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what hoodies are made of

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Yuri is dying.

This is it, this is the end of his career. He will be dead at the age of 17, three months before his eighteenth birthday, before he even has a chance to drink his first legal drink, before he can plot the complete annihilation of JJ and his now-wife and his stupid JJ girls, before he can kick Katsudon and his disgusting old trophy fiancé to the nearest damn church because they need to seriously get over themselves and communicate.

Before he has his goddamn first kiss, preferably with someone whose name starts with an O and ends with -tabek, who is also, by the way, the cause of his death.

Let it be known that Yuri Plisetsky is killed by his first friend, and possibly, if given more time—and if he could just admit it deep down in his heart that yes, he has a crush on Otabek the size of St. Petersburg—his first boyfriend, during the exhibition gala of Trophee de France.

Oh, what’s the murder weapon, you ask?

The goddamn hoodie.

The goddamn hoodie that serves no fucking purpose, because hoodies are supposed to warm you up. It’s supposed to protect you from the cold.

It’s not supposed to be flimsy. It’s not supposed to be made from fabrics that can be transparent or translucent. It’s not supposed to give you a barely-obscured view of the skin hidden underneath—if it can be said to be hidden at all, because Yuri now has a good fucking idea about the sun-kissed tones of Otabek’s skin, the way that it glistens under the sheen of sweat, like fucking gold.

‘A hooded sweatshirt or jacket’—that’s it, that’s the literal definition he got from Thesaurus, and sweatshirts aren’t sexy. Sweatshirts are oversized and most definitely not skin-tight. Not—sexy or seductive or oozing sex, and the one Otabek’s wearing is a goddamn disgrace. It's a sad excuse for a hoodie. It serves no purposes, it betrays all fundamentals of fashion, it’s—

It’s—revolting. It’s going to kill Yuri.

And Katsudon, fuck everything that has ever existed, notices. He puts a hand on Yuri’s shoulder, his face showing angel-like concern and worry, like a perfect parenting figure, but Yuri knows Katsudon’s rotten insides better than anyone. Katsudon’s fucking cracking up at him inside, and Yuri hates everything. It almost makes him want to apologize to the universe for being such a jackass in his pre-teen puberty phase, because this could only be payback.

“Are you okay, Yurio?” Katsudon innocently asks.

Is he okay? Is he fucking okay? What kind of question is that? Otabek is wearing a white, transparent hoodie and skinny ripped jeans, and the only thing that stops Yurio from getting a peek of his nipples is the two black lines stitched vertically across his torso. Nothing is stopping him from looking at the perfect slope of Otabek's ass. So is he okay?

That’s a stupid fucking question, but Katsudon likes to make him say the things that he’s feeling.

Right now, he feels like punching something. It’s too bad JJ is in Beijing.

“I’m fucking stellar,” Yuri hisses, and wishes that he survives the next most excruciating four minutes of his life.

Katsudon hides a smug smile.

The only thing that stops Yuri from strangling him is the fact that he actually wants to see Katsudon win gold so figure skating can turn back into a competition instead of one-year-long cockblocking. Marriage-blocking? Whatever.

The lights dim, and Yuri braces himself for death.

A blue spotlight shines on Otabek—the damn dramatic. Yuri’s confused at first when he hears electronic beats blasting from the speakers, thinking the staff plays the wrong song yet again, in which case he’s ready to rip them to pieces again, but Otabek’s moving along to the beats, dancing, and that’s when Yuri knows he’s fucked. Even more than before.

It’s a remix of Lose Yourself, and the fact that Otabek’s even listening to anything other than instrumental music alone is amazing; it’s beyond any human’s comprehensible thought that Otabek has a whole routine choreographed to a remix of a rap song. Yuri’s mind replays a conversation they’ve had the night before—to think that Otabek is doing this just to prove Yuri wrong, even when he knows Yuri is simply joking… Yuri feels strangely touched.

Of course Otabek has to be earnest about it. Fuck him. Fuck this routine. Fuck feelings.

The commentator is talking about how Otabek’s taking a different route for his exhibition program. “The hero of Kazakhstan is known for his intense programs, so for him to skate such a contemporary style, using dub-step—it’s a fresh, new direction that we’re all so pleasantly surprised to see! It does make one wonder if Altin has any ulterior motives, especially with that outfit. Maybe he has an admirer in the stands that he’d like to impress?”

Fuck the commentator.

Otabek does a complicated footwork that has him bending his knee at the end, almost lying on the ice, his hands outstretched behind him. If Yuri were a bystander, he would overlook the strain on his thighs, the slight tremor along the lines of his torso—flexibility is Otabek’s Achilles heel, but he makes it look so effortless on ice. The movement causes his hoodie to ride up—and Yuri is positive it couldn’t get any worse from there.

Katsudon snickers.

Obviously, it gets worse, because the universe wants Yuri Plisetsky dead at the age of seventeen. To his horror, Otabek’s routine consists of energetic step sequences that end in a lot of jumps. He moves like a whirlwind, almost like he's playing cat and mouse with the spotlights. Said spotlights must be spawns of Satan. Yuri is convinced they're conspiring to make this even more unbearable for him, highlighting the strip of skin that gets unveiled with every jerky movement. The worst part (the worst of the worst) is the ending, where Otabek falls to his knees at the last burst of notes and proceeds to lie down, writhing.

When the song, blessedly, ends, Yuri lets out a breath he didn’t realize he’s been holding.

Otabek rises up to the audience’s roaring applause. He smiles, ever so slightly, in that satisfied way he does when he’s accomplished his goal.

If his goal is to murder Yuri, then he’s succeeded beyond expectations.

To naked eye, it would seem that Otabek is not looking in any particular direction. Maybe somewhere south, maybe somewhere where Yuri is sitting, dumbfounded and extremely flustered. Yuri, though, can read Otabek better than anyone, and it seems like somehow, somehow, Otabek is looking at him. He tilts his head, something like invitation in his eyes, and turns his eyes away. It's so quick that Yuri could easily have imagined it, but it's Otabek. Otabek doesn't do things halfway or without an intent.

The applause dies down, and Otabek skates off to the side.

If Otabek's expecting Yuri to greet him, he won't get it. Yuri's first order of business after this is to burn the goddamn hoodie and scatter the ashes all over the Seine. Who cares about water pollution, his mortality is still in danger.

His second order of business is to lock himself in his hotel room and definitely not think of Otabek while he definitely doesn't jerk off, but that's nobody's business but his own.

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