Love is a Battlefield (Yuri!!! On Ice - Otayuri)

Chapter 6: Take a Chance on Me

A/N: My apologies for the wait! This chapter is split into three sections: The first in Yuri's POV, the second in Otabek's, and the third in Grandpa Nikolai Plisetsky's. It should be clearly marked. This chapter was beta-ed by the lovely Altergravity.

Yuri POV

Beka was the consummate gentleman, as Yuri had always suspected. His heart melted every time Beka sensed what Grandpa wanted before he asked, quietly getting things down from high shelves, bringing a blanket if he looked cold, moving Yuri's haphazardly strewn possessions to make room for the wheelchair. He helped Yuri cook and clean, pushed Grandpa around the neighborhood and to the store for groceries... he even took the time to befriend Princess. Of course, the damn cat soon preferred Beka's quiet peace to Yuri's constant quivering motion, the traitor. Yuri pointedly didn't think about how much he'd like to curl up against Beka, too.

He was watching them enviously, one afternoon, not sure if he was more jealous of the cat or Beka, when he was startled out of his brooding.

"What's her name?" Beka asked softly, as he stroked her silky fur.

Yuri flushed. "Um. Princess. Don't laugh. I named her when I was like nine."

Beka smiled. "I wasn't going to laugh, Yura. I am curious about your logic, though. You don't seem the type to give such a name."

Yuri bit his lip, trying to decide how much to say. Beka sat there patiently, waiting for him to speak, stroking the damn cat, and, hell. Why not?

"I had a lot of trouble learning English for competitions," he admitted. "I used some of my mother's old books. She adored fairy tales; she had both English and Russian editions of her favorites, and she used to read them to me. It was easier to pick up English words from them, since I knew so many of the stories by heart." He snorted. "Of course, a lot of the words are pretty impractical. I mean... how many times have you had to know 'princess' or 'castle' or 'dragon' at competition?"

"Yura, your parents..."

Beka paused, giving Yuri an out, and he both loved and hated him for it. He'd never talked about them, not to anyone but Grandpa, but...

"Come on."

He grabbed Beka's wrist before he could change his mind, tugging him insistently into his room, pulling him down to sit on the edge of the bed. Thank goodness he'd made it this morning.

"Yura..."

"Shhh!"

Yuri tossed his pillow across the room, ignoring Beka's quiet snort, and unearthed the faded photograph. He held it close for a moment; it was his secret. He traced the worn lines of the woman who looked so like him, all the way down to the sparkle in her eyes, the shape of her nose, the tilt of her smile. Then the man, beside her, arm slung around her shoulders, laughing. He'd got the shape of his face from him, his flaxen hair, his dancer's grace. He drew in a sharp breath, fighting the familiar sting of tears, then thrust the photograph into Beka's hand.

"Here. Just - be careful with it. It's the only one I have."

He clamped his lips shut over the words that threatened to spill out, sealing them in with the tears. He snuck a quick sideways glance at Beka, scrutinizing the photo intently with pursed lips, then refused to look again. He studied their hands instead, where they rested on the coverlet. His fingers had grown, in the last two years, and now they telegraphed a similar strength. But his fingers were long and thin, where Beka's were thick, and they stood out in stark relief against Beka's darker skin.

"Yura..."

Beka's fingers caught his, trapping them and squeezing gently. Yuri could have easily torn his hand away, but instead he held still, heart beating so fast he was sure Beka could hear it. He didn't look up - he couldn't bear to look up - as he began to speak.