.

.

By the time the sun goes down, they're caught inside the nightlife of Roppongi.

Most of the faces are Japanese and young. Yuri has little interest in the gatherings towards the numerous strip joints or cabarets or hostess clubs. However, there's a little cafe with shaved ice flavored like "tiramisu" (Yuri enjoyed the chocolate in it) and then something called "four-berry specialty" that Otabek got.

Bizarre tastes aside, the kakigori had been good—even the bubble milk tea Yuri carries around with him.

Otabek sends him a curious glance at the sudden and thickening hush between them.

"Something the matter?" he asks.

The familiar, low tenor of Otabek's voice washes over Yuri.

"No," Yuri replies. His chapped lips flatten together. Otabek's dark eyes roam over him again, and Yuri sighs, defeated. "It's… it's weird that Katsudon is my skating club right now, and I'm out in Japan."

For now, it's the off-season for ice skating. He decided last minute to visit a friend, but as much Yuri likes Yuuko and her family, he's been wanting to visit central Tokyo for a while. Otabek agreed to come with, and Yuri's a bit relieved. He's not the best at English, let alone Japanese, so having a friend helps.

They've been doing mostly tourist stuff, and Otabek almost couldn't get Yuri to leave Harajuki, or spend all of his money on the fashion district. Yuri did end up with brand new leopard-print leggings and a pair of black, lace-up boots. Otabek's dusty, heavy leather jacket hangs off Yuri's shoulders, covering up his skull-printed hoodie. He didn't ask Otabek for his jacket—it just ended up comfortably slung around Yuri.

Not that he's complaining.

"I'd like to get back to training soon, too."

Yuri's expression scowls a little, despite how amused he sounds.

"You're a shit friend, medak—you're supposed to be saying we're having fun," Yuri says, nudging his elbow into Otabek's side. The other boy eyes him before clutching up Yuri's bubble tea and sipping, lips pursing on Yuri's straw.

"Right." Otabek chuckles at the offended look, ruffling Yuri's hair. "I'm having a good time. Is that better?"

Before Yuri can tell him off, or even blush at the cheeky gesture, some douchebag with oily, dark hair walks right between them.

It takes too long to realize the stranger knocked the bubble tea out of Otabek's hand on purpose. Yuri's boots now are coated with the milky liquid, and his temper rises to explosive levels.

"Chto za chert?" Yuri shouts, glaring and turning red-faced as Douchebag rejoins his laughing friends on the sidewalk. They're all talking in Japanese, but it doesn't stop him from lurching forward. Otabek keeps Yuri from charging, slapping a hand over Yuri's abdomen and holding him in place. "Idi syuda suka!"

Otabek recognizes the following obscenities in Russian, not wanting to mentally translate them fully.

"Nyet," he murmurs down to Yuri still glaring daggers.

It doesn't appear like any of the men will pursue them. It's better that way. Otabek leads them away, back to the rental motorcycle waiting for them. It's roomy enough for two people, and made of a sleek black with red highlighting accents on the plating.

Yuri shoves away Otabek's arm, walking ahead and snatching up one of the bright, glossy red helmets. Otabek frowns slightly, watching him with crossed arms.

"Are you alright?"

"Let's just go," Yuri grumbles, buckling his chin-strap. He climbs on after Otabek finishes with his helmet, legs framing Otabek's hips as they cruise down the road. Traffic hasn't increased by much.

It's peaceful for a while, just zooming by neon-rainbow lights off of nearby signs, glimpsing at the looming, statuesque figure of Tokyo Tower in the distance. They end up in a double-lane street during a stoplight. Yuri goes disbelieving for a moment, realizing Douchebag is on the lime green motorcycle beside them, no helmet. One of his friends rides on a tangerine-colored one in the same lane, making it obvious they've seen him.

"Are you serious right now…?" Yuri breathes out, opening his visor.

One of them makes a rude gesture, and Yuri returns it without hesitation, grinning menacingly. Otabek uses Yuri's name like a warning. The other boy huffs, gesturing out.

"They're calling us out, Beka!"

"We're not illegally racing. It's not safe."

"Come the fuck on—we're not gonna punk out on these losers, right?" At the lack of a response, Yuri drops his exasperation but leans in and continues to egg his best friend on. "Y'know, it's okay to do a stupid thing for fun once in a while. It's one race you'll win and then we can find a place to stay at. C'mon, promise…"

The noise of the engines grows so loud it roars angry in Otabek's ears. Their neighbors hoot and yell out words that Otabek can't translate but he can rightly guess the malice and overly jeering nature.

(At least ten more seconds before the light changes.)

Otabek's fingers tighten on the clutch.

"Hang onto me, Yuri. Lean your weight forward during turns," he instructs, as Yuri hollers in enthusiasm and snaps his visor back into its original position.

The burnout grinds everyone's tires against asphalt, smoking rubber. Nobody seems to be ahead until they encounter the busier and faster lanes, and the other two men pass by. It's tough to keep up without cutting between traffic. Otabek grits his teeth, making a narrow escape within the multitude of cars, gaining speed and riding their asses.

Heart lurching, he feels Yuri grasp on tighter, pressing bodily up against Otabek.

Somehow that fuels him, in whatever that way is. Otabek tries to drift ahead of the lime green motorcycle, and another motorcycle they never noticed before—a massive and gleaming indigo one—nearly clips them.

He hears Yuri swearing loudly as they jerk out of its path. Otabek grunts as they violently turn at the speed they're going, nearly spinning completely right around in the opposite direction.

Three on one—this isn't good.

Maybe it had been the plan all along. In any case, Otabek wants out of their trap and quickly. He doesn't know how they're gonna shake them, as the other three motorcycles tail them right into further traffic. At this point, Otabek doesn't care if Yuri cusses at him later for "punking out" as he called it.

They're not getting killed for some race against some disturbed locals.

Spinning

That's the last thing Otabek remembers before his vision goes black.

.

.

Pain comes as the next sensation.

Light and smoke filters in as Otabek wakes from impact, discovering himself sprawled on his back to the ground. Everything hurts, but especially his left leg.

He can move it.

He's… okay?

Otabek lifts himself upright, glancing around dazedly at the empty pedestrian walkway.

"Yuri," he says aloud, eerily composed despite his foggy and too-slowly processing mind. Otabek's leather-gloved hands tug off his own helmet. The night air feels blessedly cool against his sweat-slicked, hot face.

There's two Japanese girls staring at him fearfully, clutching their phones and messenger bags to themselves. One of them screams frantically into her phone, trembling from head to foot. Otabek's brows furrow.

How did—?

On the concrete, a few feet away, Yuri lays unmoving on his stomach. Otabek's pulse stutters.

"Yuri!" he calls out, hobbling over to him, dropping on hands and knees. "Yuri, hey… Yura?" Otabek shakes his shoulder, trying again harder. Bile surges upwards in Otabek's throat. "Yura, talk to me."

Even without a response, Otabek doesn't feel panic. Not yet.

He struggles a minute with Yuri's cracked visor, finally pulling it open, revealing a giant streak of blood across Yuri's exposed forehead and his nose.

Otabek's eyes widen.

"We need help! Get an ambulance!" he bellows at the two sobbing girls.

"Yura!"

.

.

A sprained leg muscle. Other than that, Otabek's injuries are considered minor.

Both his and Yuri's phones are shattered or generally useless in the wreck, but Otabek eventually recalls Yuuko's house number, deeply thankful for that much. She promises to be at the hospital by mid-morning.

He refuses to leave Yuri's hospital room, and will absolutely glue himself into the guest's seat if need be.

Yuri hasn't woken up from his concussion, but he's breathing normally on his own. It's mostly cuts and bruises, like Otabek, but he doesn't look right in a patient's robe and so lifeless on machines, vulnerable and quiet.

Otabek fiddles with his own hospital bracelet, and then bows his head into his palms.

This doesn't feel like winning.

Yuri's eyes twitch open. "Fucking shit…" he mumbles, squinting through the fluorescent lighting, grabbing Otabek's attention. The other boy springs up, despite the throbbing pain in his leg, holding out a glass.

"Drink," Otabek says, helping gently tip the cool water into Yuri's mouth.

Yuri pushes his hand away after a moment, coughing lightly and wincing. "I'm guessing we didn't win…" He gazes over Otabek, his bruised, upper lip now curling. "Quit looking at me like that."

"Like what?"

"Like I'm dying. Makes me uncomfortable."

Otabek's face softens. "I shouldn't have let this happen," he mutters. "It's my fault."

"Pretty sure I'm the one who told you to race them."

"I shouldn't have listened to you." Otabek reasons this. He clenches his fists, Otabek's square, brown jaw visibly tightening. The guilt burning so brightly and novaing in his eyes. "Not when you could have been…"

There's a faint, teasing smile on Yuri's lips. He croaks out, "Is this you getting mushy on me, Altin? I don't like it." Yuri smiles bigger when Otabek's shoulders relax and he sits close to him on the bedding. Otabek's fingertips inattentively brush away strands of yellow hair, off the sterile gauze taped to Yuri's forehead.

"That's too bad. You'll need to get used to someone caring about you… just because they want to."

For once, Yuri doesn't shy away from him, or Otabek's warm words.

"S'okay if it's you then…" he whispers, their eyes meeting studiously, earnestly. Yuri snorts. "I'm too tired for a thumbs up, Beka… might as well…"

Words aren't the only things that can be expressed warmly—and Otabek allows himself a little bit of indulging, nudging his lips against Yuri's, but not pressing up entirely. It's not really a kiss.

Otabek's thumb grazes briefly over Yuri's chin.

Maybe.

Yuri's lips are still bruised, and taste extremely dry and like medicine. It's a little gross of a sensation, but Otabek doesn't mind it, especially when Yuri groans out an unintelligible syllable, chasing after a maybe.

"Is that better…?"

.

.


Yuri on Ice isn't mine. It's Yuri Plitsetsky's birthday! He's turning 16 (and 18 in our universe) and I couldn't resist throwing in some Otayuri for his birthday fic! This is another YOI Wendsday fic as well and covers the YOI Kink Meme prompt: "Any/Any - vacationing, any rating!" Please leave your thoughts if you enjoyed this! :)

Translations (Russian):

medak = moron

idi syuda suka = come here, bitch

chto za chert = what the hell

nyet = no