#*talking to the mirror* never give up soldier you can go ice skating again one day

[carmenpeach]

oooh i am hovering hardcore between "go get a haircut at a salon so you dont look weird" and "i should cut it myself surely this time i wont fuck it up" but if i fuck it up it will be ruined for months. and i dont even have any hats/ beanies i could wear besides my bunny one and i love it but the ears are long and heavy so its hard to keep on -_-

[nesta-stan]

Acosf Theory: Nesta being kidnapped by the Mortal Queens will be a major plot point.

We all already know that the queens are going to play a major role from the synopsis. I think that specifically it will be the youngest Queen who will act as Nesta's main antagonist. She is the perfect character to act as a foil for Nesta.

Lets start with the younger queen herself.

"And the youngest two queens … One was perhaps a few years older than me, black-haired and black-eyed, careful cunning oozing from every pore as she surveyed us.

"The youngest queen, the dark-haired one, smiled slightly. Arrogant youth"

Here we see a few similarities between Nesta and that Queen. She is arrogant, "Cunning", proud, and about the same age as Nesta. They were both made into things they didn't want to be. To the Queen, Nesta has everything she wanted; she got the youth the power, and the money.

“The youngest one—that pinched-faced bitch—went into the Cauldron first. Practically trampled the others to get in after it saw what it did to you and your sister.”

Stone screamed beneath twin sets of talons. “But the Cauldron … Oh, it knew that something had been taken from it. Not sentient, but … it knew. It was furious. And when that young queen went in …”

The Ravens laughed. Laughed as the slope leveled out and we found ourselves at the bottom of the library.

“Oh, it gave her immortality. It made her Fae. But since something had been taken from it … the Cauldron took what she valued most. Her youth.” They sniggered again. “A young woman went in … but a withered crone came out.”

And from the catacombs of my memory, Elain’s voice sounded: I saw young hands

wither with age.

“The other queens won’t go into the Cauldron for terror of the same happening now. And the youngest one … Oh, you should hear how she talks, Nesta Archeron. The things she wants to do to you when Hybern is done …”

The Queen is angry at Nesta and Nesta is angry at the Queens. I'm going to be honest, when it comes to SJM's main villains like the king of hybern they seem to be one dimensional but this Queen's circumstances can be what forces Nesta to look further at her own. This Queen is what Nesta might have been. She might even be a deciding factor on who Nesta chooses to become.

Why this would make Nesta going to the Illyrian mountains make more sense

"She wasn’t stupid—she knew there had been unrest, both in Prythian and on the continent, since the war had ended. Knew some Fae territories were pushing their new limits on what they could get away with in terms of territory claims and how they treated humans."

These are Nesta's thoughts before going to see her sister in the sneak peak. I, and a lot of others, have never been able to wrap our heads around how the Illyrian mountains could ever be a good place for Nesta. Yes, a lot of people use the excuse "it's for her healing" but there is never any reasoning behind why illyria?

The mortal Queens know about Velaris. If Feyre and the inner circle have caught on to a plan to kidnap Nesta, than it makes sense that they would try to hide her away somewhere safe. Especially since she is basically helpless on her own. Cassian is the only character, besides Feyre, that cares about Nesta's well being and Illyria is filled with soldiers ready to fight at a moment's notice, while Velaris isn't. It is also where she can train. This threat has probably made Feyre realize how defenseless her sister is and to give her a fighting chance, she forces Nesta to train.

Now, let's talk about the "Ally" the synopsis mentioned. I think it's the Illyrians. That's how she still ends up captured. They betray Cassian and offer his mate to the mortal Queens. Though we all refer to this as Nesta's book, it's Cassian’s too. The Illyrians are closest to his heart. So it makes sense that they are included in his Arc. He has long been bad mouthed and treated as lowly for his status but he never stopped loving his people. Instead he internalized it, but what happens when the woman of his affections suffers because of that hatred? It would be the perfect tool to force Cassian to self-reflect on who he is and what he stands for. Can he choose between his people and his love?

This ties in with the snow queen theory

I actually first thought of this when reevaluating the theory that the story that will work as an inspiration for this book is the Snow Queen by Hans Christian Anderson. There are three versions of that story that all could potentially tie into to Acofas. The original, Frozen, and the 2002 movie remake.

Frozen because it is the tale of two sisters coming together after years of estrangement. (Feyre and Nesta obviously). 

I put the 2002 version in their because in that version of the story has "Lady's" portraying and ruling over each season. Their is a spring witch, summer princess (cresseida) , Autumn thief, and then the snow queen(Vivian?). Meaning more characters might play more roles in this story. I did see alot of wanting Nesta to travel to the other courts.

Now for the original, which probably looks like it has the most connection to Acosf. The story is short and easy to find online. In short, it's about a girl Named Gerda who goes on a quest to find Kay, her childhood friend. A magic mirror created by the devil , that I'm not going into detail much but it's basically the Ouroboros, is shattered and falls into the eyes and heart of young Kay. (Snow Queen also speculated to have a shard in her heart) This makes him cruel to his sister like friend over the next year till he is kidnapped by the snow queen.

This story ties in for multiple reasons. I think hear the mirror is replaced by the Cauldron. Both the Mortal Queen and Nesta were made and neither or happy about it. This being the "glass shard that froze their hearts." And the Mortal Queen being the Snow Queen who kidnapped Kay, or Nesta. Also, Kay is cruel to Gerda for a year before he is taken and it's been a year since the war.

Now let's look at this Quote.

“Little Kay was quite blue, yes nearly black with cold; but he did not observe it, for she had kissed away all feeling of cold from his body, and his heart was a lump of ice. He was dragging along some pointed flat pieces of ice, which he laid together in all possible ways, for he wanted to make something with them; just as we have little flat pieces of wood to make geometrical figures with, called the Chinese Puzzle. Kay made all sorts of figures, the most complicated, for it was an ice-puzzle for the understanding. In his eyes the figures were extraordinarily beautiful, and of the utmost importance; for the bit of glass which was in his eye caused this. He found whole figures which represented a written word; but he never could manage to represent just the word he wanted—that word was “eternity”; and the Snow Queen had said, “If you can discover that figure, you shall be your own master, and I will make you a present of the whole world and a pair of new skates.” But he could not find it out.”

I always interpreted that if this was going to inspire something in Acotar it would be Metaphorical. That the injuries Kay suffers would be how Nesta let herself fall apart and the puzzle that he needed to spell eternity for could be how Nesta still doesn't know what to do with her immortal life.

But what if it's literally? What if the Queen captures Nesta and tries to use her powers to fix her. The Queen was also granted immortality. What if Kay figuring out how to spell eternity is Nesta figuring out how to fix the young Queen. And the injuries are of being black and blue are from the queens torchering her?

Sjm's habits.

Sjm always has a habit of making her characters go through even deeper shit, once they finally healed. It would make sense that she would throw us another curve ball like this. She did something similar with Aelin in Koa, and she has reused some points before. Like Aedion and Lysandra taking Nessian's "till the next life".

Also, alot of people don't like Nesta and having even worse charecters be introduced to make the others look better is so in Sjm style. Just in the way that Tamlin and Eris make Rhysand look like a Saint, having the mortal Queen be the "bad" version of Nesta would help people see her in a better light.

I tried to look at this in the way of, What will make these Charecters question themselves and their motives the most. This was my conclusion.

This is just what I came up with, if you have any differing thoughts or ideas I would love to hear them. 

@heylittlemissy @sjm-things 

[emeraldwaves]

Title: Burning Eyes Day 3 OtaYuri Week : Memories/Future (I kind of did both?) Pairing: OtaYuri Rating: T Word Count:  3,892 AO3 Summary:  Otabek has always been captivated by Yuri Plisetsky’s eyes.

Full Fic Under Cut, thank you to @its-love-u-asshole for reading ahead of time for me.

14 years old

Yuri Plisetsky is the exact opposite of everything Otabek Altin is. He’s dainty, graceful, blond, and he’s damn good at ballet. It’s not fair, Otabek thinks, that one kid could be so good at everything.

Sweat trickles down his own brow, as he tries to hold the stance, his eyebrow twitching. His muscles are so tight — he’s not as flexible as some of the other boys. Really ballet warm ups have never been Otabek’s thing. His face quivers, and the teacher yells at him, telling him that’s not the face a dancer should wear, and Otabek is just about ready to slam his foot back to the ground and leave. He knows it’s a bad idea, and he doesn’t want to get on the Russian’s bad side. This training camp is a big deal, and he should feel honored, even if it is shameful to have been dropped down to the novice class.

He sucks in a large breath of air, keeping his foot in place, though his chest puffs out awkwardly, and his nostrils flare. This is definitely not the proper stance a dancer should have. But dammit, he’s not a dancer, he’s a skater, Otabek should’ve quit trying to make ballet work ages ago.

His gaze falls on Yuri Plisetsky from across the room. He’s so damn beautiful, and from what Otabek can tell, he hasn’t dropped his pose at all, not once since they started. His arms and legs move with such precision, yet he doesn’t look robotic. Each movement flows into the next, his spine bending backwards as he gracefully moves back. It’s impossible not to admire his technique, and Otabek can’t help the small amount of jealousy he feels inside as well. This blond is good enough to be in the junior class, so why the hell is he showing everyone up in novice?

His face is currently stoic, almost creepily serene, as just a few hours earlier the young boy had been yelling at the teacher about something, Otabek hadn’t been close enough to hear even though Yuri had been rather loud.

The teacher moves to Yuri and tilts his chin up a bit, adjusting where his gaze falls, and Otabek is almost insulted for him. The blond’s eyebrows twitch a few times, and Otabek can tell he’s annoyed. His green eyes tremble with rage, but Otabek notices it’s not just anger hidden in his emerald pools. No, there seems to be a passion and strong determination. He keeps his head adjusted, not moving from his new position.

“Altin! Eyes forward!” The teacher barks out, and Otabek pulls his head around, keeping his gaze towards the mirror at the front of the classroom. Gosh he looks awkward, he looks nothing like Yuri Plisetsky and some of the other Russian classmates.

Yuri Plisetsky is a fighter, that’s for sure. Otabek respects that, relates to it, though he can’t say he’s about to fight to be better at ballet. He wants to skate, he wants to skate his way, and while dance works for some like, Yuri Plisetsky, Otabek is not one of those people.

Otabek quits ballet upon returning home to Kazakhstan.

 18 years old

Otabek hears Yuri Plisetsky’s name in passing. Apparently he’s doing amazing in the junior divisions which Otabek is really not surprised to hear at all. Besides his raw talent, Yuri has an unmatched drive. Otabek saw it in his eyes that day in ballet, and he sees it again when he decides to sneak a peek at the junior division on T.V.

He should be focusing on the Senior division, Viktor Nikiforov, Christophe Giacometti, these are the sorts of people he will eventually have to face if he plans to make it to the Grand Prix Final. But he mentally argues Yuri Plisetsky is about to be old enough for the Senior division, so it’s highly possible he’ll have to face him too. Actually, if he’s anything like Otabek remembers, he will definitely have to skate against him.

Yuri’s got the eyes of a champion, and as he steps out onto the ice, Otabek feels jealousy bubble inside of him once again. The confidence Yuri exudes, even now at such a young age, is incredible. The energy in his pose is overwhelming, and Otabek can tell the blond has something to prove.

And prove it he does. Otabek can’t take his eyes off the screen, and he almost wishes he were there in person to witness it in real time, not through a screen. Yuri’s movements are perfect, absolutely stunning. He falls one time, but it doesn’t take away from anything. Otabek can see his eyebrow twitch, Yuri’s probably pissed at himself for making such a silly error. Otabek knows it won’t matter though, his performance is so on point, and his limbs move with grace, as though he’s a storm, winds whipping across the cold surface as he cuts across the ice. His chest heaving as he holds his final pose.

The imagine burns into Otabek’s memory, like a flame scorching his mind, a scar he won’t ever forget. Yuri Plisetsky isn’t a force to be reckoned with, Otabek can see it in his movements, and his eyes.

Yuri Plisetsky wins the gold for the Junior division of the Grand Prix Final.

 19 Years Old

“What’s with you, asshole?” Yuri spits in Otabek’s direction, and Otabek grunts, pulling his sunglasses over his eyes.

It’s the first time he’s actually seen Yuri since being in Barcelona, and he had been considering asking him to hang out, but in all this time, he forgot the most important thing about Yuri Plisetsky — he’s got the harshest mouth, and plenty of rage to back that up.

He wants to talk to Yuri, somehow, though he’s not quite sure how to do it. He doesn’t care to spend time with a large group of people, and girls are always following him around, which is something Otabek really doesn’t want to deal with it. Yuri doesn’t seem like he enjoys it much either, but there’s never been a good opening to try and drag him away, and after the way Yuri snapped at Otabek, he’s not sure Yuri would want to be saved by him anyway.

Otabek’s about to leave everything behind, setting up his motorcycle, when he sees Yuri peeking around a corner, clearly desperate to hide from the strange women with cat ears on their heads. Otabek isn’t sure what that’s all about, but he is sure this is the perfect moment to try and help Yuri out for once.

“Yuri, get on,” he says, handing him the other helmet. Yuri looks confused at first, but the moment he realizes Otabek is here to help, he joins him, and they ride off, ready to do some sightseeing.

Otabek confesses his jealousy, though the words are far more eloquent than that and none of his words are a lie. Otabek tells Yuri he has the eyes of a soldier, and how he’s always thought so. He thought so when he watched him practicing ballet, and when he watched him skate in the Junior division. Truthfully, he’s looking forward to watching him skate now. Of all the people in the competition, Otabek is scared most of Yuri.

Shit, he loves the way Yuri looks now too. His blond hair is sweeping across his face, a hint of a red on his cheeks, though Otabek can’t tell if it’s because he’s blushing or if the breeze is hitting his cheeks just right.

“Otabek, why did you talk to me? I’m a rival aren’t I?” Yuri asks, a puzzled look on his face. A rival indeed. Yuri’s not wrong. They are rivals; more than anything Otabek wants to win the championship for Kazakhstan. But if anyone else is going to win, he wants it to be Yuri.

After a handshake and some tea, it seems Yuri Plisetsky is his friend, and Otabek certainly isn’t complaining.

The day of the competition arrives, and though Otabek wants to defeat all the other skaters, he’s happy to have found a friend among them. Most of all, he’s pleased to finally have the chance to see Yuri skate in person. He’s been so curious to see it after all the times he’s seen him skate on T.V. Finally, he can see him skate in person.

Yuri takes to the ice in a huff, something to do with the Yuuri from Japan, and Otabek snorts. Yuri’s temper is oddly endearing — it shouldn’t be, but it makes Otabek chuckle to himself. In a moment, the blond switches, as though something snaps inside of him. One moment, he’s boiling with rage, like a volcano about to erupt, and the next his face is serene, calm and ready to perform a beautiful skating piece about love. It’s wonderful, and slightly hilarious.

His green eyes glimmer against the beautiful ice, his blond hair swirling around his face as his lithe arms sway around his body, his movements flowing across the ice. It seems surreal, as though Yuri is floating, with absolutely no gravity holding him down.

Immediately, Otabek can’t help but remember their younger days, watching Yuri in the class. Back then, Otabek had thought Yuri was perfect, and then here is now, one-upping himself once again.

Otabek can’t take his eyes off of Yuri, his facial expression soft and clear, emotion pouring from his skates and limbs and face.

It’s absolutely no surprise Yuri places first for the day.

The second day of the competition it seems Yuri and Otabek have created their own secret language, giving each other a thumbs-up to silently cheer one another on.

Yuri looks like the flame Otabek has always imagined him to be, wisps of pink trailing off of his skates. From the look on his face now, the way his green eyes tremble before the beginning of his music, Otabek can tell he’s worked hard on this piece too, maybe harder. Yuri told him he had spent hours upon hours studying with Lilia, so it’s no surprise he seems more than prepared. Yuri’s always been fantastic at ballet, so Otabek isn’t concerned for him.

Yuri’s breathing seems heavy at first, but the moment the music begins, Yuri’s gone, somewhere inside of his head he’s locked into his concentration. He’s intense, the eyes Otabek has come to adore so much burning brightly with his costume, as though they’ve changed colors. He seems angry, intense, and Otabek can swear Yuri yells out at one point. The routine is masterful, something only someone like Yuri could truly handle. Yuri’s chest heaves and he falls to his knees covering his face, though Otabek thinks he should stand proudly. It’s a routine Yuri should be proud of, honored to have performed. Hell, Otabek feels honored just to have witnessed it.

Otabek knows he’s lost by now. Yuri takes the gold in his first ever Senior Grand Prix.

They’ve only got one more night in Barcelona, the banquet to celebrate how hard they’ve all worked. Some people say everyone’s a winner, even though Otabek, (and everyone else) knows Yuri is the only one who gets the full glory of taking his gold medal home to Russia.

It certainly doesn’t stop everyone from celebrating. Chris is already beyond drunk, trying to convince Viktor and Yuuri to drink more, but the two seem far too fixated on each other to really notice anyone else. Phichit is filming anyone who moves. But Otabek isn’t really paying attention to all that.

Yuri’s being crowded by everyone congratulating him. He’s getting pats on the back, saying he’s so young, it’s so amazing he won. Otabek thinks it’s amazing, but he’s really not all that surprised by it. Yuri’s always been talented, always been above and beyond everyone else. Of course, he won. And though Otabek is once again feeling a bit jealous, he knows Yuri deserves it.

“Beka!” Yuri calls out, finally breaking free from the crowd surrounding him. “People wouldn’t stop crowding me,” he groans.

“You won. It’s to be expected,” Otabek says.

“Yeah but I wanna enjoy the banquet too!” he snaps, folding his arms.

“Well you can now, you’ve got plenty of time.” It hits Otabek then that they don’t have plenty of time left together. In the morning he’ll be flying back to Kazakhstan, and Yuri will be heading back to Russia. It almost seems unfair, after all these years, they’re finally friends, and now it’s about to be over. Otabek isn’t sure he’s ready to leave Yuri quite yet.

Yuuri’s a little drunk now, and he challenges Yuri to another dance off, repeating something that happened at the banquet a year ago. Yuri looks pissed, but the moment they all start dancing, Otabek can tell Yuri’s having a good time with Yuuri.

They’re moving, and Yuuri’s tie is around his head and he’s flailing about, grabbing Viktor to dance with him.

“Beka!” Yuri waves at him wildly, “be my partner!”

“Eh?” Otabek turns, seeing Yuri directly in front of him now. He blushes, seeing Yuri’s eyes so close.

“That idiot Katsudon got Viktor involved, so be my partner.” He doesn’t give Otabek a chance to answer, and he drags him out onto the dance floor. They’re all moving now, Chris is drunkenly hollering, and Phichit is still filming them, and for a moment Otabek loses himself.

He doesn’t care about the dance off, but he does care about Yuri twirling around in front of him. He spins him, and pulls him in close, their bodies rubbing together as they move about the floor. Of course, Yuuri dips Viktor and pulls him into a kiss, which makes Phichit dub them the winners of the dance off.

Otabek’s dark eyes meet Yuri’s and he wonders what it would be like to kiss Yuri. Inappropriate probably, but his stomach flip flops at the idea. The two pull away abruptly, both blushing.

“I…uh…had fun Beka,” Yuri mutters awkwardly, heading back to the hotel elevators.

“Me too,” he nods, not wanting to elaborate too much. The more he speaks on it, the harder it will be to say goodbye.

“You have my Instagram, and my phone number, and my Facebook, so you have no excuse not to keep in touch!” Yuri blurts out.

“I know,” Otabek replies, a small smile on his face.

“You better!” he growls, folding his arms.

“Don’t worry,” Otabek replies. “I will.” He awkwardly holds out his hand, giving Yuri’s a shake. They linger for a moment, as though they want to hug, but neither makes the proper move to close the space between them.

“I better see you here again next year, Beka.”

 23 years old

It takes Otabek 3 years to make the Grand Prix Final again, though it isn’t for lack of trying. Every year he was close, so close. One year he fell during his last program, costing him just enough points to bump him way beneath the qualifying spot. The next year, he came in 7th overall, missing the cut off for the top 6 in the Grand Prix Final.

Every year, he cursed himself for not being strong enough to make it, and he trained harder, and longer, desperate to make it the next year. He promises he won’t quit until he competes against Yuri once more, and gets to witness his beautiful eyes.

Yuri Plisetsky makes it every year Otabek doesn’t, placing 2nd the first year, and 1st again the next. Otabek isn’t at all surprised. Yuri is a beast on the ice, a beast no one can tame. It hurts to, but Otabek watches him every year. He watches the way Yuri moves on the ice, and he knows Yuri deserves every medal he earns. Behind his passionate green eyes is diligence and hard work.

Every year, Otabek remembers Yuri’s words:

 “I better see you here again next year, Beka.”

And finally, after 3 years, he’s here again at the Grand Prix Final. (And Yuri was one of the first to know. After sending a text that read, ‘Are you in this year or not?’ Otabek replied with a simple thumbs up.)

Seeing Yuri walk in is strange. He’s older now, and it’s apparent. He’s taller, and his blond hair is a bit longer now. His arms and legs are more muscular, and his jawline has filled out. Otabek’s so busy staring at his mature friend, he doesn’t notice how close Yuri has gotten.

“Took you long enough, Beka,” Yuri smirks, and Otabek grins right back.

“I’ve been practicing,” he snorts, not wanting Yuri to get the best of him. The blond smiles wider, however, and immediately pulls Otabek into a hug.

“I missed you,” he whispers, and Otabek feels a shiver run down his spine, as though the cold from the ice has penetrated his skin already.

“Yeah…same,” he mutters, squeezing him tightly. When he pulls away, he sees a blush on Yuri’s face. His face is older, yes, but the blush is innocent, the same one he saw three years ago when they danced together.

It’s not as though they haven’t talked. They did keep in touch, mostly talking over various social media outlets and texting. Otabek did go to Russia for a few weeks for extra training, but both of them were so busy they were only able to get tea a few times during his stay. Seeing him now, here, ready to compete again, Otabek knows it’ll be different.

“Good luck,” Yuri smiles. “You’re going to need it!” he yells, looking rather pleased with himself. Otabek’s glad to see Yuri’s appearance is the only thing that’s different about his friend.

And it really is like nothing has changed between them. Otabek offers a thumbs up to Yuri before he’s about to start his short program, and Yuri does the same for him. Their costumes are different, and the music has changed. Their programs are harder, since they’ve both improved, but they are not different people. Otabek doesn’t need to ask Yuri to know they both want to win as much as the other. Otabek knows he’ll have to retire soon, even if he wants to bring a medal home to his country, even if he wants to skate with Yuri forever. Yuri’s eyes still burn with his passion, he has a podium to defend after all.

And defend it he does. After their free programs, it’s clear to Otabek Yuri will place once again. He beats his own damn record, and there’s a tiny part of Otabek that hates Yuri for being so damn talented. But oh does he adore him too, can’t take his eyes off of him.

Yuri places first, for the second year in a row, and this time Otabek comes in third, happy to at least take a Grand Prix medal home to Kazakhstan after all these years of training. He wishes it were gold, but he can’t fault himself for losing to someone like Yuri Plisetsky.

“Congratulations,” Otabek whispers to Yuri, hugging him as they step down off the podium. “It’s seems you’ve won another.”

“'Course! I’ll never give up this spot!” he laughs.

“I don’t doubt it,” Otabek sighs, lingering in their hug. He would’ve stayed that close to him forever if he could’ve.

“Uh, congrats to you too,” Yuri compliments. “Hell, I kind of think you deserved to be second,” Yuri grumbles, glaring at the young Korean boy who took second place.

“I’m happy to bring any medal home to my country,” Otabek smiles, patting Yuri’s shoulders. “No need to make such a face.” Though Otabek thinks Yuri is cute when he’s angry. Actually he enjoys all of Yuri’s faces, even when he looks like a disgruntled teenager.

The scene at the banquet is almost exactly the same as Otabek remembers it from three years ago. Drinking, lots of drinking, and Yuri’s being crowded by a large group of people. This time Otabek has to deal with a few people himself. Talking about his success is nice, but he’d much rather be dancing with Yuri on the dance floor again. But he wonders if anything like that will start, since there’s no drunken Yuuri Katsuki to kick things off.

And as nice as dancing sounds, Otabek would much rather whisk Yuri out onto the terrace, and talk to him alone, away from all these people. As though he’s psychic, from across the room, Yuri looks at Otabek desperately. Otabek is used to seeing Yuri’s green eyes look desperate but this is something completely different.

Stepping away from the crowd, Otabek makes his way towards the table and grabs two glasses of champagne. He stands by the crowd around Yuri, and holds up one of the glasses. “Ah Yuri, you gonna come drink this or not?” he asks, waving his hand.

“Yeah! Okay!” he yells loudly and steps away from the large group of people, following Otabek out onto the main patio.

It’s warm enough in Italy that a summer breeze blows around Yuri’s hair, and he tucks it back behind his ear. There isn’t a cloud in the sky, and his sparkling green eyes match the stars in the twinkling moonlight, as they reflect off the liquid in the champagne glass. His hand trembles, holding the small glass and Otabek notices Yuri bite on his lip.

“Come train in Russia with me!” he bursts out, turning to face Otabek.

“…Eh? What?” Otabek blinks, completely taken off guard. Train? In Russia? He’s not even sure if he will continue skating competitively after this year. “You want me to train in Russia?”

Yuri’s nose wrinkles up, and he leans up towards Otabek. “You better not be considering retiring! You have at least three more years of competing in you, and if you come to Russia we can train together!”

Otabek is stunned, and he can’t find the words to speak. Yuri wants to train with him? He’s so damn cute right now, looking all angry. His green eyes flare up with the determination Otabek has come to love. There’s no way he can say no to that. Of course Almaty is his home, but there’s a part of him that’s wanted to chase this for years. He wants to be with Yuri, and be friends, be rinkmates, be close to him.

“Look I know you love Kazakhstan, but you’d do awesome training with me, and then I wouldn’t have to miss you for three freaking years-”

Before Yuri can continue his speech, Otabek leans forward, and cups Yuri’s cheeks pulling their lips together. Yuri is as frozen as ice at first, his body seizing up a bit, but the moment he starts to kiss back, it’s like the Yuri Otabek has known all along. His lips press hard against Otabek’s and his arms wrap around his neck, keeping him close. Otabek nibbles on Yuri’s lower lip, their noses pulling in harsh breaths.

“I’ll do it,” Otabek whispers. “I’ll train with you.”

Yuri’s face is completely flushed, but as he takes a deep breath, he smiles, giving Otabek a thumbs up. “Good.”

Otabek returns the gesture. He’s not sure what the future holds, but if he’s with Yuri, he’s sure it’ll be an adventure, one Otabek is more than happy to embark on.

[trishbsblog]

It is never too late to be what you might have been ̴ George Eliot Reasons for and against giving up the glitzy, glamorous world of flying: Pros: 1. No more cleaning up other people’s sick. 2. No more 2 a.m. wake-up calls, jet lag, swollen feet/ stomach or shrivelled-up skin. 3. No more tedious questions like, ‘What’s that lake/ mountain down there?’ and ‘Does the mile high club really exist?’ 4. No more serving kippers and poached eggs at 4 a.m. to passengers with dog-breath and smelly socks. 5. No more risk of dying from deep vein thrombosis, malaria or yellow fever. 6. No more battles with passengers who insist that their flat-pack gazebo will fit into the overhead locker. 7. No more wearing a permanent smile and a name badge. 8. No danger of bumping into ex-boyfriend and his latest ‘I’m-Debbie-come-fly-me’. Cons: 1. No more fake Prada, Louis Vuitton or Gucci. 2. No more lazing by the pool in winter. 3. No more ten-hour retail therapy sessions in shopping malls the size of a small island — and getting paid for it. 4. No more posh hotel freebies (toiletries, slippers, fluffy bathrobes etc.). 5. Holidays (if any) now to be taken in Costa del Cheapo, as opposed to Barbados or Bora Bora. 6. No more horse riding around the pyramids, imagining I’m a desert queen. 7. No more ice skating in Central Park, imagining I’m Ali MacGraw in Love Story. 8. Having to swap my riverside apartment for a shoebox, and my Mazda convertible for a pushbike. ‘Cabin crew, ten minutes to landing. Ten minutes, please,’ comes the captain’s olive-oil-smooth voice over the intercom. This is it. No going back. I’m past the point of no return. The galley curtain swishes open — it’s showtime! I switch on my full-beam smile and enter upstage left, pushing my trolley for the very last time ... ‘Anyheadsetsanyrubbishlandingcard? Anyheadsetsanyrubbishlandingcard? ...’ Have I taken leave of my senses? The notion of an actress living in a garret, sacrificing everything for the sake of her art, seemed so romantic when I gaily handed in my notice three months ago, but now I’m not so sure … Be positive! Just think, a couple of years from now, you could be sipping coffee with Phil and Holly on the This Morning sofa … Yes, Phil, the rumours are true … I have been asked to appear on Strictly Come Dancing. God only knows how I’ll fit it around my filming commitments though. Who are you kidding? A couple of years from now, the only place you’ll be appearing is the job centre, playing Woman On Income Support. This follow-your-dreams stuff is all very well when you’re in your twenties, or thirties even, but I’m a forty-year-old woman with no rich husband (or any husband for that matter) to bail me out if it all goes pear-shaped. Just as everyone around me is having a loft extension or a late baby, I’m downsizing my whole lifestyle to enter a profession that boasts a ninety-two percent unemployment rate. Why in God’s name, in this wobbly economic climate, am I putting myself through all this angst and upheaval, when I could be pushing my trolley until I’m sixty, then retire comfortably on an ample pension and one free flight a year? Something happened, out of the blue, that catapulted me from my ordered, happy-go-lucky existence and forced me down a different road … ‘It’s not your fault. It’s me. I’m confused,’ Nigel had said. ‘I don’t understand,’ I said, almost choking on my Marmite soldier. ‘What’s brought this on? Have you met someone else?’ ‘No-ho!’ he spluttered, averting my gaze, handsome face flushed. ‘But you always said we were so perfect together …’ ‘That’s exactly why we have to split. It’s too bloody perfect.’ ‘What? Don’t talk nonsense …’ ‘I don’t expect you to understand, but it’s like I’ve pushed a self-destruct button and there’s no going back.’ ‘Self-destruct button? What are you talking about? Darling, you’re not well. Perhaps you should get some help …’ ‘Look, don’t make this harder for me than it already is. It’s time for us both to move on. And please don’t cry, Em,’ he groaned, eyes looking heavenward. ‘You know how I hate it when you cry.’ I grovelled, begged him not to go, vowing I’d find myself a nine-to-five job so we could have more together time, swearing that I would never again talk during Match of the Day — anything as long as he stayed with me. Firmly removing my hands from around his neck and straightening his epaulettes, he glanced at his watch, swigged the dregs of his espresso, and said blankly, ‘Good Lord, is that the time? I’ve got to check in in an hour. We’ll talk more when I get back from LA.’ ‘NO!’ I wailed. ‘You know very well that I’ll be in Jeddah by then. We’ve got to talk about this now. Nigel … Nigel …!’ For three days I sat huddled on the sofa in semi-darkness, clutching the Minnie Mouse he’d bought me on our first trip to Disneyland, as if she were a life raft. I played Gabrielle’s ‘You Used to Love Me’ over and over. I wondered if Gabrielle’s boyfriend had dumped her without warning, leaving her heartbroken and bewildered, and the pain of it all had inspired her. If only I had a talent for song writing, but I don’t, so I channelled my pain into demolishing a family-sized tin of Celebrations chocolates instead. Cue Wendy, my best friend, my angel on earth. We formed an instant friendship on our cabin crew training course. This was cemented when she saved me from drowning during a ditching drill. (I’d stupidly lied on the application form, assuming that it didn’t really matter if I couldn’t swim, because if I were ever unfortunate enough to crash-land in the sea, there would surely be enough lifejackets to go round.) ‘Look, hon, this has got to stop,’ she said in an uncharacteristically stern tone, a look of frustration on her porcelain, freckled face. (As a redhead, Wendy has been religiously applying sunscreen since she first set foot on Middle Eastern soil as a junior hostess twenty years ago; whereas I would roast myself like a pig on a spit in my quest to look like a Californian beach babe.) ‘Okay, so it’s not a crime to scrub the toilet with his toothbrush, but who knows where that could lead? You’ve got to stop playing the victim before we have a Fatal-Attraction scenario on our hands.’ ‘Eight years, eight years of my life spent waiting for him to pop the question, and now he’s moving out to “find himself”. I think I’m entitled to be a little upset, Wendy.’ Prising Minnie out of my hands and hurling her against the wall, she straightened my shoulders and looked deep into my puffy eyes. ‘I promise you that, in time, you will see you’re better off without that moody, selfish, arrogant …’ ‘I know you never thought he was right for me, but there is another side to him,’ I said defensively. ‘He can be the most caring and sweet man in the world when he wants to — and I can’t bear the thought that we won’t grow old together,’ I sobbed, running my damp sleeve across my stinging cheeks. ‘Come on now; take off that bobbly old cardie. I’m running you a Molton Brown bath, and you’re going to wash your hair, put on your uniform and high heels, slap on some make-up and your best air hostess smile, d’you hear?’ she said, pulling back the curtains. ‘And while you’re in Jeddah, I want you to seriously think about where you go from here.’ ‘But I want to be home when Nigel …’ ‘You always said you didn’t want to be pushing a trolley in your forties, and how you wished you’d had a go at acting. Well, maybe this is a sign,’ she said gently, tucking a strand of greasy hair behind my ear. ‘It’s high time you did something for you. You’ve spent far too long fitting in with what Nigel wants.’ ‘It’s too late to be chasing dreams,’ I sniffed, shielding my eyes from the watery sunlight. ‘And anyway, I just want things to go back to how they were. Where did I go wrong, Wendy? I should have made more effort. After all, he’s a good-looking guy, and every time he goes to work there are gorgeous women half my age fluttering their eyelashes at him, falling at his feet. He can take his pick — and maybe he did,’ I whimpered, another torrent of tears splashing onto my saggy, grey jogging bottoms. ‘Get this down you.’ Wendy sighed, shoving a mug of steaming tea into my hands as she frogmarched me into the bathroom. ‘And don’t you dare call him!’ she yelled through the door. Perhaps she was right; she usually was. She may be a big kid at heart, but when the chips are down, Wendy is the one you’d want on your flight if you were struck by lightning or appendicitis at thirty-two thousand feet. For the last year or so, hadn’t I likened myself to an aeroplane in a holding pattern, waiting until I was clear to land? Waiting for Nigel to call, waiting for Nigel to come home, waiting for Nigel to propose, waiting until Nigel felt ready to start a family? Yes, deep down I knew she was right, but I was scared of being on my own. Did this make me a love addict? If so, could I be cured? Jeddah, Saudi Arabia ‘Hayyaa’ala-s-salah, hayya ’ala-l-falah …’ came the haunting call from the mosque across the square, summoning worshippers to evening prayer. It was almost time to meet up with the crew to mosey around the souk — again. Too hot to sunbathe, room service menu exhausted, library book finished, alcohol forbidden, and no decent telly (only heavily edited re-runs of The Good Life, where Tom goes to kiss Barbara, and next minute it cuts to Margo shooing a goat off her herbaceous border), the gold market had become the highlight of my day. Donning my abaya (a little black number that is a must-have for ladies in this part of the world), I scrutinised myself in the full-length mirror. No wonder Nigel was leaving me; far from looking like a mysterious, exotic, desert queen, full of eastern promise, it made me resemble a walking bin liner. I read the fire evacuation drill on the back of the door and checked my mobile for the umpteenth time, then cast my eyes downwards, studying my toes. I know, I thought, giving them a wee wiggle, I’ll paint my nails. It’s amazing what a coat of Blue Ice lacquer can do to make a girl feel a little more glamorous, and less like Ugly Betty’s granny. As I rummaged in my crew bag for my nail varnish, there, stuffed in between Hello! and Procedures To Be Followed in the Event of a Hijack, was an old copy of The Stage (with another DO NOT PHONE HIM!! Post-it note stuck to it). Idly flicking through the pages, my eyes lit up at the headline: DREAMS REALLY CAN COME TRUE. Former computer programmer, Kevin Wilcox, 40, went for broke when he gave up his 50k-a-year job to become a professional opera singer. ‘My advice to anyone contemplating giving up their job to follow their dream, is to go for it,’ said Kevin, taking a break from rehearsals of La Traviata at La Scala. That was my life-changing moment; an affirmation that there were other people out there — perfectly sane people, who were not in the first flush of youth either, but were taking a chance. That’s what I’d do. I’d become an actress, and Nigel would see my name in lights as he walked along Shaftesbury Avenue, or when he sat down to watch Holby City, there I’d be, shooting a doe-eyed look over a green surgical mask. ‘What a fool I was,’ he’d tell his friends ruefully, ‘to have ever let her go.’ Hah! But revenge wasn’t my only motive. Faux designer bags and expensive makeovers were no longer important to me. I wanted the things that money can’t buy: like self-fulfilment, like the buzz you get on opening night, stepping out on stage in front of a live audience. Appearing through the galley curtains, proclaiming that well-rehearsed line, ‘Would you like chicken or beef?’ just wouldn’t do any more. Inspired, I grabbed the telephone pad and pen from the bedside table, and started to scribble furiously. 1. Apply to RADA/CENTRAL any drama school that will have me. 2. Hand in notice. 3. Sign up with temping agencies and find part-time job. 4. Sell flat, shred Visa, store cards, cancel gym membership, and Vogue subscription (ouch!). From: academy@ads.ac.uk To: m.mouse@gmail.com Subject: Audition Dear Emily, Following your recent audition, we of The Academy Drama School are pleased to offer you a place on our one-year, full-time evening course. We look forward to meeting you again at the start of the autumn term, details of which are attached. Sincerely, Edward Tudor-Barnes Principal Whey hey! It was reckless, irresponsible and utterly mad, but I was tired of being sensible or doing things simply to please others. Ever since I’d played the undertaker in a school production of Oliver! I’d wanted to act. Okay, so I may be running twenty-five years late, but now nothing and no one was going to hold me back. * * *