The first time he falls in love with Otabek Altin, he was sixteen years old.
Of all places, it was in Hasetsu. His fingers fumbled with the chopsticks in his hand, and the Kazakh took notice of it. His smile and his words were gentle, humouring, as he placed his hand on top of the Russian’s. Step by step, careful movements, a mother’s tutorial.
There had been something wrong with his heart right then; because just like his jumps on the ice, it flipped inside of his chest - it was a sensation all too powerful and consuming, unfamiliar and terrifying to the boy during the height in the Era of ‘What-the-fuckery’ of teenage years. He had to double check. Triple. Quad. At five his heart would wrench so tightly in his chest he had to excuse himself to leave.
He didn’t remember where he went.
It was somewhere on the ice when he found himself breathing steadily, his thoughts somewhere else. Somewhere where it was raining. It was always raining somewhere else.