#and obviously i will be setting the makeup with hairspray. i learned from the best (drag queens)

[belle--ofthebrawl]

Five months til Ritual.

[welllpthisishappening]

Out of the Frying Pan (4/?)

“What about pleading for you to get on set? Is that allowed?”

Emma made a noise in the back of her throat, tugging on her dress again self-consciously. “Look who doesn’t want to do this whole thing now,” she said, letting Ruby push her bodily towards the prep kitchen.

“Look who was spotted away from the group, flirting with Killian Jones. Again.”

“You promised you weren’t going to say a single word.”

“I’m a great, big, giant liar.”

AN: This is like 8.5K words of talking and quasi-flirting and I will never have any concept of word count ever. I am perpetually screaming from the rooftops over how fantastic @laurnorder is for her beta skillz and for general delightful-ness. 

As always, also up on Ao3 and tagg’ed up on Tumblr.

Emma’s face felt heavy.

It was gross.

God, she hated sitting in this chair. She hated being poked and prodded and curled. She could do all of this herself. She learned how to use eyeliner when she was 14 – courtesy of a very excited Mrs. Nolan who thought she’d never have the chance with just David in the house – and she didn’t need someone leaning two inches away from her face at God knows what time in the morning to do it for her.

But she’d also promised Ruby.

She’d play the game and she’d smile and she’d pose for the promotional stuff they were set to film that day and then she’d win the fucking money.

And get her timeslot back.

“Which one?” Ruby asked, stepping into the makeup artist’s space and brushing her off without a single word.

Emma opened her eyes slowly to find her producer standing in front of her with two outfits in her hand, holding them up like she was a model on The Price is Right. “What?” Emma mumbled, sitting up straighter in the chair.

“Which one do you like?”

Emma eyed the choices – she didn’t really like either of them. She couldn’t tell Ruby that, of course, but if Emma had her choice she’d be doing this commercial in jeans and a t-shirt and the boots that were dangerously thin on the soles because of how often she wore them.

“You’ve got to pick, Emma,” Ruby pressed, shaking the dresses to prove her point.

Emma sighed and rolled her head, shaking her hair off her shoulders and earning a groan from the tech a few feet away. “Red, obviously,” she said, pointing at the dress on the left. She tried not to sigh at the look of it – themed perfectly to match her over-the-top kitchen with a full skirt and crew-neck and three-quarter sleeves. God, there was a bow on it.

“I should have figured,” Ruby muttered, tossing the other dress in the unoccupied makeup chair next to Emma. “You always pick the red one.“

“Well, I’m nothing if not consistent.”

“And stubborn.”

Emma ignored that particular jab and glanced at her reflection in the mirror. She looked like a celebrity. She felt like one too if the several pounds of makeup she was wearing were any indication of what a celebrity was supposed to feel like.

It made her nervous – like there was some sort of expectation she had to live up to.

Emma wasn’t good at that. She was good at failing to live up to expectations, her criminal record was proof of that. Of course, the other, slightly more reasonable side of her brain argued, David and Mary Margaret hadn’t ever walked away, even after the criminal record. Neither had Mrs. Nolan. And Henry might actually be the most supportive 12-year-old on the face of the entire planet.

She could do this.

She needed to do this.

“I don’t have to cook in that thing do I?” Emma asked, eyeing the dress with trepidation. Ruby sighed, leaning against the makeup counter behind her and shrugged. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means you’re not actually going to make anything. But you’ve got to fake making something. You know, like for the camera. Chop things. Look official.”

“Chop things?”

“Officially.”

Emma laughed under her breath and jumped out of the chair, rubbing off a bit of the makeup caked on her cheeks as she went. She pulled the dress out of Ruby’s hands – with maybe a bit more force than absolutely necessary – and turned towards the dressing room down the hallway.

“There better not be onions involved in this,” Emma muttered, the sound of her sneakers squeaking down the hallway filling her ears. She heard Ruby’s laughter behind her and focused on the tap of her producer’s heels like it was some kind of metronome that was keeping her steadied.

“We’ll make Killian cut the onions. Do something Iron Chef-y.”

“Deal,” Emma said emphatically, closing the door behind her and taking a deep breath. It was time to be a celebrity.

Emma swung open the door five minutes later – careful not to mess up her perfectly constructed low ponytail and heavily-hairsprayed curls – and walked back down the hallway towards the network’s main prep kitchen.

It was full of people and noise and, possibly, a small tower of cupcakes in the corner. Emma tugged on the waist of her dress and took a deep breath before walking into the metaphorical lion’s den, squinting her eyes slightly when the lights from the half a dozen cameras hit her.

“It’s all a bit much isn’t it?”

She spun on the spot, coming face-to-face with Iron Chef Killian Jones who was, of course, smirking at her again.

Emma made a face, ignoring the way his eyes lingered on the cinched waist of her dress, and crossed her arms tightly across her chest, sinking her weight into her heels. He smiled at her, the movement spreading across his face slowly and reaching his eyes and, God, they were blue and Emma knew he realized what she was doing – battle stance.

“The network’s never been known for keeping things simple,” Emma muttered, pulling her gaze away from his. And landing right on his still-smiling mouth. That was a mistake.

She pressed her nails into the palm of her hand, leaving tiny crescent-shaped indents in her skin when it finally started to hurt, and did her best to play the role. She was a celebrity. She was a good chef. She didn’t get overwhelmed by anything.

Least of all some part-time Iron Chef.

“That is true,” he laughed, running his hand through his hair.

And that was when she saw it and something clicked – she could practically feel the sound of it in her brain. He didn’t have a left hand. Or, rather, he had a very convincing fake left hand. No wonder he kept it trained behind his back the first time they met.

She was staring. She knew it. He knew. And he knew that she knew it.

A million and two questions danced along the tip of her tongue, but mostly she was just impressed. Emma had a hard time cooking on her own sometimes and she had all ten fingers. And if Mary Margaret was right and Killian did own a ridiculously successful restaurant and regularly won Iron Chef, then Emma was certainly impressed.

He coughed pointedly, ducking his head a bit to get into her line of vision. “Still with me, love?” he asked.

“Still with you and still not all that interested in your nicknames.”

He chuckled softly, rocking back on his heels and wiggling his eyebrows. “You look nice, by the way,” he said, not meeting her gaze when he spoke.

It caught her by surprise – not the compliment, Emma was positive a man that called near-strangers love with ease regularly doled out compliments to get what he wanted – but his tone of voice nearly made her breath catch in her throat.

He sounded honest and earnest and, maybe, a bit nervous.

Emma chanced a glance at him and he had his hand in his hair again, tugging on a piece of it just behind his ear. “Thanks,” she said softly. “It’s supposed to match my theme or something.”

“You have a theme?”

“Yeah, you know, like on the show? I don’t even know how we landed on it. I think it mostly happened because the network didn’t want to buy us new appliances so we repurposed old stuff to look retro and kitschy or something. And it just kind of stuck.”

He nodded like this was the most serious conversation that either one of them had ever had, smile still on his face. “They’re big on themes here,” Killian said, pointing towards the other two celebrities in their midst. “Rumor has it they’re going to get Graham to skin something alive for his promo.”

Emma laughed loudly, the sound escaping her lips before she could stop herself. And if it didn’t sound so completely foreign, it probably wouldn’t have bothered her as much as it did. “He probably could do it you know,” she added, glancing at Killian out of the corner of her eye.

“I’ve got no doubt he could, just not so sure we should be promoting that kind of thing on this family show.”

“You’ve got a family to worry about?” Emma asked. She saw Killian’s shoulders tense immediately and squeezed her eyes shut tightly, biting her lip at the inane stupidity of the question. He ran his right hand over his left before bringing his fingers up to rub at the back of his neck.

“No,” he said simply.

Emma’s lip was bleeding, she was biting down so hard on it. She rubbed her hands nervously over the front of her dress, flattening out wrinkles that weren’t there, and swallowed so loudly she could hear it in her ears.

“You think Belle baked all of those cupcakes this morning just to show off or you think they’re from last week’s show?” Emma asked.

Killian let out a deep breath and his eyes shut lightly. The smile inched back along his face as he, finally, turned towards Emma, taking a step to his right until he was standing in front of her. “Better be from last week or we look like totally unprepared celebrity chefs,” he said and the tension from the previous moment was almost entirely gone.

“The worst,” Emma agreed.

He grinned at her and Emma swore she saw something flash across his eyes, but then she blinked – or maybe he blinked – and it was gone. She wasn’t positive what it could have been, something that maybe, almost, resembled longing or want or that interest she was positive she’d seen in the elevator lobby the week before.

They were staring at each other when Ruby skidded to a stop next to Emma, heels scratching across the linoleum floor. Emma and Killian’s heads both snapped towards the frantic looking producer, eyes wide with whatever had just happened.

“Where have you been?” Ruby asked to no one in particular.

“I was here,” Emma answered evasively, shrugging at the area around her.

“You’re not my producer, so I don’t have to answer that,” Killian added, smirk back on his face and eyes darting between Ruby and Emma quickly.

Emma rolled her eyes, finding herself charmed despite her best efforts not to be, and Ruby sighed. “Regina is on the warpath trying to find you,” she said, staring down Killian, who looked a bit nervous again. “So you should probably go talk to your producer and then maybe we can get this whole thing over with.”

Killian nodded, tugging on that piece of hair again and his hand brushed over Emma’s arm when he walked by her. “I’ll see you in the kitchen, Swan,” he said before walking away.

Emma didn’t answer, but she knew her mouth was hanging open a bit and she didn’t even have to look at Ruby to know she was beaming at her like she’d just won an Emmy. “Don’t start,” Emma muttered.

“I didn’t say a single word.”

“You were thinking them. I know you were.”

“Pleading the fifth.”

“You’ve got me confused with David. I’m not the cop. You don’t get to plead anything with me.”

“What about pleading for you to get on set? Is that allowed?”

Emma made a noise in the back of her throat, tugging on her dress again self-consciously. “Look who doesn’t want to do this whole thing now,” she said, letting Ruby push her bodily towards the prep kitchen.

“Look who was spotted away from the group, flirting with Killian Jones. Again.”

“You promised you weren’t going to say a single word.”

“I’m a great, big, giant liar.”

Emma groaned again, but plastered a smile on her face as soon as she was within striking distance of the cameras, falling into the role with relative ease. She was, as per usual, the last one of the group to arrive and Zelena didn’t even bother to glare at her when she made her way into the kitchen, almost looking resigned to being five minutes behind schedule.

“Alright,” she said, voice rife with authority. “Here’s what we’re going to do. You all are going to showcase some sort of skill for the promo. Belle, stir batter. Graham, cut meat or something. Emma can chop some kind of vegetable. And Killian, do something vaguely Iron Chefy-y.”

Killian’s eyes caught Emma’s over the top of Belle’s head and he smiled at her, mouthing the words Iron Chef-y with the kind of serious look that nearly had her laughing in the middle of this semi-important meeting.

Zelena didn’t notice – or if she did, she ignored it completely. “We’ll do some one-on-one shots of each of you, the skill ones and then pans that are just body shots. Emma make sure you’re not wearing those gross sneakers,” she muttered as an aside and Emma’s eyes widened a bit in surprise and embarrassment.

Ruby appeared out of seemingly nowhere with a pair of heels that matched her dress perfectly and Emma didn’t even a chance to wonder where they came from before Killian was by her side, holding his right arm out to her.

“What are you doing?” Emma muttered, keeping her voice low as Zelena continued to talk.

“Making sure you don’t fall over and kill yourself before you even get to do your body shots.” His voice dropped low with the innuendo he was purposely using and Emma rolled her eyes at him. “And, trust me, you don’t want to put your bare feet on this floor.”

Emma stared at him for a beat, trying to figure out exactly what was going on and how she got back in control of it. He shook his arm slightly to bring her focus back to him and he wasn’t smirking at her when she looked back up. He was smiling – genuinely again – and Emma could feel almost the whiplash between the cocky Iron Chef and this other guy who just seemed like he wanted to help.

She sighed softly, but put her left hand on his forearm, fingers wrapping around his skin and, God, he was warm. Emma ignored that, lifting one foot up to pull her sneaker off and slide into the provided heels. “So, what?” she asked, talking mostly so she didn’t do something stupid like start to think. “You’re a gentleman now?”

She slid her other foot into the heel and kicked the sneakers out of the camera’s frame – Ruby would pick them up eventually, or someone would – and pulled her fingers away from his arm. He didn’t move.

He didn’t even blink.

He just kept smiling and dropped his arm back to his side.

“I’m always a gentleman,” Killian said softly and the sound of his voice seemed to pierce every single muscle in Emma’s body. She was fairly positive she was still standing, but she wasn’t entirely convinced she hadn’t melted just a bit under his gaze.

“Emma!” Zelena yelled. “If you’re done with your wardrobe and using Killian as some kind of prop, can you get back here so we can finish this?”

Emma nodded quickly, looking away from Killian and walking back to the group before he could say anything else. She could feel him standing behind her – the heat of him practically radiating off his body and his ridiculously white Iron Chef jacket – but Emma kept her eyes trained ahead, avoiding everything except the sound of Zelena’s voice.

“As I was saying,” Zelena said pointedly, shooting a look Emma’s way and she shrunk a bit at the sound. “Single shots, body shots and then a group shot where you’re all going to look vaguely competitive, but nice. Got it? Competitive, but nice. That’s the theme we’re working with here. You guys are going up against each other, but you’re also friends and you love being on the network together. That drives ratings. Everyone clear?”

There was a murmur of agreement around the group and Zelena smiled – the effect leaving her looking more determined than ever – as Emma walked towards her designated area of the prep kitchen. Belle was next to her, reorganizing her tower of cupcakes. Killian and Graham were on the other side of the room, with a large, kitchen island in the middle chock full of supplies and pots and pans that they would, undoubtedly, be forced to use as props when they filmed the group shots later that afternoon.

“You want a cupcake?” Belle asked.

“What?” Emma choked out, leaning against the counter.

“Cupcake,” she repeated. “I made them this morning. There’s a ton. I’m sure Zelena won’t miss them if we split one. I promise they’re delicious.”

“I’ve got no doubt,” Emma said, reaching her hand out to take a piece of the offered dessert.

It was delicious. She chewed on it slowly, wondering where Belle possibly found the time and silently reminded herself to tell Killian later. She stopped chewing immediately, swallowing the cupcake awkwardly as she wondered how exactly she’d stumbled into a situation where she was telling Killian Jones anything.

Nearly three hours later and Emma wouldn’t say she had fun exactly, but it hadn’t been nearly as bad as she’d imagined it would be.

That may have been because Killian refused to take anything seriously and there were few things Emma enjoyed more than frustrated network bosses.

“What do you think, Swan?” he called from across the kitchen at one point. “Does this look Iron Chef-y enough?” he flipped something in a pan, the food landing back on the sizzling surface easily and tossed her a grin.

Emma shook her head, still sitting on top of the counter – per instructions from Ruby who told her “you always sit up there after the show, it’s very you, it’s perfect for the body shots.”

“I still have no idea what the phrase Iron Chef-y actually means,” she yelled back, crossing her ankle over the other and leaning back on her palms, doing her best to keep anything off her unquestionably expensive dress. “So I’m afraid, I’m not qualified to answer your question.”

Killian sighed dramatically and put the pan back on the stove, throwing in something that looked vaguely like cheddar cheese. “Thoughts Ms. French?” he continued, unperturbed by Emma’s refusal to answer. “What do you think qualifies as Iron Chef-y?”

Belle laughed, the sound so sweet it probably could have been used to help frost her freshly made cupcakes, and she stirred her batter, propping the bowl on her hip so it rested against her bright blue apron.

“I think the jacket might help,” Belle said. “Seems like a pretty good hint.”

“Ah, but isn’t being an Iron Chef more than just your outfit?” he said seriously. “It’s like a state of mind or something.”

“Or something,” Emma muttered, hopping off the counter to grab one of the vegetables piled on her station.

“Something to add, Swan?” Killian asked, not taking his eyes off the pan in his hand. It smelled delicious.

“I didn’t think we were actually supposed to be cooking,” she answered, glancing over her shoulder at him, reaching to grab a knife. She started chopping without even looking at the pepper she was holding in her left hand.

He shrugged and scoffed a bit. “Ah, well, I can’t seem to help myself,” he said, voice laced with that same innuendo from before. Emma raised her eyebrows and she thought she saw Belle flush slightly next to her.

“I think you just like to show off,” Emma said, pulling the diced up pepper closer to her with her knife and going over the pieces once more for good measure. She could feel the camera on her, practically boring a hole in the side of her body, and did her best not to look up.

“If you all could stop talking while we’re supposed to be filming silent promos, that would be fantastic,” Regina said sharply from her spot next to Elsa’s camera. Zelena hadn’t stuck around long after delivering her directives and, somehow, it appeared Killian’s producer had taken over the reigns of the operation.

“Aye aye, your majesty,” Killian said without a trace of sarcasm in his voice. Emma got the distinct impression it wasn’t the first time he called her that and was, suddenly, struck with the very real curiosity of what Killian’s relationship was with the woman.

They seemed as close as she and Ruby were – something that wasn’t particularly normal at the network and certainly not for a show like Iron Chef that had more than a dozen chefs to its name.

Maybe they were friends.

Or, another, slightly more traitorous voice in the back of her head said, maybe they were dating.

There was a ring on Regina’s finger – Emma could have been blind and she still would have been able to see that ring – and, well, stranger things had happened than a chef falling for their producer.

Like Emma wanting to tell Killian Jones something after they finished filming.

She heard the footsteps in her station before she saw him and spun around to find Killian standing a few inches away from her, that stupid smirk on his face again. “You’re going to get me in trouble,” she hissed, grabbing a second pepper and attacking it on the cutting board.

“And you’re going to chop several fingers off.”

“Please,” Emma muttered, not entirely certain what she was so upset about. “I could do this in my sleep.”

“Confidence is key in all things,” he said softly, but his voice shook slightly with the laughter he was trying to hold in.

“Is that how you ended up on Iron Chef? Just bluffed your way through with confidence?”

She knew it wasn’t true – knew Mary Margaret and Ruby had told her several times how talented he was over the last few days. She could even see it. He was talented. The food still on his stovetop smelled so good Emma was nervous her stomach was actually going to growl in the middle of the prep kitchen.

So, she wasn’t sure why she was saying it. Maybe it was a test. For him or for her – she wasn’t entirely positive.

Killian’s smirk faltered for half a second and he lowered one of his eyebrows in a way that was quickly becoming familiar. He blinked once and his face settled back into place as he crossed his arms over his still-pristine white jacket.

“Quite the opposite, love,” he said. “Regina had to more or less drag me on set kicking and screaming.”

“What?” She spoke before she thought, drowning in curiosity and questions and, if she were a more sentimental person, possibly his eyes as well.

He smiled softly – both of them ignoring Graham’s slightly frustrated groan as a camera moved around his station – and leaned against the side of her counter, sliding up next to her until there were only a few inches in between their arms.

“Is that surprising?”

“Maybe a little bit,” Emma answered honestly.

“You can ask Regina for confirmation if you want, but I promise, it wasn’t exactly on the top of my list of lifetime achievements. It’s good now and it helps the restaurant a lot, exposure and all of that, but I wasn’t exactly sitting around waiting for her to ask me to be on her TV show.”

“She asked you?”

“So many questions, Swan, I almost feel like I’m being interviewed.”

“No, no, you’re not,” she sputtered. “Sorry. I’m just...curious.”

He turned his head slowly, glancing at her and doing that serious thing with his eyes again and, for a moment, Emma forgot where she was. Then Regina started yelling again and the sound of her heels on the prep kitchen floor made Emma jump to attention.

“Killian,” she said softly, but with enough acid in her voice to make Emma take a step away from him. “I swear to God, I will kill you if you do not stay at your station and film this promo and stop ruining my life.”

Killian shot her a look as if they’d done this several times before and glanced at Emma like they were conspiring about something. She moved another step away, returning her focus to the peppers, and did her best not to involve herself in the conversation.

He groaned loudly – like he’d been betrayed or something – and then turned back to Regina. “Yeah, but if you kill me your son is going to be fairly put out and then you’ll have to explain that to him and that’s just a mess I know you don’t want to deal with.”

Emma nearly did cut her fingers off.

She had no idea Regina had a son – she tried to rack her brain for memories of some kind of announcement or Ruby mentioning that Regina had been pregnant or anything. Nothing. She couldn’t remember any of it.

And now she had several dozen other questions about Killian Jones were sitting on the tip of her tongue.

“Roland would get over it,” Regina mumbled.

“You and I both know that’s not true. A first mate never really gets over losing his captain.”

Regina’s eyes flashed and Emma saw something shift in the conversation – her shoulders sagged and Killian’s smile almost looked sad. “You’re a jerk,” she said softly, tapping her finger on his right wrist for emphasis.

“Yeah, well, your son loves me.”

“Can you go back to your station now? Your food’s going to burn.”

“Please, my food would never burn.”

“It smells really good,” Emma added, deciding if she was going to stand awkwardly on the edge of the conversation, she was at least going to awkwardly take part in it.

“Was that a compliment, Swan?” Killian stared at her, eyes wide.

“Might have been.”

“Huh.”

“Can you please go back to your station now?” Regina asked again, face impossible to read. “We’ve got to do the group shots and Zelena wants you all walking to the center and looking menacing or something like that.”

“Menacing?” Emma laughed and Regina just shrugged.

“I’ll go back to my station and work on my menacing face,” Killian promised, moving his eyebrows up and down quickly at Emma before turning and walking back to the other side of the kitchen.

He absolutely did – narrowing his eyes and playing to the camera when they finally got around to filming the group shots – and Emma had to bite back her laughter the entire time. He was absolutely in his element, controlling the tempo and setting the tone of the entire afternoon and Regina looked like she was going to pull her hair out.

Killian seemed to enjoy that too.

Elsa, finally, called cut on the entire operation around 2:30 and Emma heaved an audible sigh of relief that it was over.

“Tired?”

She glanced to her side, almost expecting to see Killian there and trying to school the surprise on her face when she realized it was Graham. “A little bit,” she said. “Long day and all that. The lights always drain me a bit.”

He nodded at her, wrapping up the knives on his station quickly and pushing them towards the corner of the counter. “It’s nice to see you again,” he continued, voice soft so as not to attract the attention of the crew still around them.

“You too,” Emma said honestly.

“I, uh, I thought you might have called or something.”

Emma felt a wave of guilt wash over her and she bit her lip before trying to come up with some sort of response that made sense in any kind of adult world. She felt bad – she should have at least called, but she was Emma and she’d freaked out and she didn’t call and she probably shouldn’t have ever agreed to the coffee-date setup in the first place.

It was Ruby’s fault anyway. She’d pressed and prodded and explained all the reasons Graham was so nice for weeks before Emma had finally given in and let her set something up. She should have known it was doomed from the start – you shouldn’t go out with someone you work with at the network, let alone someone you work with at the network who, at some point, kissed your producer.

It had been nice and the kiss at the end of the night had been good, but it hadn’t been much more than that. And Emma wasn’t willing to wait around and see if it could become anything more than that. So she didn’t call and, nine months later, Graham was standing in the prep kitchen with her asking why she hadn’t.

“Yeah,” Emma said slowly, drawing out the words as she desperately tried to figure out what she was trying to say. “Sorry about that.”

Lame.

What an absolutely lame excuse. She would have grimaced or groaned or sighed dramatically if she didn’t think Graham would ask about that too.

Instead he smiled – because of course he did. “Ah, well,” Graham said and he sighed slightly. “That’s ok. For what it’s worth, I did have a good time.”

“I did too,” Emma said. It almost wasn’t a complete lie.

Graham smiled again and nodded, tugging on the rolled-up ends of his flannel shirt. “You pick out your charity, yet?”

“Yup.”

“And?”

“And you’ll find out just like everyone else when we film next week.”

Graham’s eyes widened slightly, but his smile didn’t falter at all and he nodded again at Emma. His shirt stretched over the muscles in his arms when he flexed them out, stuffing them into his pockets. “Well,” he said, “I look forward to it.”

Emma didn’t say anything else, just tried to smile and not feel guilty anymore as she turned back towards her station – somehow there were peppers everywhere and she wasn’t entirely sure how that had happened either.

The day had kind of gotten away from her.

She heard Graham’s shoes retreating towards the hallway door and realized, quite suddenly, that there wasn’t anyone else in the studio anymore. Well, she thought, they’d all run out of there quickly.

Emma relished the silence for a moment, closing her eyes and taking a deep breath as she pushed the chopped up bits of peppers into a small pile. She yanked the pile closer to her, drawing the side of her hand along the countertop and kicking a trash can closer to the edge of the station so she could push the food into it.

“You know you don’t actually have to clean up after yourself. They pay people to do that.”

Emma pushed the trash can out of the way before she turned around, Killian leaning against the doorframe Graham had just walked through with his ankles crossed over each other and that stupid, genuine smile on his face again.

“I thought you left,” she said.

He stuck his lip out slightly and shook his head, walking back into the kitchen. He’d changed. The jacket was gone – he was wearing a t-shirt and jeans again and he ran his hand through his hair as he walked towards her, trying to push the longer pieces away from his forehead.

“Nah,” he said, as if his presence in front of her wasn’t proof enough that he hadn’t left. “Just had to talk to Regina.”

“About?” Emma asked, eyes darting towards him quickly when she realized how not any of her business that was.

He took it in stride – literally – walking towards her and leaning up against the counter the same way he had before, leaving only a few inches of space between them. “Not all of us have a consistent filming schedule, love,” he said. “I show up when Regina tells me to and stay at the restaurant when she tells me I don’t have to be here.”

“So that’s true then?”

“What is?”

“You really have your own restaurant?”

Killian turned his head to look at her and the interest was practically written on his face again. “I do,” he said simply.

“And it’s really in Tribeca?”

“It really is. Leonard and Church or at least close enough to the intersection that we can put that on our website.”

“There’s a website?”

Killian laughed loudly and the sound seemed to seep into Emma’s veins. “It’s 2017, Swan, of course there’s a website,” he said, voice shaking as he tried to control his breathing long enough to actually speak. “Why the 20 questions?”

“I live there.”

“At my restaurant?”

“No,” Emma sighed. “In Tribeca. Like three blocks away from your restaurant.”

“Really?”

“Look who’s playing 20 questions now.”

“Sorry,” he muttered quickly, shaking his head. “I wasn’t trying to, honestly. I was mostly just trying to keep up with you and the stream of information you’re giving off.”

“It’s not that much information,” Emma said, doing her best to rationalize it to herself as much as Killian.

“It’s any information, which, in the short time I’ve known you, Swan, seems to be a wealth of information.”

“You’ve known me for like four days.”

“Exactly.”

“So,” Emma said pointedly, doing her best to steer the conversation away from divulging information and Killian picking up on character traits far too quickly than he should. “You spend a lot of time in the restaurant?”

“The one I own? Yeah, I do.”

“I can’t believe you own a restaurant.”

“Why?”

Emma shrugged – she hadn’t done a good job steering this conversation at all. “Just doesn’t seem like you.”

“And you know me so well then? Correct me if I’m wrong, Swan, but I think you’ve only known me for, what was it, ‘like four days’ as well.”

She felt her face flush quickly and made a noise in the back of her throat, turning back towards her station and flipping up the handle on the sink.

“You know,” Killian said, not moving an inch as he spoke. “I wasn’t kidding before, you really don’t have to clean this yourself. That’s not part of the deal.”

Emma shrugged, rinsing her knives off under the water. “I realize that,” she said. “But I always feel kind of weird just leaving my stuff for other people to take care of. And, anyway, these are my knives.”

“You brought your own knives to a promotional shoot that you didn’t even think you were going to cook at?”

“I like to be prepared.”

“Apparently.” Killian finally turned back around, reaching around Emma’s back to grab the dish towel off the counter. He stood at attention next to her, glancing at her out of the corner of his eye every few seconds and, apparently, waiting for further instructions.

“What are you doing?” Emma asked.

“I’m going to dry your dishes,” he said, as if it was obvious. He shook the dish towel in his hand for good measure.

“You don’t have to do that.”

“Yeah, well, you don’t have to clean up after yourself either. And yet here we are anyway. C’mon, Swan, it’ll make it all go faster.”

Emma sighed – but it was more out of acquiesce than any sort of real frustration and returned her focus to the dishes in the sink.

They worked in companionable silence for a few minutes and Emma’s mind drifted as she fell into the task, muscle memory taking over slightly. When she first started working her way through the New York City culinary world, Emma was one of the few employees at any restaurant who would actually volunteer to do the dishes.

It was boring, sometimes disgusting, work and Emma loved it. She loved the control she had over it, making sure each dish and glass and piece of silverware was pristine before it went back into the restaurant. She appreciated the chance to make everything right and while she knew it was absolutely insane to talk about dishes that way, she also knew that if a meal could have a solid – incredibly clean – foundation, then the rest would all just settle into place.

She thought the same way about the rest of her life.

Everything had a spot, everything had a place and everything got, metaphorically, polished clean.

Because the one time she hadn’t followed that plan, it had all blown up in her face.

They were nearly finished – Killian a, surprisingly, good dish-dryer – and Emma was just about to hand him the last knife in the sink when it slipped against her fingers, slicing along her palm with a sharp shot of pain that took her by surprise.

“Swan,” Killian said quickly, snapping his head towards her and pulling the knife away from her. He tossed it back in the sink without a second look and tugged on her wrist, holding her hand up and walking her away her station. “Are you alright?”

“Yeah, yeah, it’s fine,” she mumbled.

It wasn’t. It hurt like hell – but she absolutely was not going to tell him that.

“Swan,” he repeated, voice coming out like a sigh. “Look at your hand.” She glanced up at the offending limb and had to stifle back a groan – a small trail of blood was slinking down her palm, pooling in the wrinkles where her wrist bent. Emma squeezed her eyes closed and wrinkled her nose, earning a small laugh from Killian.

She felt his fingers unwrap from her wrist and she opened her eyes a fraction of an inch to see him staring worriedly at her. “Stay here,” he instructed. “And keep your hand in the air. I’ll be right back.”

Emma had no idea where he was going, but she did as she was told, keeping her eyes on anything except her disgusting hand as Killian jogged towards the back of the room. He was back less than a minute later, a box in his hand. He tossed it on the counter, flipping the counter open and pulling out a roll of gauze.

She watched him with something bordering dangerously close to awe – he didn’t say a word, just falling into a rhythm that made it seem as if this was something he’d done several times before. Killian unlooped the gauze quickly, flicking his wrist until the end came loose and ripped it off, balling it up and putting it on Emma’s palm.

“Make a fist,” he said and the authority in his voice made Emma press her lips together tightly. He reached behind him, pulling something that actually looked like a flask out of the back pocket of his jeans, pressing it into the crook of his elbow so he could unscrew the top.

“Hand,” he muttered and Emma stuck it out in front of her. He pulled the gauze off, tossing the pile into the garbage, and then, without much ceremony, poured whatever was in the flask on Emma’s palm.

She yanked it back quickly, eyebrows drawing low as she bit her lip tightly, hoping that pain would be worse than the one in her hand. It wasn’t.

“Jesus Christ, Killian,” she snapped. “What the hell was that?”

“Rum,” he said. “And a damn waste of it too. Can you believe this nationally-broadcast TV station doesn’t have a first aid kit with alcohol in it?”

“And you just carry rum around with you, regularly?”

Killian shrugged. “This was on Belle’s station,” he said and Emma widened her eyes again. “Which begs the question of what exactly she’s putting in those cupcakes of hers.”

“You know she told me she made them this morning?” Emma said, momentarily forgetting the dull pain in her hand.

“Really?”

Emma nodded. “They were good though, so I guess there’s that.”

“You were copping desserts before, Swan?”

“Hey,” she said sharply and Killian’s smile nearly made her take a step back. “They were offered. She offered me a cupcake. No theft or copping involved.”

He made a face that seemed to say he almost believed her and clicked his tongue to signal he wanted her hand back. Emma groaned, but put her hand out anyway. The gauze was back and Killian wrapped it tightly around Emma’s palm, circling it around her hand several times before tugging up to get her to lift it up. He tucked the edge underneath one of the layers and pulled it through with his hand before pulling Emma’s hand even farther up and ripping off the end – with his teeth.

It shouldn’t have caught her by surprise.

He did only have one hand to use and it made sense that he wouldn’t have been able to get enough leverage or whatever between his fingers to actually pull it off. Emma was rationalizing. She knew it and that was dangerous because if Emma was rationalizing that meant she liked it and couldn’t – needed to put an immediate stop to this flirting and bantering thing they were doing.

Emma didn’t say anything.

“You alright, love?” Killian asked and it sounded like he was shouting the question in the empty kitchen. The water was still on at the sink and Emma nodded once before racing towards the faucet and flicking it down.

“I’m fine,” Emma promised.

Killian scoffed softly – a vocal, flashing neon sign that he didn’t believe her – and he walked forward, washing off the knife and drying it off without another word, adding it to the small pile of cutlery Emma had kept on the side so she knew it was hers.

“Thanks,” she said softly, not specifying on the knife or the dishes or bandaging her hand. He knew she meant all three.

“No problem.”

“You bandage up a lot of people?” Emma asked, trying to keep her voice light. His eyes darkened for a moment before his face settled into impassivity and for a moment Emma considered stopping her questions. But she was curious and he was interested and interesting and she wanted to know. “You’re pretty good at it.” “I’ve got some experience,” he said quickly and Emma got the distinct impression the conversation was over. So she took a different approach.

“Who’s Milah?” she asked, almost positive that it was an innocent question.

“What?” “On the tattoo.”

And, suddenly, everything changed.

The simple, easy pace they’d worked at over the last 20 minutes evaporated in two words and ten letters and Killian rolled his shoulders as the words seemed to sink into his skin. A muscle in his jaw ticked and Emma twisted her lips, wondering what exactly she’d done wrong.

She glanced back down at the tattoo on his forearm – the red of the heart practically flashing in her eyes and the letters plastered on top clear even when Emma shut her eyes.

Killian took a deep breath before he answered, wrapping his hand around the back of his neck – so Emma couldn’t see the tattoo – and damn , this is why she shouldn’t have said anything.

She should have thanked him for fixing her hand and walked out the door and not looked back – everything in its place and nothing blowing up or disappointing or walking away.

Emma half expected him to do just that – he was right, she didn’t know him at all – but he took her by surprise again and walked back towards her, eyes trained on the heels she still inexplicably had on. He didn’t look up at her until they were practically toe to toe and when he did his eyes were so open and honest and full of something Emma couldn’t quite put her finger on – it might have been loss.

He looked lost.

“Someone from a long time ago,” he answered softly.

“And she’s…” “Gone.”

Emma opened her mouth, not entirely sure what she was going to say, but certain she needed to say something when a pair of sneakers pounded into kitchen and forced her attention away from Killian.

“Mom!” Henry yelled, sprinting across the kitchen floor and colliding forcefully with the side of the station Belle had been using earlier that afternoon.

Killian stepped back as if he’d been shocked and Emma tried to cover up her disappointment. She didn’t have any right to be. And maybe she wasn’t really. Maybe it was more surprise that out of all the things that had been thrown at them over the course of the day, a 12-year-old barrelling into the network prep kitchen calling her “mom” was enough to make him step back.

“Slow down, kid,” Emma said, reaching out to grab Henry by the shoulder and pull him against her side.

“What happened to your hand?” Henry asked, eyes going wide as he leaned back to look at the gauze wrapped around her palm.

“Nothing.” He sighed and made a face. “Seriously.” “Your mom just dropped something,” Killian said, jumping into the conversation. Emma and Henry’s heads snapped towards him and he smiled in response, that momentary step-back seemingly forgotten.

“Who are you?” Henry asked.

“Hey,” Emma cut in. “Nuh uh. Polite. Be more polite.” Henry rolled his head and Killian laughed softly, crossing his arms over his chest. Emma saw her son’s eyes fall on the prosthetic, but he didn’t say anything and she silently thanked every single religious figure she could think of that she’d somehow succeeded in knocking some manners into Henry.

“Sorry,” Henry mumbled. “I’m Henry, it’s nice to meet you. And you are?” Killian glanced at Emma, eyes flashing with amusement, and she smiled, shrugging quickly. “Killian Jones,” he said, sticking his hand out and waiting for Henry to shake it. “It’s nice to meet you too.” “Are you a chef like my mom?” “I am.” “And you’re going to do this all-star thing with her too?” “I am,” Killian repeated. He kept looking at Emma, eyes darting over with every other word and that smile on his face was doing something to her ability to maintain a normal breathing level.

“She’s totally going to beat you,” Henry said.

“Henry!” Emma cried, but Killian was practically hysterical at the sentence.

He brushed her off quickly and grinned at Henry seriously. “That’s alright, Swan,” he said. “I appreciate a healthy dose of confidence. A son should be confident in his mother.” Emma bit her lip tightly and wrung her hands together – a nervous habit she’d picked up when she was a kid, before David had found her. This was too much. This wasn’t supposed to happen. There wasn’t supposed to be anyone in the kitchen when Henry got there, let alone Killian Jones bandaging hands and helping her dry dishes.

Emma lived in two different worlds and she was certain that Killian Jones solely existed the celebrity world – but then he was standing there and he was smiling at her kid and hyping up Henry for the all-star competition and Emma wasn’t sure what belonged anywhere.

Henry was firing off questions a mile a minute, asking about Killian’s restaurant and what he cooked and what his favorite food on Iron Chef was and Emma tried her best to keep up when she got distracted by the sound of another set of shoes jogging down the hallway.

“I’m so so sorry!” Mary Margaret yelled, moving into the kitchen as fast as she possibly could, gaze falling on Emma immediately. “He just took off as soon as we got through security and he was on the elevator before I’d even realized he’d pressed the button and…” Mary Margaret cut off her explanation as quickly as she started it, eyes darting between Emma and Killian. They, eventually, landed on Emma and Mary Margaret’s face said everything she was thinking.

“It’s ok,” Emma said quickly, trying to get Mary Margaret to stop making that face. “You shouldn’t be running around anyway. David will kill me if he knows you moved at any sort of speed that was faster than snail-like.” “David worries too much.” “I’d still rather not get yelled at if I don’t have to.” “Mom,” Henry interrupted, not interested at all in the speed at which Mary Margaret was walking. “Mom did you know Killian’s restaurant is three blocks from our apartment? He said we could come for dinner sometimes. He makes really good cheeseburgers.” “That so?” Emma asked, directing her question more at Killian than at Henry.

He nodded seriously. “The best in the city. We ran out on Friday night, although that may have had more to do with the cheese choice than anything else.” “What kind of cheese?” Henry asked, bobbing on the balls of his feet slightly. There was, it appeared, nothing more exciting in the world to a 12-year-old boy than a well-made cheeseburger.

“Cheddar,” Killian answered. “To be fair though, I did have some help though, Regina’s son picked it out for me.” “Regina’s son?” Emma asked quickly, head snapping up.

Killian nodded. “For all intents and purposes. I think she and Robin were talking about her adopting him officially once they got married.” Oh.

Regina was engaged – to someone who was not Killian. To someone named Robin who had a son that she was thinking about adopting.

Emma tried not to let her thoughts show on her face, the words open book flashing across her line of vision, and nodded silently. That didn’t appear to help – Killian smiled at her and she was positive he could read her mind.

“I’ve been wanting to go to your restaurant for ages,” Mary Margaret said, breaking into the silent conversation without realizing. “It’s always packed though. I mean, good for you, but it makes it tough to get a reservation.” Killian laughed loudly again, grinning and sticking his hands into his pockets. “I might be able to help with that.” “Really?” “Yeah,” he said confidently. “I know a guy.”

“That would be awesome.” “Just figure out when you want to go,” he said easily. “You’ll let me know, won’t you, Swan?”

“Sure,” Emma said quickly, the sound of the nickname settling into the space between her ribs like he’d been calling that since the dawn of time and not just a few days ago.

“Can we go too, mom?” Henry asked earnestly.

“We’ll see, kid,” Emma said, purposely not answering and avoiding Killian’s face when she responded. She didn’t want to see the possible disappointment there. “Come on, we’ve got to get out of here. I’m sure you’ve got homework and we owe Mary Margaret something for making her chase you through this building.” “Ice cream?”

“Maybe.” “We’re totally going to get ice cream,” Henry said seriously, moving back towards the door quickly. He only turned for a moment, glancing over his shoulder to shout, “Bye, Killian!”

“Bye,” he yelled back, smiling slowly and eyes moving towards Emma.

“I’ll go get him,” Mary Margaret volunteered. “And I’m totally getting a waffle cone.” “That seems fair.” Mary Margaret nodded and followed Henry back into the hallway, leaving Emma and Killian alone in the prep kitchen again, silence crashing down on both of them quickly. “Thanks again for helping with my hand,” Emma muttered after what felt like several sunlit-days of quiet. “And the dishes.” “No problem,” he said. “Like I said, I’ve got some experience with both.” “Bottom rung of the restaurant ladder?” “That,” Killian agreed, “and also the Navy.” “What?” “Of the United States,” he clarified, voice thick with sarcasm.

“No, I figured that, I’m just confused.” “About?” “Your relationship with the United States Navy.” “I was part of it,” Killian said simply, seemingly unaware of the information he’d just deposited at Emma’s feet. “For awhile anyway. That’s how I know how to deal with your hand and the dishes. Mostly the dishes if we’re being honest.” Emma gaped at him, stunned slightly – he just kept smiling, rolling back on his heels. “Well, you were good at both. If we’re being honest.” “Thanks.” Emma nodded, raising her eyebrows as she chewed on the inside of her lip. “I better get going. I’ve got an ice cream request to fill.” “Of course. Make sure you change that gauze tomorrow morning.”

“Aye aye,” Emma said, drawing a smile out of Killian, one side of his mouth tilting up. Emma ignored the way her stomach flipped slightly at that and shot him her own smile in response, wondering how the sky had managed not to fall when she let Killian Jones into the other side of her life.

[zolotayafeya]

Mind Tricks

For Otayuri Week 2017, Day 1: First Times/Confessions. In fact, it’s a multitude of first times: First time wearing proper makeup, first time sneaking into a club, first time drinking with others, first time realising your best friend is fucking hot, first time witnessing said hot best friend exceeding the levels of cool thought possible by man—

Read it on AO3!

Since the first moment Yuri can remember laying eyes on him, he’s thought that Otabek Altin is the textbook definition of cool. Behind most of Yuri’s pointed insults and prickly first woods lies genuine interest—unless it comes to JJ fucking Leroy, of course, but that’s a different story. But any guy who can arrive from the airport in a leather jacket and a scarf, exhausted from travel, and still manage to look like the hottest shit on the block? Yeah, he’s cool. 

Notably, the thing that separates someone like JJ from someone like Otabek is how he does it, of course. JJ is loud, flamboyant, and obnoxiously arrogant about how cool he seems to think he is. Otabek doesn’t need to do that. Yuri learned that very quickly the moment Otabek first opened his mouth: When you’re truly cool, you don’t need to say it. You just radiate coolness.

Yuri thinks Otabek is the kind of cool who constantly looks badass but secretly religiously listens to tasteful music and composes orchestral pieces in his free time. He just has that air, you know? As biased as he is—Oh, come on, Otabek swooped in like a tall, dark, handsome stranger on a fucking motorcycle to rescue him, how is he supposed to be unbiased—he assumes this to be true. Of course Otabek reads classic novels and sits at a grand piano, playing an artful, calm rendition of Clair de Lune for his elegant mother and sisters. Obviously. That just seems like the kind of person he is.

Later, he catches Otabek wrinkling his nose at the repetitive, bubbly American pop song they’re playing at the rink during clean-up. Yep, he’s certain of it. He has Otabek pinned down as a music snob, cool and classy.

For some reason, Katsudon’s annoying friend and his two lackeys have decided to latch onto Yuri. Yuri thinks that they’re trying to leech victory out of him like it’s something they could actually steal by constantly hanging off him and snapping photos, even the quiet, sweet little Chinese one. Yuri feels like he could actually make him cry if he kicks him. Maybe it’s because they’re young and Yuri’s younger and they assume that automatically makes them best friends. It’s annoying as fuck, especially with Phichit acting like the wacky, cool aunt of their forced little group, and Yuri would ditch them immediately if Phichit hadn’t promised to sneak Yuri into a club with them… to celebrate flower boy’s late birthday, apparently. Yuri had pounced at the chance.

The thudding of the bass in the club announces its location before the four of them round the corner of the block. Between the American boy’s—Leo, Yuri finally makes the effort to recall—hidden talent with hairspray, Phichit’s admittedly frighteningly wizard abilities with an eyeliner pencil, and the leather pants, fingerless gloves, and combat boots Yuri swears he bought on a whim and not at all because his new best friend’s fashion sense is badass, they’ve actually managed to make him look like less of a prepubescent girl and more like someone not only smoking hot, but also old enough to have actually been to a club before. It’s enough that the bouncer only squints at him for a moment and offers no more than a passing glance at his fake ID, not like he’d actually try to decipher the Russian card anyways and figure out if it’s legit, before he waves all of them in.

It’s overwhelming, to say the least. Yuri’s never been inside a place like this: Dark, lit only by purple lights, packed nearly to the gills with people bumping, grinding, laughing, the floor vibrating with the bass. Phichit giggles at Guang-Hong’s fluttering shyness and drags him off towards the bar, leaving Leo and Yuri to trail after them. Leo, looking remarkably at home in the pulsating lights despite being underage in his home country, bumps his shoulder against Yuri’s and grins.

‘Come on, Russia,’ he says gamely. ‘You look like you’re gonna leap out of your socks. Loosen up a little.’

He passes over a beer Phichit hands him first before needling Guang-Hong until the Chinese boy finally laughs and downs his entire glass in one go. Then another. Then Leo presses a shot glass into his palm and Guang-Hong swallows the contents of that too, giggling past the burn. Yuri realises his jaw is hanging open and he shuts it with a click before glancing apprehensively at the froth at the top of his drink. It’s not like he’s never had a beer before, but he doesn’t trust these fuckers, especially with Phichit grinning at him like the Chesire cat and Guang-Hong already starting to sway.

Then the music changes. Suddenly it’s… not good. No, that’s an understatement; it’s awful. All four of them glance over at the table, where a girl in a low-cut shirt and her girlfriend hanging off her bare waist is giggling and failing miserably at DJing correctly. The crowd’s mostly too drunk to care, but a couple people raise loud complaints over the din of poorly mixed music and the girl starts shouting back at them.

‘Open DJ night,’ someone behind Yuri’s left shoulder says sympathetically.

Without a word, Yuri downs his drink like the goddamned hot-blooded Russian man he is and slams the glass on the nearest table. The other three skaters cheer. Yuri regrets his decision for a good fifteen seconds until it finally sets in that no, he’s not about to get mauled by his new companions while he’s drunk. The music shifts from shitty to… not bad, Yuri supposes. The girlfriend’s taken over. Or maybe it’s just the alcohol.

He never said his tolerance was high.

‘Dance with me,’ Guang-Hong whines, shedding his shyness like a snakeskin that threatens to give Yuri nightmarish flashbacks to the Sochi Grand Prix banquet and a certain disgusting Japanese skater. Guang-Hong latches onto Leo’s arm and hauls him bodily into the fray. Phichit gleefully snaps photos of the drunken Chinese boy doing something sinful with his hips that makes Yuri want to both throw up and save it as reference so he can fight for dancing dominance later.  If there even is a later. Right now, Yuri’s debating between just going back and grumbling his way through the night or joining Phichit in gathering blackmail material. Leo looks all too pleased that Guang-Hong refuses to let go of his hand.

The mediocre music lulls for a moment. Then it shifts into something good. The crowd raises a cheer of approval at the figure who’s taken over the table with the cool ease of an expert. It’s too dark for Yuri to get a clear look at the DJ, but whoever it is is shorter, stockier, male, and he knows what he’s doing. Fucking saviour. This is something that makes him want to dance, slip into the persona of the leopard on the prowl, winding and sinuous. Later’s starting to seem more and more like now… Yeah, now seems like a good time to go test that out. Yuri flicks his ponytail and saunters into the crowd to fucking dance.

Now it’s a competition with a proper background track. Yuri will dance sexier, hotter, better than fucking Ji Guang-Hong or die trying. Ballet’s gifted him fluidity with the sway of his hips, the curl of his wrists. Watching Katsudon skate the Eros routine has taught him how to seduce an audience with his eyes alone. No one’s watching when he starts, but he feels the eyes drawn to him like magnets when he gets going, the alcohol fuelling him to do the very sort of things he’d just been metaphorically gagging at Leo and Guang-Hong for doing. It sends a thrill up his spine. He’s not drunk off of what he was drinking; he’s drunk off of the attention, even when he brushes past Leo and Guang-Hong dancing, ah… close. He doesn’t want to think about what he just saw, so he just dances the thought away.

He grinds, bounces, and swerves his way closer to the table to get a better look at the guy who singlehandedly saved the night from mediocrity. The DJ’s sporting a black t-shirt just tight enough to show off how fit he is, dextrous fingers artfully splayed across the turntables, completely lost in the music. Yuri feels his mouth go dry as his eyes track up the man’s torso, right up until he reaches a strong jaw, stronger eyebrows, eyes rimmed in smudged, dark kohl, an inky undercut artfully styled to the side. Fuzzily, he thinks that eyeliner immediately makes just about everyone fifteen times hotter. The DJ? Hot as sin.

It must be the alcohol that makes the realisation hit him like a goddamned train about five seconds too late. There’s no other explanation for why it takes him so long to recognise that the DJ, large headphones looped around his neck, hips swaying sensually to his own beat, sweat glistening at his barely-exposed collarbones from the heat of so many bodies in such a small space, is Otabek fucking Altin.

Never has Yuri been glad to be so completely wrong. Calm, quiet, composed, classy Otabek, while admittedly very awesome, disappears from Yuri’s mind with what he’s sure is an audible, satisfying pop. Music snob his pretty ass, erase every record of him saying Otabek was the shit before he knew about this—this is the fucking coolest thing he’s ever witnessed in his life. Yuuko’s nosebleeding suddenly makes five times more sense. If Katsudon was here, he might have a heart attack. Mila would melt into a puddle of helpless want. JJ, Yuri thinks somewhere in the back of his muddled mind, would spontaneously combust over how much he sucks compared to Otabek, perfect motherfucker who can be the tall, dark stranger who rescues people like Yuri on his motorcycle, and, oh yeah, is a goddamned master DJ.

There’s suddenly a name he wouldn’t dare say for the confusing feelings Yuri’s been repressing since Barcelona once he manages to link ‘Incredibly hot DJ I would gladly grind upon’ and ‘Otabek Altin, best friend’ as one and the same in his head, and once it clicks, he doesn’t quite know what to do with it. Panic? Act? Flee? Ignore it?

‘Is that Otabek?’ Phichit shouts on cue over the music, sidling up to Yuri’s side. At that, Otabek’s eyes go alert as he seeks out the source, right up until his eyes land on Yuri, who suddenly feels exposed in his too-tight leather pants and his eyeliner. This is where he tenses up and spits something insulting in defence, even over the heavy thud of the bass. This is where he flees into the crowd and finds an exit faster than you can say ‘men’s singles figure skating.’ This is where he scrubs all of the sweat and makeup off of his face, peels off his pants, shreds them, and vows never to mention this ever again. However, after a moment, Otabek grins at him, eyes bright and smile suggestive. He leans forward and gestures for Yuri to join him with a crook of his finger, head tilted just a little bit, hips still moving to the beat.

The scenario flashes through Yuri’s head in quick bursts of half-formed fantasies he didn’t know he was capable of imagining. Everything around him seems to slow down as he digests the images: Otabek guiding Yuri’s hand to the turntables, his breath hot against Yuri’s skin as he offers instruction. Otabek slipping his headphones over Yuri’s ears, shutting out the rest of the club and drowning him in music. Otabek dropping one hand to Yuri’s hip, fingers settling right at the hem of his low-hanging, sweat-slicked leather pants, teasing at his skin. The press of Otabek’s chest against his back, his arms bracketing Yuri’s from behind like the shitty DJ and her handsy girlfriend, but fifteen billion times better. Yuri daringly rolling his hips against Otabek’s, reaching back to curl his fingers into Otabek’s masterfully styled hair and tug. He can almost hear the shocked, heady little gasp Otabek will offer at that, breath heavy, pupils blown wide, those smokey eyes half-lidded and smouldering and—

Yuri has never moved so quickly in his life.