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Even from a distance, the villa looked enormous. Shouyou could see it perched on the hill from the time he set out from the temple, gleaming white under the sun during the day, and lit up by fires shining within its walls when he stopped at an inn for the night.

He had always seen it, of course, from the time he’d been small, allowed to play outside the temple in the dirt with the other children. The Centurion’s Villa, the owner of the land they lived on. For that privilege, they were taxed, though not an unfair amount. Every month, the temple sent an acolyte to deliver the payment to the villa, as a sign of respect to the one who lived there.

For years, one of the priests had been the one to make the trip, but he had twisted his ankle two nights previous. In his stead, the elders had selected Shouyou to go, because he was young and had enough energy for the trek.

They were concerned about his manners and how he would present himself to the villa on the hill, but after much lecturing, he was sent off, to fulfill their obligation and return. It had taken him nearly two days to reach the villa, but on the eve of the second, he’d finally arrived, as the sky grew dusky and purple.

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Can you imagine if they practiced before WTTM?

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“How do you want to end it?” Otabek tilts his head thoughtfully, squinting out onto the ice with the kind of focus that fighter pilots probably have when landing a plane in the middle of a war zone. While the plane’s also on fire. 

They’ve been at it for hours. And despite the fact that he won’t actually be skating this routine with Yuri, Otabek’s been out on the ice for every single step, every turn, tweaking the music and the movements until they match, putting his hands all over Yuri’s body and adjusting him with deft hands until he’s nailed the choreography down to the very edge. The next time someone compliments the pig on his stamina, Yuri is going to burst through the fucking wall like the Kool-Aid Man and punch them in the jaw. Oh yeah.

Yuri crosses his arms and bites down on a yawn. “I told you how I wanted to end it.”

“I meant do you want to hit the ice with a loud bang or a whimper.”

“A loud bang sounds lovely to me,” Yuri says, dangerous and sweet. He’s been dipping his fingers into the hot, wet promise of Otabek’s mouth since they left the club and came back to the rink, and if he’s forced to wait any longer for Otabek to buy a clue and make some kind of move, he’s not going to be responsible for his actions. 

Otabek ignores him. “Look… Yuri, don’t you think this is a little…”

Yuri waits for him to finish, then, when he doesn’t, growls, “Say it.”

“Over the top.” Otabek’s mouth twitches, which on anyone else would be a full-body seizure.

“Someday I’m going to write a memoir and that’s going to be the title. Over The Top: An Insider’s Look at the World of Yuri Plisetsky and His Many Naysayers Who Don’t Know Shit About Shit,“ Yuri practically sings, the edges of his fake cheer sharp enough to skate with. ”Prologue: Fuck You.”

“You’re asking me to murder you,” Otabek says, scratching the shorn hair at the back of his head. The urge to reach out and drag his fingers through it bowls Yuri over like a wave, and it’s all he can do to stand against it.

Fake murder,” Yuri snaps, flustered. “If Thing One and Thing Two can make headlines by spitting ‘I love yous’ into each other’s slobbering mouths then I can certainly blow minds by cranking this shit up to eleven.”

“You don’t think the shock factor will be too much for them?” Genuine curiosity lurks in the tilt of Otabek’s eyebrow. 

Yuri rolls his eyes. “They’ve spent the entire season cheering for a guy who literally jizzes his pants whenever he’s on the ice. I think they can handle it.”

Otabek makes a thoughtful noise, like he’s never considered the fact that his peers are all D-list Batman villains. “Fair enough.”

They glide over to the portable CD player that Otabek brought, sitting on the edge of the wall like a relic from a former era, and restart the song. It begins with the subtlety of a punch to the throat, and Yuri loves it wholeheartedly. 

“How are you going to fall?” Otabek’s voice fights with the music and barely makes it out alive. “It’s gotta be dramatic.”

“I’ve been watching Georgi collapse to the floor in tears for half my life. Dramatic I can do. You know the cue for the…?” He mimes firing a gun with his fingers. If he’d thought of it beforehand, he would’ve painted his nails for this.

“Yeah.”

“All right, then, DJ Altin. Let’s see how good your aim is.”

He flashes Otabek a flirty grin and makes to push away for center ice when, without warning, Otabek leans down, brushes his lips over the swell of Yuri’s cheek, and murmurs, “Bang.

Yuri takes the hit and fucking drops.