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Yuri staggered through the apartment door, sweating and swearing as he nearly tripped over himself, weighed down by his practice bag and an obscene amount of takeout bags. Otabek, summoned by the commotion, hurried around the corner and raised his eyebrows at the sight, even as he reached his arms out to take some of the burden. “Oh thank fuck,” Yuri sighed in relief as he kicked off his shoes. “No, no, I got this, but can you grab my keys? They’re hanging in the door handle.”
Otabek shook his head as he waited for Yuri to shuffle out of the doorway. “A new strength training regimen?” He remarked drily.
“Gotta practice for when the baby gets here!” Yuri called as he made his way to the kitchen. He awkwardly settled the food on the counter before letting his practice bag slide to the floor with a thump and a groan, rolling his shoulders in a prayer for relief.
He groaned again, longer this time, when Otabek’s fingers dug into the sore muscles. “Are you going to tell me why you ordered enough food to feed us for a week and a half?” Otabek murmured, his round stomach a warm presence as he pressed up against Yuri.
Yuri melted into his partner’s touch, sliding down to brace his forearms against the counter and cradle his head in the makeshift pillow. His breath formed a little cloud of condensation against the counter as he let out a very coherent, “Mmmrrppff.”
“I see,” Otabek replied gravely, right before poking Yuri under his ribs.
Yuri squeaked and jumped, nearly slamming his head into the cupboards. He blew his sweaty bangs out of his face with a huff and a glare aimed at his unrepentant partner. “I bring you dinner, and this is the thanks I get? Stabbed in the back?”
“I stabbed you in the side,” Otabek corrected, before cracking a small smile and stepping into Yuri’s personal space. “Welcome home,” he said warmly, placing a hand on Yuri’s neck to bring him down for a kiss.
Yuri kissed him back, eager after being apart all day. His hands clutched at Otabek’s shoulders , drawing him in close, as his mouth dragged along the warmth of his partner’s lips. It was a long moment before they pulled apart just enough to breathe. “You said you were craving food from home,” Yuri confessed. “So I sort of got takeout from all the Kazakhstani restaurants in the area.”
Otabek’s eyes darted over towards the bag as a hand dropped to his stomach. “Even the expensive one by the theater?”
“If I say yes, are you gonna be mad at me?”
Otabek shook his head as he moved towards the counter to start lifting boxes out of bags. “No, but I will be if you also got food from that one place on Sadovaya. You know they’re always too oily and we inevitably throw half of it away.” He inhaled deeply at the scent of one bag in particular and sighed happily. Yuri’s grin was wide at the sight.
“Maybe they finally got their shit together and learned how to cook,” Yuri protested as he kicked his gym bag out of the small kitchen and turned to help Otabek.
They each loaded up a plate with delicious, definitely not nutritionist-approved food, and settled at the kitchen table. Yuri glanced over at the mountain of meat, noodles, rice, and vegetables Otabek had assembled and smiled around a mouthful of food. “Happy?”
Otabek nodded, swallowed, then placed his fork down to reach across the table and take Yuri’s hand. “Thank you. This was a nice surprise.”
Yuri blushed, and rubbed his thumb against Otabek’s hand. “Of course.”
They smiled at each other, quietly joyful, then returned to their food.
However, it didn’t take long for Yuri to notice that Otabek had slowed down his initially voracious eating, and was now only picking at his food.
“Feeling okay?” He asked, looking his partner up and down in concern. Otabek’s pregnancy had changed his eating habits, on top of a million other things, and each one made Yuri worry, even if they were inane. Viktor and Mila had been relentless in their teasing, with Katsuki even joining in at times when Yuri panicked over the smallest, silliest things.
Yuri knew he was fretting a fucking embarrassing amount, but he had thought he would have more time to mentally prepare before all of this. Neither of them had expected Otabek to get pregnant so fast after going off T, but it had been a mostly happy surprise. Logistically, it probably would have been more ideal for Otabek not to be in his third trimester during what might be Yuri’s final competitive season, but it did have the upside of keeping Yuri so exhausted that he couldn’t dwell on his remaining years as a professional skater.
The sound of Otabek’s voice had Yuri jerking himself back to reality before he sank into the spiral. “Sorry, what?”
“I said I’m fine.” Otabek reassured him, even as he pushed his food around the plate. Yuri kicked him gently against his calf, and Otabek pursed his lips. “I don’t want to upset you.”
“I won’t be upset,” Yuri fibbed automatically. “Is it the food? Is there something else you want? I can—” His jaw snapped shut so hard his teeth hurt. “Shut up.” He glared. “Shut up!”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“Fuck off, I could hear you thinking it!”
Amusement stretched across Otabek’s face, and Yuri stuck out his tongue. Then, leg bouncing, he let his sincerity and anxiety peek out. “Tell me? Please?”
Otabek sighed quietly, then put down his fork, tongue flicking out to wipe the grease off his lower lip. Yuri stared shamelessly.
“It’s not quite right.”
Yuri’s eyes jerked upwards to meet Otabek’s gaze. “The food? What’s wrong with it? We like most of these restaurants.”
“Yes, but there’s something missing.”
“What, like a dish or a seasoning or something?”
“I’m not sure.” Otabek’s mouth twisted. “My body’s craving something, and all of these are close, but not quite it, and they’re just different enough to be frustrating. I think it might be… pilaf?”
“I got like, three rice dishes. None of them are right?”
“No, they—”
Otabek froze, mid-sentence, and Yuri had half a second to suffer through a panic attack about the baby coming early, before an enormous, echoing fart squelched out against the wood of Otabek’s seat.
Yuri threw his head back in a hysterical cackle while Otabek shifted in his seat, rubbing his stomach soothingly and pursing his lips. When Yuri looked back over, his partner’s disapproving look just sent him even further into giggles.
“I’m sorry, it’s just—” Yuri heaved— “You’re so embarrassed, every fucking time, and it’s been happening nonstop since the second month.”
Otabek shook his head, then shot an exasperatedly teasing look at his still-snickering partner. “I swear the baby is purposely settling in spots that put the most pressure on my abdomen. I’m starting to worry that Viktor’s threats about you having a child exactly like yourself were more of a curse.”
“Means we’ll have a kick-ass kid,” Yuri fired back. “You wanted a boring baby, should’ve shacked up with someone else.”
“I think babies are generally considered fairly boring by most standards,” Otabek pointed out mildly as he sifted through the rice on his plate. Yuri couldn’t tell what he was looking for, but slowly, as the image pressed itself on his mind, an idea began to form.
He abruptly switched topics before he could blurt out his plan. “How was your workout?”
Unfortunately, Otabek was generally wise to his tricks, and raised an eyebrow at him. “It was fine. What—”
“Did your idiot student finally hit his triple salchow?” Yuri hurriedly interrupted him, trying to throw him off the scent. Thankfully, it worked, or Otabek simply decided to let it go. Either way, victory for Yuri.
“You know his name is Maksim,” Otabek said with a sigh and a small bite of food.
“He earns the right to be referred to by name when he stops embarrassing you every time he gets out on the ice,” Yuri retorted.
They settled into a steady rhythm of affectionate banter and reporting on their respective days, leaning over long-abandoned plates to laugh and discuss and debate as the summer sun slowly sank out of sight.
And all the while, the gears of Yuri’s mind whirred thoughtfully.
--
Days later, Yuri’s brilliant plan was being shredded to pieces by the two dozen tabs open on his phone. There were seemingly hundreds of recipes for pilaf, even when he tried to narrow it down to ones from people who seemed like Kazakhstani cooks, and he had no idea which one was the right one.
A loud chiming sound had him angrily swiping up on his alarm, no closer to a decision but out of time if he wanted to put his plan in motion. He skimmed ingredients as he shoved on shoes and stuffed his wallet and keys in his pocket, only stopping properly to tie back his hair.
Yuri finally settled on one of the recipes — the one with the most step-by-step pictures, and decent reviews — once he wedged the car into a probably-legal spot down the street from the grocery store. He hated this particular store; it was far away, there was never any parking, the shop itself had such narrow aisles that even Yuri with his slender build felt annoyingly cramped, nothing was ever stored in a logical spot, and the clerk always felt judgy to the point where Yuri wanted, just once, to ask what his fucking problem was.
But, it was the best grocery store that reliably stocked specialty Central Asian products near their apartment, and Yuri loved Otabek, so here he was.
Somehow Yuri made it out of the store without committing assault, though it had come close. He made one more stop at their regular grocery store, getting all of their usual food and supplies and using those bags to hide his first purchases, then sped off to Otabek’s rink.
St. Petersburg was never particularly hot, even in the summer, but between the warm day and stress, the chilliness of the rink felt like bliss when Yuri slipped inside.
It was smaller than the rink Yuri trained at, but it housed a well-regarded program and a litany of excellent coaches. Otabek was one of them, joining the staff part-time several months after his retirement two years ago. He initially split his time between performing in ice shows and coaching, but his pregnancy had him benched from the former for the moment. He didn’t even have to be coaching — he and Yuri had enough money saved up for Otabek to take several long months off — but Otabek couldn’t be away from the ice anymore than Yuri could be. That, and Otabek was loath to leave his students in the crucial run-up to the Junior Grand Prix series.
Even if some of them were hopeless, Yuri thought to himself as he watched Maksim attempt a triple salchow. He shook his head when the boy slammed into the ice with a yelp.
The rumble of Otabek’s voice, echoing off the ice as he asked if Maksim was alright, had Yuri hurrying over to his partner on the far side of the rink.
A zing went up Yuri’s spine when he watched Otabek, stern but ever-patient, say something to Maksim that had his student snapping to attention and nodding seriously, a true feat for someone as airheaded as a dandelion. Yuri kept his distance, torn between watching Maksim skate into the lead-up for another attempt at the jump, and Otabek’s strong back, muscles tightening as he tensed with silent anticipation on behalf of his student. The overhead lights slid along the lines of his jaw and cheekbones, softer as of late, but still cut like the carved statues of ancient soldiers. Otabek’s jacket hung open, too small to fit around his stomach, but he refused to give it up; it was his favorite, and he wasn’t exactly enamored with the maternity options they’d found. Instead, he stood there, eyes afire with determination that he seemed to be trying to mentally relay to his student, unapologetically himself.
God, Yuri loved this man.
His eyes pulled away just in time to watch Maksim miraculously nail the jump. Otabek clenched a fist by his side in victory, and Yuri clapped politely. Student and coach both turned, startled by the noise.
“Yuri Nikolaevich! Hello!” Maksim squeaked in between gasping pants, skating over to the rail.
Yuri nodded in acknowledgment. “That last one looked better.” It was the nicest thing he could say. He might be an asshole, but he wasn’t about to crush this kid’s dreams. He wanted him to keep paying Otabek’s coaching fees, after all.
…and fine. Maybe he wasn’t that bad. It wasn’t like everyone could be Yuri Plisetsky.
“I didn’t know you were coming,” Otabek said in lieu of a greeting.
Yuri shrugged. “Picked up groceries, figured I could give you a lift home too. If you’re not opposed to me driving, that is.”
“I’ll have to think about it. If you don’t mind us finishing our training session first, that is.” Otabek’s face and tone remained stoic, but Yuri could see the twinkling teasing in his eyes. Maksim, on the other hand, looked back and forth between them nervously.
Yuri had to bite back a snicker. Yuuri was choreographing Maksim’s short program this year, and wherever Yuuri went, Viktor was sure to inevitably appear. Yuri and Otabek were plenty affectionate, but Otabek liked to keep things professional in front of his students. Yuri knew they came off as stiff, on the brink of an argument even, in comparison to the sappy, older couple, but it wasn’t their fault none of the younger skaters could clue into their muted, personal teasing.
Otabek turned back to Maksim, giving him a few words of feedback and instruction, before sending him to do one more jump before they’d switch into cool-downs.
Yuri took advantage of Maksim’s distraction to bend down next to Otabek and place a quick kiss to his cheek. He let himself get momentarily distracted, nuzzling the crook of his neck and inhaling deeply, taking in the comforting scent of sweat and cologne, sandalwood and spicy, a combination intrinsically linked with Otabek in Yuri’s mind.
Otabek shoved at Yuri and took a step to the side. “Not at work,” he reminded Yuri curtly. Yuri had enough sense to mumble an apology and keep his hands to himself, though he did scowl when Otabek made a barb about “Viktor’s perpetual influence, on and off the ice.”
It wasn’t much longer before they were piled in the car, Otabek flipping through songs from an artist he’d recently found while Yuri bobbed along, surrounded by St. Petersburg's evening deadlock traffic.
“I won’t miss this when we move to Almaty,” Yuri groused as he laid on the horn when someone suddenly jerked into his lane, nearly taking off his bumper in the process. “Fuck off, you fucking cockweasel!”
From the corner of his eye, he barely caught the look Otabek shot him. “I know what you’re gonna say,” Yuri said, doing his best to concentrate on keeping them alive and the conversation, “but one, we’ve already had this argument, and two, I’m a little busy at the moment, so could we not?”
“I wonder, if I asked nicely, would you act out both sides of this hypothetical conversation? I’d love to see your impression of me,” Otabek mused over the music.
“Considering the fact that we’ve had this argument like three thousand times, and that we’ve been together for eight years, I’d say I’d — Jesus fucking Christ, would you fucking move?! — do a great fucking impression of you. I could be an impersonator at parties. It’s my retirement plan, in fact.”
Otabek snorted. “What parties are you going to that are requesting Otabek Altin impersonators?” He asked, neatly dodging the retirement comment like the landmine it was. Not that Yuri would rail and weep at the mere mention of his potential retirement; it was more like he would start explaining, and re-explaining, the pros and cons of different timelines and potential outcomes, for long, uninterrupted minutes. Best case scenario, his audience (namely Otabek and Mila, though none of his friends or family had escaped unscathed from his monologuing) was annoyed at hearing the same information for the fifteenth time that week, and worst case scenario, everyone was annoyed and Yuri wound up hyperventilating for a solid few minutes.
It was impossible to escape the thoughts. Just because the impending baby arrival was distracting, both to Yuri and reporters alike, it never stopped the eventual question:
What comes next for Yuri Plisetsky?
At this point, Yuri was pretty much banking on the baby popping out and slapping him in the face with inspiration and an answer. Sure, it was a lot to ask of someone who had only been in the outside world for approximately two seconds, but they couldn’t offer up any suggestions worse than clown school, or wherever the fuck impersonators trained.
His train of thought was abruptly derailed by a motorcyclist zipping between the lanes and clipping his side window, jerking the car and making both him and Otabek swear.
Eventually they made it back to their apartment. Yuri begrudgingly handed Otabek two of the lightest grocery bags and shooed him up, telling him he would handle the rest.
“I’m pregnant, not invalid,” Otabek protested, backing a sputtering Yuri up towards the trunk. “I can probably pick you up if I needed to. Let me do more.”
“The doctor said your blood pressure—”
“Sitting in traffic is worse for my blood pressure than carrying whatever bags you’re trying to hide from me up two flights of stairs.”
“Motherfucker.”
Determined not to let the surprise out of the metaphorical and literal bag, Yuri quickly handed over a few more sacks of groceries and said he’d get the rest. Mercifully, Otabek complied, albeit smugly, and Yuri’s heart stuttered.
Sue him, he liked getting bullied by his partner a little; it wasn’t like he was special, nearly every skater was a masochist in some form. It was practically a prerequisite.
The warm glow faded quickly in the face of Yuri’s kitchen battle. The blog post and its pretty pictures had made the process seem simple, but somehow all the fucking chopping took way longer than it should have, and Yuri’s shoulders were aching by the time everything was in the pot. Thankfully, his version looked enough like the photos that when he checked on the simmering mixture of rice, meat, and vegetables he was struck with a bout of confidence. He could absolutely do this. He was a capable partner and future parent. Fuck yeah, he was Yuri fucking Plisetsky and he could do it all.
He desperately tried to cling to that feeling when he looked at the clock and realized it was an hour past their usual dinner time. He called out to Otabek, languishing in exile in their bedroom, as he pulled down the blue and white patterned plates he’d pilfered from Viktor a few years back. Well, “pilfered” was a strong word, considering Viktor had asked him if he and Otabek wanted the set since he and Yuuri were getting new ones, but that wasn’t in the spirit of their relationship.
“Oh, Yura.” Otabek sighed happily, leaning against the wooden doorframe. “You gave up your day off for this?”
“Shut up, it’s not like I like you or anything,” Yuri muttered, though a smile twitched at the corner of his mouth. “And it wasn’t the whole day.”
Otabek shuffled closer, sniffing the air appreciatively. “It smells good.”
“I’d fucking hope so, it took fucking forever. I had to mess with the vegetable-and-meat-to-rice ratio and cut back on the salt though, to make it work with our diets.” Yuri stepped away from the stove to let Otabek look into the pot, draping himself over his partner’s back and wrapping his arms around his shoulders. “Look okay?” He asked, mumbling as he pressed exhausted kisses into the soft hairs of Otabek’s undercut.
“I think so. Regardless, thank you.” Otabek twisted around to bestow a kiss on Yuri, who hummed cheerfully and chased him for another. “A partner who makes dietician- and doctor-approved pilaf? I’m lucky.”
Yuri dropped his head and blew a raspberry against the side of Otabek’s neck to hide his blushing face. “It is literally the least I could do, you… you…”
Otabek shoved him back with a gentle hand and grabbed a plate off the counter. “You keep thinking about which insult you want to go with, but some of us are hungry and are going to eat dinner.”
With much more reasonable portions than their previous takeout night adventure, the two men silently yet vigorously shoveled food into their mouths, years of hurried meals in between practices, travel, and school training them in the methods of eating efficiently that couldn’t easily be broken.
Eventually, his stomach no longer screaming to be fed and unable to wait any longer, Yuri glanced up. “What do you think?”
Otabek paused, mid-chew, then slowly continued eating.
Yuri rolled his eyes. “Oh for fuck’s sake, don’t worry about bad manners, just tell me!”
As expected, Otabek didn’t bother speaking until after he had swallowed and had a pointed sip of water. Bastard. Yuri loved him so much.
“I don’t want to set a poor example for the baby about acceptable table manners,” Otabek deadpanned.
Yuri responded by dipping his fingertips in his water cup and flicking a shower of droplets at Otabek.
They horsed around for another minute until Yuri almost sent his plate crashing to the floor when trying to dodge a pen cap thrown at his head. Otabek smiled fondly at him and abruptly said, “It’s delicious pilaf.”
Yuri felt himself turning pink, and immediately threw on a scowl. “...And? What can I do to make it better?”
“We’re not at the rink, Yura. Not everything has to come with a critique.”
Otabek merely leaned back and raised an eyebrow when Yuri stabbed an accusatory finger at him. “Bullshit! Now tell me what’s wrong with it, you’re not eating it like someone who’s been craving it for over a week.”
The silence stretched between them like Pinocchio’s nose, but eventually, Otabek sighed and gave a reluctant half-grin. “It really does taste good. But I think it’s missing a few things.”
Yuri viciously jabbed at an unsuspecting onion on his plate. “Knew I shouldn’t have trusted Nastia,” he muttered angrily. He jumped when Otabek stretched out his leg to wrap an ankle around Yuri’s, tugging at his attention. “Food blogger,” Yuri explained briefly before letting his fork clatter on the plate and shoving his head into his hands. He definitely had a headache coming on.
A strong grip encircled his wrist, drawing his hand away. “Let’s go to bed,” Otabek urged quietly. “Just for a few minutes.”
Yuri didn’t have to be asked twice. He sprung out of his seat, ignoring the dishes glaring at him from the kitchen, and made a beeline for the bedroom. He swan dived onto the bed and smothered himself in his pillow. Soft and huggable, unlike Otabek’s monstrosity he dared to call a pillow, despite its familial resemblance to a brick.
The sound of the door clicking shut had Yuri spinning onto his back and making grabby hands at his partner. Otabek shook his head indulgently as he eased himself onto the bed, curling up on his side and shuffling backwards into Yuri’s embrace. Yuri snaked an arm over Otabek’s waist between the slope of his chest and his stomach, and buried his nose into the crook of his neck, breathing deeply. Otabek placed his hand over Yuri’s and squeezed gently.
They lay there for a long minute of silence in a pool of lamplight and easy companionship. Yuri’s pinky twitched, stretching out towards Otabek’s stomach, but he curled it back into his hand, willing it into compliance.
He felt the rumble of Otabek’s reply in his own chest. “It’s okay.” He took Yuri’s hand and placed it over the swell of his belly. Yuri cradled it carefully, feeling the heat even through Otabek’s shirt, and he swallowed deeply.
“I know we’ve talked about it,” he started, “and you said you’ve been doing okay, but I’m just, y’know—” Yuri’s hand fluttered away from Otabek’s stomach to sketch staticky circles of anxiety in the air— “freaking out that one day you’re gonna wake up and have super bad dysphoria and blame me for everything, and I’m not gonna be able to help, and we’re so far from your family, and—”
Otabek turned his head and kissed him, his lips lingering. “So self-centered,” Otabek chuckled when he pulled away. Yuri’s breath caught in his throat. “Not everything is about you. I think of it pragmatically: my body is a tool, no different from how I use it to skate. I’ve been at war with gravity to do jumps that almost nobody else in the world can do since I was a child. Using my body to create our child isn’t any more complicated than that.” He lifted his hand to carefully stroke Yuri’s quivering cheek. “It’s still a man’s body. I’ll still be their father. So there’s no need to worry.”
“Fuck. You’re the strongest person I know.”
Gently, Otabek caught Yuri’s hand with his own, and brought it down to resettle it over his stomach once more. “This little one will be the strongest of any of us, if their kicks are any indication.”
“What did you expect from the child of two renowned figure skaters?” Yuri tried to joke, following Otabek’s attempt to guide them to softer territory. “They’re probably practicing their triple loop. I’ve been whispering training schedules to them while you’re asleep after all.”
Otabek chuckled lightly. “Make sure to tell them proper rest is an important part of training, too.”
Yuri murmured his agreement and nestled back into the bed, clinging like a limpet to his partner. He only let a few seconds pass before he whispered, “You’re working so hard. I just want to do this one thing right for you.”
“You do a lot of things right,” Otabek readily replied, his thumb stroking the back of Yuri’s hand. “What exactly are you referring to?”
“The pilaf.”
That dragged a long, deep exhale from Otabek. “Zhanym, I don’t think it’s possible for you to get it right.”
“I know it will never be like, restaurant-quality or anything, but—”
“No, Yura, that’s not the problem. I thought about it, and I realized that the pilaf I grew up with might be a little different from the recipes you’ll find online.”
“What? Why?”
“You know my mother immigrated to Kazakhstan from Uzbekistan. I think her pilaf is a hybrid of different regional styles within both countries, and, knowing her, she improvises each time she makes it.”
Yuri held his breath and counted to ten. “If you weren’t pregnant, I would beat you with a pillow, you absolute numbskull. That would’ve been helpful to know!”
“Well, I thought this was supposed to be a surprise, so…”
“Oh, eat a bag of dicks, you probably knew before I did somehow.”
Otabek patted Yuri’s hand pityingly. “Your enthusiasm and predictability are two of my favorite things about you.”
Yuri rolled away, grabbed his pillow, and determinedly whacked Otabek in the arm.
--
After a much-needed two-week break from pilaf, Yuri finally decided to try again. As soon as he and Otabek parted ways on the metro, he shot off a text to his mother-in-law, asking for her help.
Her response was prompt and expected. Yes, she would be happy to help, but no, there wasn’t as much a recipe as there was a list of ingredients and over 30 years of honed kitchen instincts that Yuri severely lacked.
Yuri checked the digital calendar he and Otabek religiously adhered to and sent her a few dates and times.
She agreed to one of them with six different heart emojis.
Yuri held tight to his love for Beka and his mother as he mentally prepared for the battle to come.
Another week later found Yuri, once again giving up his day off, surrounded by every conceivable ingredient and spice he thought he might need, while Otabek’s mother caught him up on family gossip over the webcam. She learned early on how to video chat — had to, with a figure skating son bouncing from country to country — and Yuri was immensely grateful. It was probably the only thing going right that afternoon.
“Mama, I’m sorry to interrupt, but when you say ‘make the carrots tiny’ do you mean shredding them? Or juliening?”
“What is juliening?” She asked, then immediately cut off his explanation by clicking her tongue and holding up a piece of carrot to the screen. “See? Like this. Otabek likes the crunchy texture, so I always keep them a little bigger. An old neighbor from when we lived by the park said that was the wrong way to do it, but her children grew up to be lazy, so clearly my way is just fine.”
Yuri loved his mother-in-law. He really did. But every conversation with her made him realize that Otabek grew up to become the stoic, quiet man he was because there had been no extra words for him to use in his parents’ house since his mother stole them all. She could turn a request to pass the salt into a meandering story involving people that even Otabek’s father didn’t know.
She was also an excellent cook, but a terrible teacher.
“Okay, your pot should be hot by now, so put the meat in.”
Yuri tipped his pile of chopped beef and lamb into the pot — “Oh, you have both lamb and beef? Just put them both in, it’ll make for a good flavor,” Mama Altin had breezily said when he asked which one he should use — then jerked back as it began to hiss. He sighed, glancing at the tablet screen, then nearly screeched in panic when he watched her pour a plate of chopped onions into her pot. “Wait, what are you doing? You told me to slice my onions! Should I put them in now?” He scrambled to grab his bowl of onions, carefully prepared ahead of time and looking nothing like the ones in the Almaty kitchen.
“Oh, I forgot I told you to slice them. Well, I just felt like chopping mine today.” She shrugged, like she wasn’t destroying Yuri’s only hope of making his partner truly happy. “You probably should have cooked those before the meat, but it’ll be okay, just throw them in now.”
“Do I stir them? Do I let them sit on top?”
“Give it one brief stir, but don’t overstir it.”
Yuri dutifully stirred the meat and onions once, then moved to put down the wooden spoon. Mama Altin immediately began scolding him. “That wasn’t nearly good enough, stir it better!”
“You said one brief stir! That was one!”
“Well it has to be one good stir, not whatever that was. I thought athletes were supposed to be strong! How can you hope to compete with such weak wrists?”
Yuri turned his back to the camera and took one long, calming inhale.
Somehow, they made it past the onion incident, and even added the carrots and rice without issue. When it came time to the apricots, raisins, and peas however —
“Wait, what are you doing?”
“Adding salt. Mine doesn’t have enough.”
“Does mine need more salt?”
“I don’t know, taste it!”
“I don’t know how it’s supposed to taste in the first place, how will I be able to tell?!”
“You’ll just know!”
“That’s not helpful! Wait, why does yours look different? Did you add other things and not tell me?! You can't just do that and not explain it! Your son is going to eat this! Do you want me to poison your son?!"
— but eventually, after two meltdowns and one nearly-boiled over pot, Yuri had what he prayed was Otabek’s mother’s Kazakhstani-Uzbekastani hybrid pilaf: heaping orange rice and vegetables, studded with lamb, beef, and dried fruit, looking absolutely nothing like the one from the restaurant or the food blog. It was light on the salt for his and Otabek’s diets, served with a side of delicately dressed tomatoes, onions, and herbs, and a jug of cold, sweet kompot in the fridge.
Yuri slouched against the counter, his head resting on his forearms in an ironic mimicry of that first attempt. How was he more tired from this than from picking up food from four different restaurants after a day of grueling practice? “Thank you, Mama. Let’s never do this again.”
Her laughter was bright, even through the tinny microphone. “Next time we’ll try it together in person. It will be much easier that way I think. Well, a little easier in some ways. Maybe more complicated in others, probably.”
Yuri laughed tiredly. “We’ll have time to figure it out once we get there. Only a few more months.”
Otabek’s mother was quiet for the first time in hours. Then, softly, she said, “Otabek is lucky to have a partner who cares so much. Your child will be lucky too, if you don’t spoil them too much. Let Otabek take care of you sometimes too though, okay? And those funny friends of yours, let them help. There is a whole world of people who want to love and support you. Try to let them, okay darling?”
Yuri rubbed his burning eyes against his arm. “Yes, Mama.”
“Good.” Her tone was assured. “Then you go and skate your heart out. Tell the world how much you love your people and how loved you are by them, and the judges will be so moved they’ll have no choice but to give you gold, and you’ll arrive in Almaty the new Hero of Kazakhstan.”
Yuri chuckled, then sniffed, before leaning back to look at the camera. “I wouldn’t dare lose and disappoint you, Mamochka.”
“Sass? From my son-in-law?” She shook her head threateningly, though her eyes sparkled merrily. “I’ll beat you with a wooden spoon next time I see you, child.”
Jingling keys in the front door cut off Yuri’s reply. “Beka’s home, I have to go. Bye Mama, love you!”
“Good-bye sweetheart, tell Beka hello, and to call me! And don’t forget to tell me how the pilaf turned out!”
Yuri exited out of the call with a wave and stashed the offending tablet in a random cupboard, where he’d surely forget about it later. Ah well, those were future Yuri problems.
He dashed into the tiny dining area and grabbed fistfuls of papers off the table, throwing them on any other relatively empty flat surface he could spot, then darted into the hallway.
“Beka! Welcome home!”
Otabek nodded at him, exhaustion clear on his face, though his expression was warm. “Yura,” he replied, holding out a hand.
Yuri folded himself into Otabek’s embrace, cradling him close and planting a kiss on his sweaty brow. “Missed you. Love you. Work was okay? Maksim finally brain himself on the ice?”
“Landed almost all of his triple salchows cleanly,” Otabek said, his eyes crinkling in what Yuri knew was smug pleasure.
“Good,” Yuri said imperiously as he pulled away, vibrating with impatience. “Here, let me get your bag. Are you hungry?”
“No, not really. Besides, it’s not like there’s any food in the house.” Otabek pointed out with a look of feigned innocence, as if the entire apartment wasn’t ladened with the scent of cooked meat and garlic.
Yuri couldn’t wait any longer. “C’mon, c’mon, hurry up, I know I got it right. Just promise me you won’t look in the kitchen.”
Otabek laughed as he let himself be tugged along. “Yura.”
“Go sit down! I’ll clean it!” Yuri ordered, pushing Otabek towards a seat.
“Eat with me first, then we’ll do it together.”
“Hell no! You’re not cleaning up after me, you’re busy building a whole-ass human.” He battered at Otabek’s hands to free himself and collect the food from the kitchen. “Here. It might be shit, but this was my last resort.”
“What a raving review,” Otabek said with a lopsided smile and teasing eyes, a look only Yuri got to see on rare occasions. He treasured it, which was the only reason Otabek could get away with such obvious sappiness.
Yuri quickly set the table, pouring bright red glasses of kompot for them both while Otabek eagerly served himself. “This looks like what I grew up with,” he remarked, sounding truly excited about food for the first time in weeks.
“I’d fucking hope so,” Yuri muttered. “Hey, hold on, let me try it first to make sure it doesn’t suck.”
But he was too late; Otabek had already shoved a massive bite of pilaf into his mouth. Yuri waited with bated breath, his fingers digging into the tops of his legs, as Otabek slowly chewed.
Otabek swallowed, and stared. “Yura. This is incredible.” He immediately took another bite and hummed quietly in pleasure.
Yuri grabbed his own fork and dug into the pilaf. He felt like crying. It really was delicious, thank god.
It was silent except for the sounds of their eating for several minutes. Yuri swelled with pride and relief at the way Otabek ferociously ate the food, his food, and he surreptitiously snuck a photo of his partner and his plate. It wasn’t a flattering photo, but it wasn’t like it was for social media. It would go in an album on his phone of all his favorite Otabek moments, which was all of them, that nobody would ever see, except for Katsuki once in a great while when they got drunk in the off-season and cried about how much they loved their partners and argued who was the luckiest, a fact that Yuri would vehemently deny with every sober, dying breath.
Eventually, Otabek took a moment to breathe, and asked, “Did you ask my mother for help?”
Yuri groaned into his drink. “Yes, unfortunately. Never doubt that I love you, or her, because somehow I managed to not drop a single f-bomb during that entire disaster.”
“It couldn’t have been that much of a disaster if you made this,” Otabek pointed out, stealing a bit of lamb from the serving bowl with his fingers. “But she can be a little particular in the kitchen sometimes.”
“I would have preferred particular to flippant. She would just tell me something and then suddenly move onto the next step while I was still trying to figure out how to cut the meat properly from six steps back!”
Otabek offered a small smile. “Thank you. I hope it was worth it.”
“Like you even have to ask.”
“Can I ask you to make this again tomorrow?”
“No way. One, I feel like I’m going to die from how much effort this took. And two, you can’t have pilaf every day, there’s way too much salt for you and it’s a trainwreck for my diet.”
“But there are vegetables in it. That means it’s healthy,” Otabek complained, his voice on the edge of whining. It was admittedly adorable in a way that made Yuri wonder how much of an influence Viktor and Katsuki had had on him, but Yuri knew he couldn't give in.
“The baby is definitely the strongest of the three of us if they’re manipulating you so easily,” he teased, then squeaked when Otabek slid his foot free of his slipper to pinch Yuri on the calf with his toes. “Ow! Keep your weird monkey feet away from me!”
“Only if you make me pilaf tomorrow. And lamb manti, too.”
“No! Get away from me, you weirdo!”
As Yuri and Otabek devolved into a play-fight, Yuri couldn’t help but smile. He could do this; skating, being a good partner, parenthood, moving. With his friends and family supporting him and Otabek, no matter what happened in the future, Yuri was sure that they were going to be just fine.