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The best thing about living alone, Otabek has decided, is being able to order the most absurd shit off the internet without having to put up with any kind of judgment. He can get up early, go for a run, spend a few hours at the rink or the gym, and by the time he pulls up to his apartment some days there's a box on his doorstep with Amazon Prime printed all over it. He wouldn't call it a problem, necessarily; Otabek simply prefers a life where face to face interaction with other people is kept to a bare minimum. Using the internet to order necessities - a new vacuum, a replacement charger for his laptop after his sister’s cat chewed it in half, the boots he'd had his eye on, even groceries - is a convenience Otabek can't see himself living without at this point in his life.
Every once in awhile, though, Otabek buys… guilty pleasure things. He sometimes forgets about the order itself until the package arrives, and then he feels the mildest case of buyer’s remorse, and then forgets about it, because he obviously wanted whatever it was that he'd ordered at five in the morning for whatever reason. This most recent impulse purchase isn't exactly along that same vein. This middle of the night impulse purchase is one of the few he remembers making in vivid detail; the guilt and buyer’s remorse had settled over him the moment he clicked Confirm Order, and yet he'd been tracking the package ever since.
Otabek spent this morning at the rink by himself, fine tuning the choreography for this season’s short program. Before leaving to come home he'd checked the package’s progress, astonished to find Delivered printed across the screen of his phone.
Which has brought him here. Otabek is pacing the floor at the foot of his bed, staring at the nondescript box sitting atop his comforter. He's been home for twenty minutes and hasn't been able to bring himself to tear back the tape and actually lay eyes on the thing inside. This is wrong. He never should have bought it in the first place. This is a sick betrayal of the first true friendship he has ever had and Yuri will absolutely slaughter him if he finds out Otabek made a conscious decision to buy… this.
But… and this is the real kicker… he did buy it. For a reason. And really, it would be a colossal waste of money to not utilize what he's bought. Right? Sure, this crosses all kinds of fucked up boundaries, and it could very easily destroy his friendship with Yuri, but who says anyone has to know? Maybe he'll use it this one time, get whatever this is out of his system, and go back to being a good friend who is absolutely not sexually attracted to Yuri Plisetsky. Ha.
Otabek scrubs a hand over his eyes. He looks at the package again, then at the body pillow he's had on his bed for years. It's just a pillowcase, he tells himself, but even his own mental reassurances fall flat. This is not just a pillowcase; this is a pillowcase bearing his best friend’s likeness, half dressed, in a seductive pose. Otabek swallows around the tightness in his throat, spares a passing thought that he may have left the heat on - it's suddenly too hot in here - and silently accepts his label as The Worst Friend in the World.
It couldn't hurt to just look. Maybe the likeness would be terrible; maybe the boy on the pillow wouldn't look like Yuri at all. Would I be disappointed? Only one way to find out. He tears the package open, closes his fist over the soft material - not cotton, he's not sure - and pulls the pillowcase out. He tries very hard to avert his eyes while he spreads the thing over his mattress, but it's hard to look away from it. That's Yuri. It's like having him in Otabek's bed and it's at once uncomfortable and arousing. Shit.
The artist rendering is flawless. The slope of this Yuri’s neck and shoulders is pale and delicate, just as tempting as the real thing. Otabek's mouth is watering. The hips are sharp, the hair a touch too yellow, and the green of the eyes is brilliant. This was a terribly thought out purchase. There will be no getting it out of his system./ This thing is only going to exacerbate the problem, whatever this is that he's been feeling for Yuri.
Otabek has always been very good at compartmentalizing. Others have called it “bottling up.” Otabek doesn't like that phrase. He shoves the guilt deep, deep, deep and puts the pillowcase on his body pillow. Seeing it like that gives him pause, finally. He should think about this. Take the day. He flips the pillow over to hide the picture, but fuck, the reverse isn't any better for his constitution. It might be worse, in fact.
Otabek's vision swims for a moment as he takes it in: mussed blond hair, red lines scratched down bare shoulder blades, beautifully delicate tapered waist that gives way to the perfect little ass, clad in nothing more than a little pair of leopard print briefs (if they can even be called that). It's obscene. Upon closer inspection, Yuri’s face is turned to one side, his expression somewhere between pain and rapture.
Fuck. Otabek is hard, leaking, the front of his track pants tented. He palms himself without thinking about it, and a little groan sneaks out at the pressure. Otabek realizes a little belatedly that it's been days, that the last time he'd masturbated was the night he ordered this. He'd thought of Yuri that night, too. They'd just finished a FaceTime call that Yuri had spent the majority of wearing nothing but a poorly secured bath robe. Otabek had put his hands in his pants the second the call disconnected and brought himself off - quickly - to the thought of Yuri letting the robe fall open to Otabek's questing mouth. He'd ordered the pillowcase a few hours later after drinking the guilt away.
And now he's here, straddling his body pillow and rubbing his still clothed cock over Yuri's thigh, wondering if Yuri might actually have a pair of underwear like that. He tears his shirt over his head and considers taking his pants off before forcing himself to just stop. He needs to get his bearings back. If he's going to go down this road and cross these unforgivable boundaries, it needs to be worth it.
So he thinks about Yuri; the way he would blush if Otabek ever found the courage to kiss him, how his fingers might tease at the waistband of his track pants, the way he'd let his legs fall open to accept Otabek's weight atop him. He struggles for just a moment to get his pants and underwear off and mounts the pillow again. The first press of his cock to the pillow leaves a smear of precome shining across the seat of Yuri's leopard print briefs and Otabek is lost. He braces his arms on either side of the pillow and grinds down, over and over again, while his mind conjures up images of the real Yuri beneath him like this.
He's got Yuri's voice in his head, a whispered chant of, “Beka, Beka, please, Beka, more,” playing on an endless loop. He's a little bit amazed at how thick his cock looks rubbing against Yuri's ass and back. He flips the pillow back over as the pressure builds in the base of his spine, needing to see Yuri's face when he comes. On this side Yuri's got his arms up over his head, in a position Otabek would gladly take advantage of. He puts one of his own hands over Yuri's in a mockery of holding him down, and thrusts against his chest. Yuri's face is flushed, his lips parted in a surprised little, “Ah,” his throat bared for tasting. It's silly, and Otabek knows it, but he can't stop himself from bending down and kissing. He puts his mouth to Yuri's neck, his shoulders, his chest and chin and lips. He whispers, “Yuri,” into the fabric and makes a loose tunnel over his cock with one hand. He imagines the way Yuri might grip the flesh of his ass to pull Otabek tight against him, visualizes the expression his face might contort into when he arches his back and reaches his peak between their bodies.
His thrusts against the pillow grow frantic. Otabek is lightheaded, too much blood rushing south to sustain him. He is sweating, his vision is tunneling and all he can see is too blond hair and eyes so realistically green he thinks he might be going mad looking into them. When he finally takes himself in hand it takes a single tug and the pleasure crests. The first thick spurt of his climax splashes across the bridge of Yuri's nose, the second on his lips. He's sweating, repeating Yuri's name in a hoarse whisper as he squeezes himself dry.
Otabek's collapse onto the bed beside the pillow is clumsy and exhausted, and the sound of the springs in the mattress groaning is far too loud in the silent room. His guilt is a tidal wave that wastes no time dragging him beneath the surface and choking him. He never should have bought the pillowcase; Yuri deserves a much better friend than this.
--
Meanwhile, in St. Petersburg
“Beka, oh god, Beka, deeper, please.”
The soft buzzing very nearly drowns out Yuri's whimpers, even with the little plug shoved as deep as it will go. Beka’s scent surrounds him; he's wearing the hooded pullover Beka had left at his house during his last visit, his nose buried in the fabric. He's got his ass in the air, an angle he's perfected over the last few weeks to get this vibrating plug resting exactly where he wants it to.
Sometimes he can climax from the vibrations alone, but today he has the hand not gripping the plug’s wireless remote furiously stroking the slickly leaking skin of his erection, desperate to come for what would be the third time today. He's not entirely sure what brought this on today. Twice a day is usually enough to keep his sex drive at an even keel for the most part, but from the moment he awoke this morning the need for more just hasn't gone away. He's hoping the plug and the hoodie will be enough to keep him satisfied for a few hours, at least.
The plug is pressed snug against his prostate, and even with the vibration on the lowest setting Yuri is losing his mind. The slit of his cock is dripping wet and leaving a mess on the inside lining of Beka's hoodie, his breath coming in shaky pants as he frantically attempts to bring himself up climax.
“Beka, fuck, faster, oh god, fuck yes I need you, I love you, Beka, ohhhhhh.”
Yuri's cock twitches in his hand, his ass clenches around the toy lodged inside him, and he comes. He comes and he comes and he comes, so much that he fears he will drown in all of it. A broken scream punches out of him and his fingers go numb. Yuri is shivering and overly sensitive when it is done, the tingle in his digits making finding the off button on the wireless remote a chore. Exhaustion crashes over him as he collapses face first onto his bed, and Yuri allows himself a moment to feel that tint of guilt that colors almost every orgasm now; he can't stop himself thinking of Beka, of his big hands and gentle smile, how his deep voice is sometimes thick with sleep when Yuri calls and wakes him. He's relatively certain Beka feels the same way for Yuri that Yuri feels for him, but until one or the both of them works up the courage to actually do something about it, Yuri will have to make do like this.
As he falls into a heavy midday nap, Yuri smiles and thinks he could easily make do this way for a few months more.