Work Text:
It’s cold.
Not the ice. No. Though he stands on the frozen lake, spiderweb cracks decorating the uneven surface beneath him, it’s not winter’s chill that bites Yuri. Nor the risk of the frigid water below.
His legs tremble. His heart thunders. A brisk wind teases his limp, tangled hair as the sun lowers beyond the horizon. The sky’s painted in a wash of rose and apricot so vibrant, he squints but doesn’t look away. Doesn’t take his eyes off where Otabek’s silhouette disappeared over an hour ago.
Not until the heavens grow dark and speckled with stars. Not until an arm curls around his shoulders and guides him off the ice. Not until he’s ushered inside and the door closes behind him. Even then, Yuri looks out the frosted window until the curtain falls between himself and the glass.
Regret.
Regret is cold.
The headlines are salt in his wounds. Yuri doesn’t need help feeling like shit for what he did. What they did. After all, it takes two to cheat.
Yuri watches the live broadcast from Quebec as reporters swarm the Leroy residence like bees. His stomach curls, even though he can’t hear what they’re saying. He muted the television the moment he turned it on. Is Otabek tuning in too? No, why would he? He isn’t morbidly curious about other people’s lives like Yuri is.
He already has the details he needs, anyway. That much was made clear when the envelope containing Otabek’s engagement ring arrived in the mail.
Without a letter.
Yuri could text him. His phone’s in his hand. He plays with the socket on the back, the gentle pop as it’s pulled up and pushed back down again offering little comfort, but he can’t stop the rhythm. If he does, he’ll have to address the real reason he doesn’t want to text Otabek.
He doesn’t want to find out if his ex blocked his number.
Ex …
Yuri flies off the couch and sprints to the bathroom, narrowly dodging Potya. His breakfast meets the porcelain bowl right as the door slams shut behind him.
Jean-Jaques “My Wife” Leroy Cheats With Fellow Skater
Scandal Rocks the Skating Community
The Plisetsky/Altin Wedding Is a Bust—And So Is Leroy’s Junk
The articles multiplying across the internet like digital bunnies aren’t clickbait. But Yuri wishes they were. He can’t avoid them, no matter how hard he tries. Their names are trending on Twitter. His newsfeed is splashed with links to celebrity blogs and drama videos, their faces stamped onto accompanying thumbnails along with big, bold buzzwords. Podcast hosts gossip about it. Yuri can’t even turn on the TV without hearing washed-up ‘journalists’ saying shit like, “Well, Bethany, a beloved household name from Quebec, Canada allegedly put his maple syrup in the wrong bucket a few weeks ago—"
Yuri hasn’t left his house since the news broke. He’s avoided all responsibility aside from ensuring Potya is fed. Yakov tried to beat his apartment door down yesterday, but Yuri just curled under his blanket and prayed his coach would go away.
He did. Eventually.
Mila’s been trying to text him, but he refuses to read the messages. There are unanswered calls from Lilia, Viktor, even Katsuki. But with the number of people trying to get ahold of him through the storm, he dares not dial his voicemail. Doesn’t want to hear what people have to say.
Pity is even worse than anger and confusion.
When Lilia knocks, all it takes is the familiar firm but measured rapping of her knuckles against wood for Yuri to bolt from the couch and throw the door open. A part of him expects—hopes, even—that she’s going to yell at him. But she doesn’t. No words are exchanged. Barely even a glance passes between them before Yuri’s already in her arms, face buried against her neck.
He doesn’t deserve being bathed and fed like a baby, spoonful by spoonful. He doesn’t deserve his hair being brushed and braided. He doesn’t deserve soft pyjamas and being tucked into fresh, warm sheets. He doesn’t deserve hers or anyone’s compassion after what he did.
And yet, no matter how hard he cries or screams or vomits, she doesn’t give him what he deserves like everyone else has. She doesn’t leave.
Not even a few days later when two bright pink lines appear on the stick laying on the bathroom counter.
Yuri’s hands shake as his thumb hovers over a name in his contacts. The double ‘J’ blurs from the tears burning his eyes. He tried making this call three times today but ended up in front of the toilet instead. The conversation can’t be delayed any longer, though. Something Lilia keeps reminding him of.
The longer the line rings uninterrupted, the harder Yuri’s stomach curls. But it’s nothing compared to the way his gut drops when the call is finally answered.
Isabella’s words don’t even register before he’s already dropped his phone in his rush to the bathroom.
Baggy sweaters are no defence against the paparazzi stalking him to his first midwife appointment. The camera flashes blind him, even with his hoodie as a shield. He makes it to the door but stumbles on the three tiny stairs in front of it. That’ll be splashed all over the internet in minutes.
He never managed to tell JJ himself. Didn’t dare call again after his wife answered his phone. As Yuri settles in the waiting room, he hugs himself and tries to sip the water Lilia handed him, but he can’t stop thinking about the chaos the news will cause in the Leroy household.
Or what Otabek will think.
Plisetsky Pregnant: But Who’s the Baby Daddy?
Did This Shooting Star Burn Out? How Low Can Yuri Plisetsky Sink?
Next Olympics: Delivery on Ice!
When Yuri’s phone lights up, it’s not with the name he expects. He almost falls off the couch as he snatches the device off the coffee table. The container of half-melted chocolate ice cream tumbles from his lap, the spoon clatters across the tiled floor, but his eyes remain glued to the name Otabek Altin in his notifications.
Yuri sits with his back to the door. The booth is stiff and uncomfortable. Is the seat even padded? He might as well be sitting on a rock. Maybe it’s not the cafe’s fault, though. It’s difficult to find comfort in anything anymore. He spends most nights tossing and turning or spraying the toilet with the tea he forces down his throat before bed.
It’ll get better in the second trimester.
Liars.
Every time the little bell over the door jingles, his heart races. But after the fourth false alarm, he shoves his mug aside, tosses some bills on the table, and stands—only to be swallowed in a tight embrace.
Leather and pine invade his nose as Yuri sobs into Otabek’s shoulder.
“You started smoking.” It’s not a question. The musty, burnt scent lingers despite the crisp breeze outside.
Otabek swallows. Looks out the window. “We all have our ways of dealing with things.” Yuri can’t even argue that, even though the urge to tingles along his tongue. He might have done the same if it weren’t for—”How far along are you?”
“Don’t, Beka. Please.” Yuri lowers his gaze to the warm teacup between his fingers. He watches the steam rise. Otabek’s smarter than that. They always used protection, and the time frame of Yuri’s affair is public knowledge—Otabek knows it’s not his. Yuri wipes a tear away before it can roll down his cheek. “Why are you here?”
“... I’ve thought about things.”
“Really?”
“And I—”
“Decided sending the ring back and blocking me wasn’t good enough?”
“What? I never blo—”
“You wanted to tell me in person how horrible I am? That I’m a whore. That—”
“I—what? No.”
Yuri looks up. There’s no stopping the rivers pouring from his eyes this time. “Go ahead, Beka. Say it. Everyone else has. You’ve already broken up with me. I can’t skate anymore. I had to move out from grandpa’s place to draw the press away from him. I’ve ruined everything. So go ahead. What more could I lose at this point?”
Otabek blinks. Frowns. He reaches across the table, but Yuri flinches. Otabek freezes. Yuri doesn’t pull back, but he cowers, eyes turned away. After a few thick, tense seconds, Otabek finishes extending his hand and rests it over both of Yuri’s.
“I’m sorry.” What? Yuri looks at him, eyes wide and face damp. “I never gave you a chance to explain. I never asked why you did it. Or what was going on at the time. I promised to always be there for you, but I left.” He squeezes Yuri’s hands. “I’m here to listen, Yura. If you’ll let me.”
Yura …
If only Yuri could blame his renewed sobs purely on hormones.
“Are you sure you want to do this?”
“Yura—”
“Everyone will know. Even with the records locked. This baby will be white as fuck.”
Otabek laughs and shakes his head but doesn’t look away from their research on adoption processes. “Even if it were mine, it could still end up that way. Genetics are strange. Besides, we don’t owe a paternity test to anyone.”
Yuri frowns. He rubs his blooming belly. “Beka …”
He sighs. And turns in his seat to properly face Yuri. “Yes, I’m sure. We wanted a family of our own someday anyway. And we can always have another child together later.”
“But raising a kid you know isn’t yours—”
“Is what adoptive parents do all the time. Yura, breathe. Please?” Otabek takes Yuri’s hands into his own and gently strokes his thumbs along the back of them. “I hate what you did, both of you, but I don’t hate you. And I could never blame the baby for what it had no part in.
“We can’t change what happened. But this is the best thing for everyone. It’ll take some of the pressure off JJ. The media will eventually move on to the next shiny thing. And maybe without a child involved, JJ and Bella will be able to find their way back to one another and repair things, too.”
Yuri swallows. Looks away. “How can you even trust me again after all this?”
Otabek sighs and reaches up, cupping his fiancé’s cheek. “Because I have faith in us. And we’ve always found a way. Together.”