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It was sunny the day Otabek Altin died.
It shouldn’t have been.
There should have been a hailstorm for a blizzard or even just a light drizzle to reflect the mood of the situation, but no, it had to be sunny.
Here’s how it happens, the reporter announces clinically in a clipped voice, professional and straight to the point, Altin, age 22, had been on his bike on the streets of St. Petersburg, there to visit his partner Yuri Plisetsky, age 19, for the holidays, on his way to the local ice rink when a bus had rammed into him, full force, as it turned a corner. He did not die on impact, and was rushed to the ER by a frantic bus driver, where the wounds on him were stitched up and his heart restarted. His heart beat until 8:42 PM, when, due to a viral infection and weak immune system, he died from his injuries. Though he was alive for ten hours after the initial incident, he did not wake up once. It is reported however that there was brain activity detected when Plisetsky arrived just before noon, and then once again just before he passed. No further information has been released, the reporter states, and that’s it. No more Otabek Altin. No more of the renowned figure skater, no more of The Hero of Kazakhstan.
And here’s the tragic part. His wedding was planned to take place in two weeks, in the very rink that he was supposed to make a trip to when the accident occurred.
But he’s dead now. No more wedding, no more skating, no more smiles and “davai”s and thumbs-up.
His fiancée is heartbroken.
It’s sunny the day of the funeral.
It was planned this way, planned for the rays of sunlight to filter in through the thin curtains, because this was the day he was supposed to get married, it was supposed to be happy , but instead he’s lying in a pristine black coffin with mournful notes drifting from a speaker lying haphazardly on the ground, an audience of black seated row upon row in the very rink he was supposed to get married in.
His fiancée says that he would have wanted it this way, wanted to be able to say goodbye to his friends, his family among the ice that made up most of his life. He says it through a watery smile, eyes distant and cold but with a spark of light glistening amongst the tears, because he’s right, and he knows it, that Otabek loved the ice and that he would not want to go any other way (he doesn’t cry though, doesn’t let the droplets spill over the edge). He even told Yuri, a chilling foreshadow, not but a few months ago, laughing as he envisioned black silk draped across the side boards and black lace decorating the rink. The only difference between this and his phantasy is that that would have happened in, what, another eighty years?
This is now. He’s gone too early.
When the funeral was planned, hastily, Yuri had still been in shock. He entrusted all the work to Viktor, who, with his nature of tending to forget things, had also conveniently forgot that this was supposed to be his brother’s wedding day, and it wasn’t until his husband looked over the schedule two days before the funeral itself that they realised his mistake. When he did, his eyes widened in horror, his mouth gaping a little at his own callousness, but Yuri, Yuri’s eyes were just blank, unseeing, unmoving, shoulders stiff and locked in place, fists clenched at his sides, but his eyes were dry, his cheeks unmarred by tears.
Because he knows, if he cries, there will be no Beka there to hold him, no Beka to kiss away his tears and whisper to him in a lull of soothing Kazakh, and that would just make the situation all the more worse, and all the more real.
Yuri looks absolutely stunning in the black suit he’s wearing.
That’s only because it was supposed to be meant for a wedding, not a funeral. It was supposed to be the best day of his life, but it’s not.
He stands next to the coffin, facing the crowd like a war hero facing the new soldiers, except he doesn’t feel like a hero because he isn’t one. Otabek was supposed to be the hero, but now he’s gone, gone, gone, dead, gone…
Yuri is just the one left behind, the one the hero took the shot for, the one who came back alive while the real hero was dead, dead, dead, gone, dead.
He looks like he’s staring at the crowd, he really is, looks like he can see Otabek’s sister in the front row, tears streaming down her cheeks even as she tries to hold them back ( gone ), Viktor looking up at Yuri with a small, sad smile adorning his lips, eyes glistening with unshed tears as he looks up at his brother ( gone ), Yuuri blinking back tears as he clutches Viktor’s hand in his, a stark, painful reminder that they're in love and they have each other and they’ll have each other for a long, long time ( gone ), Lilia looking sympathetic but a little distant ( gone ), Guang-Hong clutching a teddy bear to his face as he cries for the loss of his friends ( gone ), his grandfather shaking his head sadly at the tragedy his grandson has faced ( gone )… But really, he can’t see anyone, he is blind to everyone but Otabek, who he thinks he can see just barely in the distance, a small smile adorning his thin lips, hair tousled a little by the wind, and he can practically hear in his mind’s eye the quiet davai . But what’s there to cheer him on about when there’s nothing to be cheerful about?
He doesn’t understand Otabek. He wish he had had more time to figure the quiet skater out.
If only he had more time.
The rituals have started, and Yuri hasn’t even noticed.
It’s only when there’s a tense silence, hanging about the air like a rope pulled taut, and Viktor hisses Yuri from the audience that Yuri realises it’s his turn to bid farewell. Childishly, he clings onto the hope that if I don’t say goodbye, he won’t go , but then coming back to his senses, he realises that this will be the one and only chance that he will have to say goodbye to his beloved, and even he isn’t prideful and stubborn and wishful enough to throw that out the window.
He’s already lost too much.
He shakily walks up to the head of the coffin, stumbling a little, his head pounding. He still hasn’t shed a single tear yet. Everyone is staring at him and he knows he should at least acknowledge his audience but he’s too caught up in the small crease on Otabek’s forehead and the light scrape on his cheek from the the fatal collision to even register them in his periphery.
“Beka,” He says quietly, and if not for the speakers no one would have seen anything except the slight movement of his lips, “Beka, I’m sorry I forgot all about you after the first time we met. I swear I won’t forget you again.”
Yuuri Katsuki clutches his husband’s hand a little tighter, fearing that if he let’s go Viktor will go too.
“Remember when we met four years ago in Barcelona? Remember the sunset that we watched go down together? God, I had this all planned out for the wedding, idiot, everything I was going to say. Remember the first time I yelled davai at you? I’m glad I did, so then you would too.”
He sighs, smoothing back the soft black tresses that have fallen into Otabek’s face. He looks so peaceful, so calm, and if it weren’t for the mourners and the black and the coffin, Yuri could almost pretend he was asleep, pretend it was a nightmare he could wake up from and cuddle Otabek to forget about.
“I think I fell in love with you during the exhibition skate right after we met. I know you still have the costume, you sappy, sentimental, idiotic––––”
He stops, takes a few breathes, carries on.
“Anyways, I–––– I just wanted to say that you’re the best thing that ever happened to me. And now you’re gone. I wish I could just kiss you one more time, like the first time we did in Vancouver in that crappy hotel, because I don’t think I could live a day without you Beka, and I know I’m going to be making dinner for two and yelling to empty space in the morning and it’s just gonna be so–––– so hard .”
He can feel the tears now, for the first time in so long, too long, but he holds them back, even if a few stray ones manage to slip down his face onto Otabek’s.
“I found you’re wedding ring for me the other day, you know. It was behind your favourite book on the shelf, and you know it’s a horrible place to hide things, but I guess you did it anyways because, goddamn, even you’ve admit to me that you’re bad at this.”
His vision is blurry now, he’s leaning across the coffin so his face is inches above his lover’s.
“And guess what, I bought you one too. It’s platinum and black, like you always wanted, and you’re lucky I have the money to afford something like this, it wasn’t exactly cheap, you know, and I don’t go buying expensive jewellery for anyone, asshole, and now you’re not even here to appreciate it… ”
His voice cracks a little at the end, but he keeps on his expressionless mask that Otabek always wore and braves on, taking out two small boxed and setting one inside the coffin. He opens the other one, carefully extracting a simple ring, silver light reflected off its gleaming surface it with a thin black line that ran across the surface.
“This one’s for you.”
He reaches down, grasps Otabek’s hand and carefully slides the smooth band. It fits perfectly, but it would have been more perfect if Otabek was here to witness it.
He pauses after that, as if unsure what to do.
“And this one’s for me, but Beka, I don’t want to put that ring on myself. It would have been so perfect if you were here. So beautiful.”
He’s getting that lost, distant look in his eyes again, even the people in the very back can see.
“You could have been standing right here, in front of me, have you ever thought about that? And then I could actually be smiling, and actually enjoy this moment, ’cause we’re supposed to married, Beka, married, just like I know you wanted since the beginning, what I wanted, and I don’t wanna put on the ring myself ’cause then I’ll realise that you actually are dead, and I don’t wanna cry because you won’t be here for me, like you promised you would, Beka, you promised, and if only you could just wake up, you complete and utter asshole, WAKE UP!”
His voice steadily grows in volume, until he’s screaming, screaming at Otabek, because why, why did he have to die and leave Yuri by himself, he couldn’t , because Yuri had fought so hard to find love, to sustain love, and all that effort had ended in… nothing. Death.
He hasn’t even registered it himself, but he’s on his knees now, clutching the icy corpse himself, slumped limply onto him. And then he’s kissing the cold lips, even though he knows he shouldn’t, knows it won’t be reciprocated, but he doesn’t care because he can still taste the faint peppermint that lingers still, can still feel the phantom heat and movement, and that’s just making him cry harder, and for a moment he swears that he can feel something, something akin to life spark beneath his touch, a faint whisper of Yuratchka swept away by the wind, but before he can catch it it’s gone, and once again is holding the dead body.
He’s almost slumped to the ground now, like a rag doll, and somehow he’s managed to drag the heavy body out of the coffin onto the floor next to him, and for once it’s not Beka holding him, but Yuri holding Beka.
Drastic changes like this happen only in death.
Outside, a light rain starts to sprinkle over the city of St. Petersburg.