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Cruel Mistress

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Katsuki’s hand on his thigh is warm and strong and Yuri desperately, fervently hopes that he won’t end up embarrassing himself in front of his new ballet coach. It doesn’t help that Katsuki’s pushing, trying to see how high Yuri can raise his leg in a standing split. Katsuki probably mentioned the proper term for whatever the position is but at this point Yuri can barely remember his cat’s name.

They’re alone in the dance studio for now, everyone else at the rink and Lilia attending to business out of town. There’s little to no chance that someone will walk in on them but Yuri still tenses at every little sound, imagined or real.

It’s ridiculous how quickly Yuri went from being insulted that Lilia was passing his coaching on to some nobody who was still climbing the ranks in the world of ballet, to nervously anticipating his next session with Katsuki. Yuri blames his stupid slicked-back hair, his warm eyes, and his damn hands.

Katsuki hums, thoughtful, before he pushes a bit more, steps a bit closer to Yuri so that the warmth of his hand is eclipsed by the warmth from his entire body in Yuri’s personal space. “I think you can go a bit wider, Yura,” Katsuki says, sly smile slowly spreading across his face. Yuri’s not sure if he imagines Katsuki’s fingers digging into the meat of his thigh, slipping a bit across the fabric of Yuri’s leotard.

With his back to the mirrored wall, hands on the bar behind him and Katsuki looming in front, Yuri’s beginning to feel trapped. Barely a minute has passed, probably, since Yuri raised his leg into the air and yet it feels like it’s been hours. There’s a hand on his leg, a hand on his hip, and brown eyes staring at his face. Yuri’s never felt so alive, apprehensive and excited at the same time, hyperaware of the narrow space between their bodies and Katsuki’s hands.

“I’m not that flexible yet,” Yuri snaps. He tries not to think about how that could be interpreted as a promise—because it’s not, it’s definitely not—but then Katsuki tilts his head to one side as if he’s contemplating his next move and then pushes even more, hand sliding up until it’s almost holding the back of Yuri’s knee. Yuri has to fight to keep his legs from shaking at the additional strain, muscles stretched beyond his limit, the slight ache of exertion turning into the heavier throb of almost-pain. His body is going to hate him tomorrow morning but there’s no way that Yuri’s going to tell Katsuki that he needs a break, refuses to back down from the glint in Katsuki’s eyes that’s both challenge and tease.

“Not yet,” Katsuki agrees and that sounds like a promise. The weight of those two words hangs in the air between them, makes Yuri more nervous than the thought of Yakov suddenly appearing and seeing the position he’s in, makes his entire body tense up in flight or fight.

The way he’s holding Yuri, it’s impossible for Katsuki not to feel it, his eyes narrowing for a split second before he helps Yuri lower his leg. He walks away to his bag in the far corner, taking his body heat with him, and Yuri is suddenly reminded of how cold the studio is with just two people in it. Yuri takes the opportunity to take in deep breathes, attempts to calm his racing heartbeat. When it doesn’t feel like his heart is about to burst out of his chest, Yuri grabs his own duffel and marches past Katsuki, making his way towards the locker rooms.

“I’ll see you tomorrow, Yura!” Katsuki calls.

Yuri doesn’t bother saying anything, just raises a hand in a half-hearted wave goodbye before he bursts out the doors.

Tomorrow. Another word that sounds like a promise.

Yuri finds himself looking forward to it.