
Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/12713415.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Yuri!!!_on_Ice_(Anime)
  Relationship:
      Otabek_Altin/Yuri_Plisetsky, Otabek_Altin/Jean-Jacques_Leroy
  Character:
      Otabek_Altin, Yuri_Plisetsky, Jean-Jacques_Leroy, Emil_Nekola, Isabella
      Yang
  Additional Tags:
      Recreational_Drug_Use, Bad_Boy_Otabek_Altin, Graffiti, Fuck_Boys, Daddy
      Kink, Pet_Names, Pining, Kitty_-_Freeform, hypersexuality, Angst, Humor,
      Explicit_Sexual_Content, Crime
  Stats:
      Published: 2017-11-14 Chapters: 2/4 Words: 6482
****** God Monster from the End of the World ******
by djdaddybek_(llyn)
Summary
     Otabek struggles to justify his life as a graffiti artist until the
     day he lays eyes on Yuri. If god can make something so beautiful,
     Otabek can, too
Notes
     hide_the_virgins,_say_your_prayers
      
      
     please check out this beautiful art of graffiti_artist_Otabek by
     kawaiilo-ren
See the end of the work for more notes
***** Chapter 1 *****
He’s got a dishwashing gig every night until one in the morning. Cool with his
tats and his attitude, and, bonus, he can wear headphones, blast beats.
Everyone else he ignores. When he gets off he buys beer, stops at his place to
pick up whatever drugs, then walks to Jean’s via one route or another, catching
handstyles. At Jean’s there’s more drugs and the crew: Witch and 3some almost
always, Ncess, Selfy, and Husk most days, too, and everybody on Friday and
Saturday nights--even the girls, posing together silent as siamese cats on the
battered, sunken, cigarette burnt loveseat, sharing a clove.
From there they mob deep to a party or two or three, if the party isn’t at
Jean’s, and there’s a chance to get laid with any drunk little kitty that
strays too close to Otabek and too far from his friends.
“What's a kitty?” 3some asks, eyes red, passing to the left in the dark
backyard of the house party, the bass inside a muffled thud.
“A pretty boy shorter than him,” Jean says. Then, “Hey!” when Otabek plucks the
joint from his mouth in retaliation. “Not cool.”
“So you have a type,” 3some says.
“I have a specific type,” Otabek says.
“Wow,” 3some says. “Can’t relate.”
After the parties it’s the hour just when it’s darkest and time to paint. The
silent trainyard, the rattle and hiss of their cans, Jean by his side--the
others’ whispers carrying on a night breeze from the next railcar down--dressed
all in black, ears pricked like dogs for the crunch of gravel under boots. He
feels alive, for the moment.
He gets home from the yard at eight or nine covered in paint, sneezing up
colors. That is, he gets home if he doesn’t go snuggle up with a sleepy kitty
somewhere cozy instead. He loves their cramped twin beds, they way they suck
his fingers to keep from moaning, their pissed off roommates.
He hates to sleep alone.
Even if he does sleep by himself--rumpled black sheets on a mattress on the
floor--he dreams of kittens. There are so many. The boys in the crew tease him:
pussy-wild . Maybe so. But give Otabek a pair of kitten cheeks to bury his face
between, and he’s happy. He’s a simple man. He likes art school kitties the
best. They’re easiest. He’s become a connoisseur of kitty art the longer he
stays put in this dying town.
The long-threatened hostile corporate takeover of the few dirty streets he
considers his own is now well under way in the city. Each day dawns newer and
cleaner and colder. Sharp, neat lines like a prison cell replace old, paint-
stained brick. Everything is replaced, but not improved. The landscape is
pockmarked with logos. It’s up to Otabek to spray over clown red, fast food
yellow, and facebook blue. He is nature taking back the land. Tear it down and
let the city try again, because it can do better than these bright, toxic
monuments to empty spending, empty eating, empty living. What poor excuse for
the future is this?
Sometimes the only cure for his ennui is silly kitty art, is filling some
pretty kitten's head with ideas of how he’s gonna break through and be the next
big thing. He's gonna teach him how to paint, throw him down on the crew. He
does love their art, with all their ideals right there smeared on the canvas
for anyone to see. He’s not that kind of artist. But the same kitty telling
Otabek in breathy gasps that he’s right, he will bedifferent and n-new, yes,
daddy, right there--that kitty will be the first one drinking iced chai in a
shirt from KLM, first in line when the new Teaman opens. Sell-outs.
It was like that with all of them. Kitties were good  and  bad. Hippie kitties
had drugs and jokes but wanted to get smacked around and told they were dirt.
Party kitties were sexy but might not leave once he got them in bed. Strays
might rob him, or they might just get weepy and want to go home. The dirty ones
wanted to be clean and the clean ones dirty. That was the thing about kittens,
they never knew what they really wanted. Trust one and get scratched. Love one
and watch him run away.
But Otabek knows now after years of practice how to grab a kitty and treat him
just rough enough. And he knows how to walk out, leaving them whining for more
over texts, over dms, over the phone, in sugar-sweet voicemails, in person--at
work--making a scene. He knows how to drive kittens crazy.  
Otabek slouches through his shift, nursing a molly hangover from a rough Sunday
night that’s cut his attention span short along with his temper. His will to
live, too, is dipping dangerously low. The light hurts his eyes. His shirt
scratches at the road rash he’d earned by falling ten feet off a fence onto the
broken pavement. The smear of his blood on the ground had been funny at the
time, to him and to Jean. They’d pretended to see shapes in it, lagging behind
the others, laughing like jackals under the crescent moon until Witch came back
for them, exasperated. It hurts now.
He hadn’t come with the kitten, afterwards, either. He fucked him for hours,
until he was chafed red and raw and the kitty a wet mewling mess beneath him.
He’d rolled out of his little cat bed still hard, and went for a walk, catching
hollows and fill-ins with a can of seafoam in broad daylight. He was acting
foolish. Now he wonders how hard he hit his head when he fell. He never was
that graceful, like the others. No sleep. No come. No hope. No mix, no beats,
can give him comfort, not even his guilty pleasures. The worst thing about a
molly hangover--and Otabek’s had plenty--is the self-doubt, like maybe he’s
just a scumbag--not an artist--and the cops are winning, and the system, too.
He looks out the porthole door of the kitchen with a frown and blinks twice.
There’s a boy sitting in the restaurant in a patch of afternoon sunlight. All
alone and so pretty, a baby kitten frowning, too--like Otabek--though he makes
it look more appealing. He’s delicate, perched like a blown glass figurine on
his chair, his phone in his hand, hand fine as a fan brush--from his slender
wrist to his long fingers, he’s a work of art. His bottom lip’s stuck out. He’s
blond as daylight.
Looking at him, Otabek forgets to breathe. It’s like a little angel has been
revealed on Earth by the sunshine. No. It’s like a real angel has appeared, the
kind with eyes and mouths and wings upon wings, uncountable. The kind that
shriek and blind. A monster. It’s possible he’s sniffed up some leftover molly,
but he gets sudden goosebumps, pulling his headphones down around his neck,
reverent as if he were receiving an oracle. Wings upon wings, that’s what it
feels like to look at him. The rushing sound of wings. A shining tower of
light. A soldier of god. Even though the kitten hasn’t noticed him it feels
like he’s looking right at him, right  into  him, whispering against his ear:
that the world is an ashtray, yes, but the phoenix rises from the ash. Otabek
can’t explain it. But he feels himself take his first deep breath in a day, or
a month, or maybe it’s been years.
He wants to go say hi, but his feet won’t move. Then he considers: he’s dirty,
paint flecks in his hair, wet from the dishes--no. He doesn’t deserve to kiss
this kitty’s pinky toe, let alone say  hi, let’s fuck sometime . If nothing
else, his grandpa or grandma--the older couple Otabek notices sitting with him,
half in shade--will sniff him out. A perfect kitty like this--no, no. They must
see it all the time. Otabek should be humble. And he’s too young. Too powerful,
too. Otabek watches him undrape himself from his chair and go, never looking up
from his phone. He strains his neck, looking out the porthole after him. Then
the kitten turns a corner with a flick of his slender hips and Otabek feels the
dark cloud roll back into place, and the thunder of his thoughts returns.
Months pass.
Otabek looks for him everywhere and finds so many little blond kittens instead.
The crew goes on a graff tour to befoul other cities for a change, sleeping on
the thin carpet of their friends’ apartments in low places. Still, Otabek finds
his way most nights into golden-haired kitties’ soft beds, and if that wasn’t
enough, when they get home there’s new freshman i n the dorms. His back and
chest are scratched red and infected. He’s always got a few hickeys. The boys
in the crew tease him:  cat scratch fever . He can’t help himself. Jean says he
only smiles when there’s a kitten in his lap, but what else is there to smile
for? He’s jaded. Drugs. Fights. Running from the cops. The city’s closing in
around him. Then one day he gets to Jean’s around two in the morning to find
him alone, doing rails.
“Where’s everybody at?”
Jean shrugs, “Busy. S’just you and me, Beks.”
Jean, ascendent. Everyone knows King JJ. He went all-city last summer and got
famous, ended up in  Graff Kings , ended up in  The Channels  cutting a fine
figure in the yard in a gasmask, guaranteeing him a ten year supply of
groupies. He’s even got some rich girlfriend now he keeps as far from his
friends as possible. Doesn’t mean he’s not a scumbag, too. But he’s taking it
better than Otabek.
“Taking what better?” Jean asks.
“I don’t know,” Otabek says. “The life.”
“Is this like--” Jean winces, “retirement talk? Are you trying to leave the
crew?”
“No, I’m not gonna retire,” Otabek says, while realizing it’s exactly what he
wants to do.
Jean looks skeptical. “I’m just saying, don’t be a quitter, Beks.” Then his
eyes do that puppy dog trick, going soft and sweet. “And you know there’s no
crew without you. What would be the point?” He offers, magnanimous, a line of
coke to change the subject. Otabek graciously accepts.
“There’s a kitty in here you’ll like,” Jean says, throwing him the latest issue
of  While You Were Sleeping . All the usual stuff--flicks of burners, adds for
caps and markers, young little kitties in pin-up poses, or else tied up and
blindfolded. Then he sees him, his angel.
His schoolgirl skirt is bunched high on his hips as the kitty looks over his
shoulder at the camera, pink glossed lips open in surprise, springy pigtails in
motion. The tops of his white thigh highs cut into his creamy skin. His little
heart-shaped ass is spanked red and his white panties are too small, drawn
tight across his cheeks. His arms are tied behind him, sailor top pushed up,
revealing his smooth arched back. It feels like the earth has cracked open and
swallowed Otabek, at last.
“Fuck.”
“I know,” Jean tsks. “Young. But still--”
“He’s the one.”
“The one. Jesus. Nothing like a little blond graff slut for Beka, eh?” Jean
laughs at him, then does another line, passing him the rolled up bill. “You’re
insatiable,” he says, sniffing.
Otabek barely hears him. It’s not just that his angel is a pin-up slut in a
graff zine. It’s that he must be just like Otabek: burning with it, always.
Otabek can see it in his eyes. The kitty’s desperate to get fucked. He’d do
anything for it. They’re two sides of a coin. Blood rushes to his cock. He
tears himself away from the kitty’s picture to take his turn. He comes up with
a curse, pinching his nose.
“God, I want to do a line off his ass.”
Jean laughs, “Beks, he’s fifteen, tops.”
Otabek groans. “This fucking good boy act. You think I’m gonna believe you
haven't rubbed one out to him?”
“That’s private,” Jean says, pointing at him, then he ducks his head to do
another line.
“I wanna taste that tight little pussy. Tongue him open in his bedroom at his
grandparents’ house,” Otabek’s feeling it. His skin’s hot, he bounces his leg
faster and faster. The coke roars in his head. He’s so lucky. There’s an angel
walking the Earth, for him. All he has to do is find him. The kitten is posing
in a sweet little girl’s room, getting it dirty just with his presence. “I want
to bend him over a big teddy bear with a gag in his mouth and lick him until
he’s crying,” Otabek says, feeling like a hero declaring himself at the start
of a quest. He always knew he was the one meant for greatness, not Jean.  
“Beka, fuck--” Jean says, shifting on the couch beside him.
Otabek notices Jean--his flushed cheeks, his bright eyes. His thoughts soften.
His best friend. His partner in crime. “We could fuck him together,” he offers.
Jean looks at him and nods yes. Otabek licks his lips, looking from Jean’s big
blue eyes to the kitten’s green ones. “Two cocks in that tight little hole.
Kitty’s homework scattered all over while he sucks your cock, and I lick that
pretty pussy clean.”
Jean breathes heavy, eyes half-closed. “God,” he says, scrubbing a hand over
his face. The other hand dips under his jeans, but Otabek pulls it out, putting
it over his cock instead. Jean unzips him in a rush--how he loves sucking cock.
Otabek rarely gives in, though. Tonight is special.
Jean can swallow him to the root and he does, as Otabek scrapes his nails
through his short cropped hair. He knows Otabek likes it slow and messy,
moaning around the tip. Jean always remembers just how he likes it, no matter
how long Otabek makes him wait. “Good puppy,” Otabek murmurs, staring at his
beautiful kitten. “Fuck, you’re such a good boy.”
***** Chapter 2 *****
Chapter Notes
     love_comes_in_spurts
Coke makes him horny, he knows that. Not to mention sex on coke has so little
to do with the other person. More like jerking off in a mirror. So it’s no big
deal to fuck Jean.
It’s no big deal. Jean’s hot. This isn’t the first time they’ve fallen tangled
onto the couch and missed, ending up in a pile on the carpet. Otabek covers
that shitty tramp stamp with his hand, guiding Jean’s hips back. He’ll have rug
burns. Jean  is  hot. Especially when he’s not talking. The sounds he makes
instead are exactly what he wants to hear from Jean--animal sounds, a pack mate
in heat. And Otabek doesn’t say a word except a few murmured  fucks , watching
Jean so greedy for cock, snapping his hips, not talking either. He pulls out to
come on that big, ugly tribal, wondering with a stray flame-lick of jealousy if
anyone else has, too. He doesn’t know for sure. Jean’s so tight. Or, he was.
Now he’s leaking come in a muzzy crumple on the floor. Otabek takes a joint
from his wallet. They share it, lounging naked on the sofa. Then they fuck
again.
This time they talk.
“Always desperate for it.”
“Nng--not like you’re hard to get.”
“Gonna tell your wife?”
“Shut up.”
“Got all tight when I mentioned her.”
“Fuck--”
 “Come here.”
Otabek rolls him over on the ash-dusted, drooping cushions so he can look Jean
in the eyes. Jean looks back at him, ice-blue. “Remember the last time we did
this?” he asks. His eyelashes are so thick, long as a girl’s, black as ink.
Otabek remembers the first time he stared at them. He remembers everything.
“Yeah,” is all he says.
They fuck again. Otabek’s got him tipped over the table when he realizes Jean’s
got his hand over the page with the angel, crinkling it with each thrust of
Otabek’s hips. He grabs his arm and twists it behind his back, eyes drifting
the kitty, who looks at him still, big green eyes cast over his skinny shoulder
with his shiny pink lips parted, so scandalized. For a moment he’d almost
forgotten.
Rubbed raw, they decide to go paint. Trouble is, there’s no place more romantic
than the yard just before dawn. Jean doesn’t say it, but he knows Jean agrees.
Pink-gold puddles, tall summer corn in the farmer’s field behind them, chirping
frog songs, the wide columns of the overpass high above like the ruins of some
great, forgotten wonder of the world, and, most of all, the railcars like
gentle sleeping elephants, groaning and shifting in the changing light.
They end up in each other arms against an autorack, tongues in mouths, hands
everywhere. With dirty black jeans and black shirts and black hats they must
look, from a distance, like twins. No one interrupts. Otabek fucks him again,
in an empty car. He didn’t think it was possible, but he’s hard and willing. He
hasn’t fucked Jean since he got so infamous, but he knows it’s Jean he’s
fucking. King JJ isn’t here, tonight. Jean calls him, “Beka.” He bares his neck
for bites. It’s just another dawn on blow for them, no big deal. They’ve fucked
before.
No, the problem isn’t fucking Jean. The problem is falling asleep at noon--not
on the couch, not at his place, not with some naughty kitten skipping his
classes, but with Jean, in Jean’s bed, blackout curtains pulled tight, and Jean
pulled tight, too, breathing deep and steady, with Otabek’s arm curled around
his waist. He sleeps like a rock, drug-heavy.
Or maybe that’s not the problem, either. Not really. Jean is big, Jean is warm,
and Otabek hates sleeping alone. The real problem comes when he wakes up, hot,
groggy, and alone in the almost-dark, to muffled voices in the living room. He
listens, blinking bleary-eyed at a fancy chandelier earring stuck in the carpet
by the bed, until he recognizes 3some’s voice. He’s slinging his wares, which
means Jean must’ve called him here. Otabek finds his phone and his wallet and
drags on his clothes. He stands with his hand on the doorknob and sighs.
Fucking Jean  would  kiss and tell.
When he opens the bedroom door 3some stops mid-sentence, posed like a scientist
in a commercial with a glass vial in his hand full of clear liquid. He takes in
the sight of Otabek with an animal glee that he tries, at least, to keep off
his face. The results are mixed. All of that  caught you  and  knew it  and  I
fucking knew it  and  I can’t wait to tell everyone  is condensed down and
sharpened to a point.
“You didn’t invite me?” he asks, mouth twitching in the threat of a smile.
Otabek tries to glare it off his face, but he knows he’s lost this one.
Then Jean winks and says, “Maybe next time.” Fucking Jean.
“What’s that?” he asks, voice crackly with the burn of the thousand and one
cigarettes he and Jean shared all night, morning, and day, desperate to change
the subject. The vial’s more interesting than this, but 3some just wiggles his
eyebrows.
“Acid?” Otabek guesses. He’s not one for guessing but drugs are drugs. He wants
them all.
“No,” 3some says, gazing at it fondly.
“Molly water?”
3some just laughs, indulgent, and has the nerve to look at him, eyes crinkled
with pity, and say, “You need to free your mind, Otabek.”
“I’m going home,” he says, too tired to wait to find out, and half-terrified
Jean’s gonna try to kiss him goodbye. But Jean stays where he is, waving a hand
lifelessly. He’s halfway down the stairs when he remembers the zine. 3some and
Jean are right where he left them--3some extolling the virtues of his new
elixir and Jean draped boneless over the entirety of the couch. They both look
up.
“What’d you forget?” Jean asks.
Jesus, he must love this little kitten, because it’s humiliating to go skulking
back into Jean’s bedroom after the magazine he’d dragged to bed with him like
his favorite blanket. It’s not where he left it. “Where’s that zine at, Jean?”
he calls. There’s no answer. He picks up the blankets they’d fucked right off
the bed, then gets on his hands and knees to peer beneath it. Where the fuck is
it? “Jean?”
“What?” Jean’s voice closer than he expects, in the doorway.
“Where’s that um--” this is humiliating in the extreme. Otabek stands up
straight, “You think I can nab that  While You Were Sleeping ?”
Jean shrugs, “Sure.”
“Where is it?”
Jean smiles. Yeah, of course. Jean  would  enjoy this, “I dunno man, last I saw
you were holding it like a teddy bear.”
He must look mutinous, because Jean laughs at him and says, “Jesus. I’ll find
it for you, Beka, go home.”
Otabek doesn’t believe him. Jean’s capable of the strangest deceptions. But he
leaves, every step he takes away from that kitten like a rope pulling tighter
around his neck. He needs him, now.
He catches some tags on the way home. It’s not smart, it’s not the right thing
to do, and yet. That’s the theme of his day, so far. Fuck Jean. Catch tags in
broad daylight. He uses the chrome pen he had in his pocket until it busts over
his hand. Ah, well. The space between his place and Jean’s is smashed. It’ll
keep. It’s the same for the others. They've all woven a web of graff spreading
and spreading with Jean in the center.
Jean. Always in the center.
Otabek can’t sleep. If he had that zine he could rub one out looking at those
poor, pretty, pink-spanked cheeks and the babydoll’s wet open mouth. He’d love
to teach him to suck cock. He’d love to whisper all of his secrets in his sweet
little ear while he slept like an angel. And he has so many secrets. Thoughts
that glint like knives in the corners of his eyes. Thoughts that his mind bucks
and shies away from.
He falls asleep with music on to drown out the afternoon street, dreaming not
of kittens, but of one kitty, in particular. His phone wakes him up. Suddenly,
night, and he forgot to call off work. Jean says he wants to go get paint.
Otabek texts back yes.
He has time, smoking a good-morning spliff on the front steps while he waits
for Jean, to begin to question his choices--or one choice, in particular--but
Jean only lives a few blocks away and is there in his shitty old minivan before
Otabek can find any answers. Besides, he needs paint, too. He needs paint like
he needs a kitty moaning daddy at him. He always needs paint. Then a voice in
his head reminds him that he fucked Jean last night, this morning, today, and
not a kitty. Otabek grinds the spliff under his battered boot with a growl and
tells that voice to shut up.
Jean pulls up to the curb. He’s in high spirits, telling Otabek he hasn’t slept
at all. He and 3some tried that stuff in the vial and ended up on the roof,
spaced out for a few hours, but he’s good to drive. That, it turns out, is
debatable. Jean doesn’t drive so much as sail down the highway, weaving between
the lanes as he fights currents and strong waves Otabek can’t see.
How to steal paint: flip the stickers or scan a cheap can twenty times over at
the self-checkout, filling the bag with the good shit, but Jean--being Jean--
only likes to push carts.
“Why rack twenty when you could get a hundred?” Jean asks, slouched over the
cart as they turn toward the kitchen appliances. His pupils are big as an
owl’s, but he says he’s alright to steer the cart. “Besides, I gotta think
about Sun Machine.”
“You’re going?”
“Yeah, I got invited to live paint,” Jean says, then nods at twitchy fridge
salesmen who’s eyeing up the big chain swinging from Otabek’s leather jacket.
“Hey, man, you got any extra boxes?”
Otabek leans against the nearest fridge, arm crossed, feeling faint. “When, uh-
-” The blood’s rushing to his head. He doesn’t take Jean’s surprises very well,
ever. “You got invited?”
But Jean doesn’t hear him, negotiating with his new nervous friend for a big
enough box with which to rip off the store. Otabek tells himself to calm down.
He remembers his first Sun Machine, years ago. He’d lost his v-card there, to
some little raver in cat ears. His first kitten, who’d dazzled his eyes as he
walked past with these silly gloves with lasers mounted on the end of each
finger. Kitty paws with laser claws, and, naughty thing, he’d blinded Otabek as
he glowered past--pissed at Jean for some reason, he remembers that, too. After
he blinked the lasers away the kitty was there. He said  hi . Or shouted it.
Avas Avis was playing, loud, the lights smearing the big hill with orange and
the valley with blue, then the colors switched, or else the hill rolled forward
like a wave and left a new valley behind.
Otabek had two hits of acid on his tongue. Back then, what a child, he never
swallowed them, just kept them in his mouth so he could show off. He did just
that--showed the kitty his tongue and the kitty had stuck his own pretty pink
tongue out to show Otabek his. They’d fucked in the forest, away from the camp
ground, deep enough that the festival lights couldn’t reach. All they had for
light were the kitten’s laser-tipped paws. When Otabek took his little wrists
and pinned them up above his head on the tree, the leaves lit up purple, green,
and gold. Sex on acid wasn’t impossible, but it wasn’t sexy, either. More like
a science experiment, Otabek and the kitty standing aside from their bodies,
watching their molecules weave together. He still came. There are worse ways to
lose it.
After, they’d sat on the hill, Otabek absently braiding the kitten’s night-
black hair while they watched the live painters with their easels and the fire
dancers with their flames and the hula hoopers, faces in meditation, lit by the
glow of their hoops, and the drugged and happy crowd grinding and the lights
sweeping over everything and the great glowing stage with the dj enshrined and
giving off dark smoke like a cursed statue at its center and the trees and the
sky above--so many stars this far out in the country--and he’d thought he might
have finally found the answer to everything, got the joke,  broken through --as
3some liked to say of the great transcendence, wistful. But that was his first
Sun Machine. He saw it now for the black hole it was, disguised more
ingeniously than television, but no different in essence.  
“Perfect,” Jean says, dropping his new box into the cart. “Thanks, man,” he
flashes his shark smile at the man, then turns it on Otabek.
“Sun Machine’s for kids,” Otabek blurts out.
“Yeah,” Jean shrugs and keeps moving. Otabek is forced to abandon his fridge
sulk for a walking pout. “I’m getting paid, though. Festy staff,” he says with
a wink, oblivious to Otabek’s bad mood. Jean pantomimes a blowjob, tongue stuck
in his cheek, then sobers up with a sigh when Otabek doesn’t laugh. “For real,
though, I’m thinking of taking Bella. Got a couple free tickets, so--” he
trails off.
Otabek doesn’t say a word, jaw clenched. It’s the stupidest idea he’s ever
heard. Bella at Sun Machine. Jean getting paid by Sun Machine. Thank fuck they
arrive at the paint aisle right then, and silently get to work loading the box
up. White, black, and red. That’s all Otabek wants. Maybe some cornflower blue.
Green? His head spins, but he tries to help. Jean moves faster, six pack of
black, six pack of white, red, red, red, blue. They’re on the same page. But
Jean got invited to live paint, and Otabek didn’t.
“How long’ve you known?” he hears himself ask. Jean looks up suddenly, those
big blue eyes wide, and Otabek realizes he’s given himself away. Fuck.
“Beka--” Jean starts.
Fuck.
“I think we got enough,” Otabek says, and grabs the cart, swinging it--heavy
with paint--toward the garden center. It’s called pushing a cart ‘cause that’s
the idea--aim a cart at the exit and don’t stop. The key is to look pissed.
Otabek finds it easy, today.
“You should come,” Jean says, keeping up with long strides. “We’ll set up an
easel for you, fuck them, y’know? Me and 3some--”
“3some got in?”
“Nah. I mean, yeah, but like, he just asked if--you how how it is with him.
We’ll get you in, too.”
“I don’t want in,” Otabek says, as the sliding doors slip open to the garden
center, the air thick with fertilizers, pesticides, death--”Sun Machine has
sponsors, now. It’s no better than fucking Bonnaroo. There were cops last
year.”
“Yeah, I know.” Jean waves at the lone cashier and says, “We’re good, thanks!”
as they blow past. They keep pace to the van, not looking back. That part’s
important, too. Don’t look back.
“I figured you weren’t interested,” Jean says.
“Yeah,” Otabek says. “No. I’m not.”
“Yeah,” Jean says, again. But he knows. He knows Otabek too well. And he hadn’t
said a word about this. 3some, either. “That’s what I figured.”
Together, they lift the box to throw it in the back of the van, but the bottom
gives out, cans rattling as they spill into the cart. “Fuck!” They rush to get
the cans in, Jean peeking up like a prairie dog to check on the cashier. “She’s
on the phone. She looks pissed,” he says.
“The fuck does it matter to her?” Otabek says, “It’s not her paint.”
They release the cart into the parking lot wild and jump in, peeling off
victorious as the cans rattle and roll in the back. Otabek lights another
spliff and passes it to Jean. His adrenaline flows from his brain to his heart
to his fingers to his toes. He’s all lit up with it. He rolls his window down,
lets the air hit him. He feels better.
“Yeah, I think I’ll sit this one out,” he says, watching the box store recede
in the sideview mirror until it blends into the next--big beige rectangles,
rising up one after another, far into the distance like sand dunes. “You know I
can’t trip around that corporate shit.”
“That’s what I thought. I knew you wouldn’t care.” Jean says, looking too happy
with himself for Otabek’s taste. But it’s chill. He accepts the spliff back.
Jean  would  get all hyped on some cleaned-up joke of a festival. He only
paints to feed his own ego. Not Otabek. He doesn’t want the world to find them,
to praise them, to pay them. He just wants to destroy it. Art for profit. The
false god of property. He looks into his own burning eyes in the mirror, half-
listening as Jean sings along to the same mix that’s been playing since this
time last year, one Otabek made. He needs some new music.
At Jean’s they sit on the floor and sort their paint, happy as kids on
Halloween night. Fifty-three cans each. “Let’s use it,” Jean says.
Otabek holds up his hand. He hasn’t forgotten, this time. “Not yet. Did you
find that zine?”
“Hn?”Jean feigns deafness.
Otabek expected this, if nothing else today. He stands up, walking behind him
so his legs are pressed to Jean’s back. He grabs him by the hair, tugging. “You
heard me.”
It’d be a perfect moment, except Jean likes it too much, grinning up at him
upside down like it’s a game. “I swear I looked,” he blinks his puppy dog eyes.
“You know I don’t make a big deal out of things,” Otabek says.
“Mmhm,” Jean says, ‘cause it’s true that Otabek makes a big deal out of things.
He knows that. But this is important. The angel is the first bright light in
his life since--since when? Hard to say. He tugs Jean’s hair again, and Jean
winces, biting his lip. Fuck if this isn’t working for Otabek, though. Maybe he
just needs to take it all out on Jean. The kitten. Sun Machine. Everything.
“Tell me where you hid it,” Otabek says. “Or I’m not gonna fuck you.”
“You’re crazy,” Jean says. Otabek pushes his head forward, starting on his
belt. Jean turns, cans skittering across the floor, to help. He raises up on
his knees, nuzzling his face against Otabek’s jeans. He’s so easy, but he
doesn’t expect the belt around his neck. Otabek pulls it tight to hold like a
leash in his hand. He knows Jean wants to be choked. It’s why he talks so much-
-he’s just begging for someone to stop him. Otabek wonders, tugging it hard to
the side so Jean loses his balance, catching himself with a hand, if Bella’s
found out yet.
“You’re gonna suck my cock until you’re ready to confess,” Otabek says.
Jean smiles his cat-with-cream smile up at him, “I didn’t do anything wrong.”
  
“Wrong answer,” Otabek says, slipping his hand down the belt to pull it tight,
close to his neck, holding him right there as he fumbles his cock free of his
boxers and pushes the head between Jean’s plush lips, turning pink-white as
they stretch around his cock. Easy.
Jean moans, eyes fluttering shut as he tries to suck--light-headed and pale and
paler, until Otabek lets him go, tickling the tip of the belt over the bridge
of Jean’s nose as he catches his breath.
“Fuck,” Jean licks his lips and stares up at Otabek under his dark lashes,
leaning in to nuzzle his cheek against Otabek’s cock. Otabek gives his leash
another tug. He’s gonna drive his puppy crazy.
Jean’s mouth is wet and warm. He’s so good, tongue swiping against the
underside, stroking the thick vein. Otabek groans and tug his leash sharply.
Jean fights it, choking himself to get back to Otabek’s cock. He slips his hand
up to play with his balls, sneaking another glance into Otabek’s eyes. There’s
something in that look, though, that wide-open puppy dog look, that returns
Otabek to this spot, one year ago, and it’s like a bomb dropping in his mind.
Jean just wants to please. The thought nearly topples Otabek to the side. Like
a ghost of his past self has pushed him, punched him, grabbed him, and said
how did you let this happen again . How had he forgotten, after last time.
It makes his stomach flip. It’s just that. He’s buried it so deep, to stay
friends. But. He hadn’t known about Bella. Not a word out of Jean’s big mouth.
Just, one day, Jean pulling away when Otabek grabbed the scruff of his puppy’s
neck to pull him in for a kiss. Jean batted his hand off with a, “Hey, man.”
Man. Dude. It wasn’t what Jean had been calling him. “Why can’t I date her?”
he’d asked, when Otabek had wrapped himself up in thick bitterness and at last
spat out a few poisoned-tipped words. “I like her, why shouldn’t I?” Because
Otabek’s heart was broken into pieces at Jean’s feet. But what did that matter?
“Get on the bed,” he growls. Maybe he’d lost, but who’s got King JJ on a
fucking leash, one year later? He’s a good puppy for his Beka, he knows to
crawl.
He’s not nice to Jean, pulling his pants and boxers down all at once and
roughly. There’s no kitty-whispering pillow talk until he’s giggly and pink.
There’s just Otabek yanking back hard on the leash until Jean’s broad back
arches. His body is beautiful. Otabek doesn’t tell him. He grabs the lube from
where it last fell and rubs over his tender, red rim with slick fingers,
coaxing it loose. He doesn’t tell him his cunt is all wet, that it can’t fit in
that little hole. It can, and even if Jean moans and says  fuck me --does he
really like it at all? Or is it just a way to keep Otabek close. All he wants
is to keep Otabek close. He’d said that to Otabek’s face, close enough to kiss.
Big puppy dog eyes, his fat, ripe lips and all. Jean didn’t lose him. But what
did Otabek lose?
He yanks the leash with a growl. Jean’s tight walls squeeze his fingers as he
moans, then he pours more lube right between his cheeks so Jean jumps,
surprised. Two fingers, then three. “Fuck yourself,” he says.
Jean rolls his hips, lube squelching out, and looks over his shoulder. “Like
this, daddy?” he asks.
“Don’t--” Otabek says, then, “ Fuck ,” lust dense as white fog behind his eyes.
He pushes Jean face first into the sheets and drives his cock into him. Palm
over his face, pushing his cock in, the angle forcing it as deep as it will go.
Jean’s not a kitty but he is a dirty slut, and he lifts his ass for that cock.
He wants it so bad. He’s not such a good boy, after all.  
“Daddy--”
“Shut up!” Otabek isn’t gentle, twisting his fingers in Jean’s hair and keeping
him right where he wants him. Jean sneaks a hand beneath himself, stroking
himself, eyes squeezing shut but his mouth wide open, panting, his cheeks
pretty pink. He looks so young, like the little sixteen-year-old asshole Otabek
tracked down in the yard and punched for biting his style, before crossing him
out all around town, before they were friends, when Otabek would wake up, cock
spent, from dreams of him. Otabek pulls him up onto his hands and knees to fuck
the puppy right. He snaps his hips, pulling back on the leash so Jean couldn’t
say that word again if he wanted to. He can’t say anything--not until Otabek
comes in him, whipping the tip of his belt against Jean’s face.  Take that, you
fuck , he thinks.  You broke my heart . Jean comes, too, with a gasp, one hand
drifting up to touch his neck, his stung cheek, as if that will help.
Then Jean laughs, breathless, rolling onto his back. “That was fun,” he says,
smiling. Like it meant nothing.
It didn’t. Otabek has to remind himself of that. It didn’t mean anything, and
it never had. Not to Jean.  
End Notes
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