply, wrapping Yuri's hand in his and pulling him along. Gently. Casually. As if he hasn't just blown Yuri's little world to dizzy, happy little pieces.

His hand is warm.

Yuri squeezes back, and allows himself to be taken along. Talking will come later, as will sorting out the messy, mushy feelings twirling around in his ribcage.

For now, though, all he cares to know is the feeling of Otabek's hand around his own.