.

.

They're calling what happened in the subway station biological terrorism.

It's the late night stop within Almaty, and Yuri doesn't notice anything particularly odd. The subway carriage itself is a little overcrowded with disinterested, bored faces.

But when the subway's double-doors whir and slid open, two grown men in cheap, plastic Vendetta masks release their attack. A white, powdery dust-cloud explodes, falling like indoor snowflakes. The disinterest heightens to sheer, unadulterated panic as all of the subway passengers bolt.

"Yuri!" Otabek shouts, grabbing onto his wrist and pulling Yuri towards a ceiling-beam. Away from the human stampede as well as the unexplained dust floating into their airspace.

They're still underground however. Does it mean they're not out of danger? Is it airborne or does the white powder need to touch him before possibly killing them?

His nostrils and the corners of Yuri's eyes tingle pleasantly, insistently like the beginnings of a deep itch. He rubs them with his fingertips, coughing out loudly.

Otabek's hands rest on his upper arms, clutching on. "Look at me — are you alright?"

"… I'm good," Yuri mutters, not liking how raspy and weak he sounds. Everything around him, including his best friend, their colors brighten and sharpen in quality. His equilibrium tilts, as if Yuri consumed too many fingers of whiskey in one go.

From there, it gets worse. He's hallucinating.

Dark silhouettes of buildings pass him by, against a backdrop of cherry red. A multitude of little, glowing orbs manifest in front of Yuri's eyes, partly obscuring his vision, tinged and hovering and pulsing in rosy hues and indigo. Then a taxi roars by, and everything goes blue — a neon, harsh quality, shining from tunnel-lights and a car's dashboard.

He's in a… car? When did Otabek…?

Yuri's body feels sweat-sticky and heavy, his lungs tight and demanding for more air. It's not just his nose tingling anymore — it's everywhere. All of him. He feels hot.

The little, round orbs glow orange, when Yuri feels his surroundings jolt and halt.

A popping noise.

Otabek's face, gleaming with perspiration and his skin flushed. There's no rich, brown color in Otabek's eyes, not with it swallowed down by his wide, blown pupils. He's parked their rental car and crawled into the backseat with him, murmuring Yuri's name.

"Fuck… need to…" Yuri grumbles, tugging at his studded, black leather jacket. With Otabek's quick, eager hands, it's removed and chucked onto the floor.

That's when his impulsive nature takes over, with Yuri dragging himself onto Otabek's lap, messily kissing him and shoving his hands into a knot of dark, silky hair. He doesn't have it in him to be surprised when Otabek kisses him back, sucking his bottom lip and grinding up underneath the other man, cupping Yuri's face with a possessive, gentle touch.

He's so hard it's making Yuri dizzy and queasy. Without his command, Yuri's hips thrust against Otabek in a pointless attempt for friction, disregarding any chaffing.

It's not them… is it?

Some rational part of Yuri screams, to stop, for Otabek to stop. He can't.

Neither of them can.

.

.

Electric pink light cascades from the half-opened window shades, mingling with the azure-dyed curtains. Sky blue numbers float and glare into Yuri's sensitive retinas.

He aches. Yuri's body feels worn-out and tacky with fluid, and his head still spins once in a while. It has to be a motel room, cramped and smelling faintly like musty, old sheets. Yuri's raw, spent cock lies on his thigh, drooling a glob of semen onto bed-sheets.

The tingling from earlier vanishes, replaced with shivers and low-grade migraine.

"… Think it's over," Otabek says with a lack of certainty. He gradually sits up from the opposite side of the mattress Yuri lies on, his voice rumbling and exhausted.

Yuri hopes so.

God, he hopes.

.

.


YOI isn't mine. I've only done sex pollen fic like... 2-3 times before. I wanted a different approach than how I've done it in the past. Thoughts/comments appreciated!