Will you dance with me? (OtaYuri FanFic)

Gone

I never knew for sure what got into me.

He was different, I guess. When he looked at me it was as if time stopped, although sometimes it seemed as if it were going backwards.

As if we could travel in time.

Back, to that summer at Yakov's camp for skaters, a summer that is nothing more than a blur for me.

Back, to that unexpected ride on a cool motorbike through the streets in Barcelona.

Honestly I don't know which one I prefer.

Well, right now... I'd just die if he was next to me, if I could have the chance to look into those hazelnut eyes once more.

But I guess that is too much to ask.

Like everyone else, he decided to leave me. He disappeared without further explanations in a plane to his homeland, where he was not yet a hero, but the odds were with him, and one day, he'll be so. Kazakhstan's hero.

I never knew what got into me because I had never, never, looked for someone after a competition. Never so frantically. Never with a lump in my throat, knowing deep inside that I wasn't going to find him.

I had won. I was the hero. The gold medal was lying in my suitcase, with the rest of my clothes, my skates, everything. My suit from last night, the one I had worn to the banquet.

And a flower.

I needed to find the owner of that flower, I needed to see his stoic visage once more.

The hotel was big, and three floors had been set aside for the skaters, male and female, and their coaches. I couldn't even see the fancy decorations, the frames on the walls, the tapestry. I was flying through the hallway and darted upstairs.

"Hey Yurio!"

No, not now. Not him. Anyone but him.

"OUT OF MY WAY, PIG!" The words found their way out of my mind before my mind was even aware of forming them. I shoved Yuuri Katsuki out of my way, because; of course, he wasn't going to budge. He gasped and I ignored him.

"But..."

I felt his hand close around my forearm as I was about to run off and he yanked me backwards, against him.

My face was already red with anger by that time. The choking feeling of missing my last chance to talk to Otabek in ages was fading away. All thanks to him. To the man who had been in my way for the past year.

"I said -" I pulled him down to my level to talk only inches away from his face, so he wouldn't miss a single word. "Out of my way, pig".

"But t-there's something --"

There came the stuttering. How could someone so old act like such a child.

I grunted something, I don't even remember what, and with a quick move I shoved him back again, getting him to release me. Finally.

I hopped upstairs, out of breath by the time I reached the floor where the Kazakhs were staying. All of a sudden my feet were glued to the carpet.

It was there, in the middle of the hallway. Only some steps away. I could do it. Or could I?

I don't remember walking the distance to his room.

I do remember my hand on the door. Knocking twice, shakily.

The room still smelled like him. He had been there. Not so long ago. But he wasn't there any more.

I was late. And although my mind instantly blamed the clumsy pork cutlet bowl, I knew he wasn't the culprit. It had been me. Me, disregarding Otabek's invitation. Rejecting him.

Had I hurt him?

Did he hate me?

I scanned the room for a note, something that he might have left behind. An excuse that could make me call him.

My phone was on my hand. Should I call him?

Or check Instagram?

There he was. Checking in at El Prat airport.

Half an hour ago. While I was putting my gold medal inside my suitcase.

I wished his eyes could make me go back in time.

To the banquet last night.

To our first and last dance.