Yuri on Ice, Maybe He’s Born With It (Maybe It’s Phichit)

Title: Maybe He’s Born With It (Maybe It’s Phichit) [Yuri/Otabek, Phichit]
Rating/Warnings: G
Summary: Phichit altruistically saves Yuri from the melodramatic makeup tendencies of his fellow Russians.
AN: Written for shiritori. So the Yoi calendar broke this morning and there is some magical action happening, such as the Hasetsu Ice Exposition where everyhing in this picture is magic, Georgi seems to have done Yuri’s makeup, and if you’ve somehow never noticed, Phichit has eyeliner wings in canon.

Maybe He’s Born With It (Maybe It’s Phichit)

“My name goes first,” Yuri insists, leaning over Otabek’s shoulder. He’s still wearing his makeup from the exhibition and probably smudging it on Otabek’s shirt, but Otabek doesn’t seem to care. “Namesquish tags are alphabetical.”

Otabek looks up from his phone, mouth curled in that little smile he wears when Yuri is being entirely unreasonable and he thinks it’s adorable. “My family name starts with A, Yura. Literally every part of my name comes before yours in every alphabet ever.”

“You don’t know every alphabet, you snob. Yurabeka sounds way better than Otayuri, and you know it, c’mon.” Yuri makes a grab for Otabek’s phone, but despite his continuing growth spurt, Otabek holds it out of his reach, dodging Yuri’s hands while still typing on his phone.

“Too late, posted,” Otabek announces, only grinning when Yuri stomps his foot and huffs. “You use your tag and I’ll use mine, and we’ll see which is more popular, hmm?”

“The point is for them to match, stupid,” Yuri protests, but Otabek just strolls away, self-satisfied. ‘Uuugh!” He turns to find Phichit Chulanont, of all people, grinning at him. “What?”

“Yuuuuri,” Phichit all but purrs, sidling up to him. “Hey hey, want a little fashion advice? Might help you get your way.”

Yuri looked Phichit up and down from his hot pink tights to his denim cutoffs to his star-spangled tank top. “Are you fucking kidding me, Chulanont?”

“Not that.” Phichit’s grin is easy, but his hand is quick like a viper striking, fingers rubbing high across Yuri’s cheekbone and coming back smudged with bruise-purple eyeshadow. He snorts. “Georgi. Wanna learn to do it right?”

“What for? Exhibition’s over.” Yuri rubs idly at the ridge of his eyebrow, leaving another smear of makeup down the back of his hand.

Phichit just laughs as he throws an arm around Yuri’s shoulder. “Oh you precious baby panda, leave everything to Phichit-senpai!”

“In no universe are you my senpai in any sense of the word,” Yuri grumbles, but somehow he finds himself pulled along anyway.

They end up back in the dressing room area, cramped with a sea of everyone’s stuff, a few other drifting in and out to change or rifle through their bag. Phichit ignores all of that and steers Yuri over to one of the mirrors, hip-checking him up to sit on the counter, back to the mirror. Phichit unearths his bag from where it’s half-buried by Guanghong’s and Leo’s, and digs around in it for a moment.

“Here,” Phichit hands Yuri a packages of makeup wipes. “Wipe that mess off.”

He goes back to digging around in his bag. It takes Yuri three of the wipes to get all of the purples and grays off his face. It’s a relief to feel like his skin is clean, and Yuri eyes the eyeliner pencil which which Phichit is approaching him which deep misgivings.

“I’m good actually,” Yuri tries to protest, but it’s too late; Phichit’s already stepping neatly in between his legs, boxing him in against the mirror.

“No squirming, now,” Phichit says, managing to sound ominous despite his cutesy grin. “Close your eyes. The trick is understatement, that’s what you Russians don’t understand. Too much melodrama and vodka and who all knows what.”

Yuri feels the efficient flicks of the eyeliner pencil across the bottom of his eyelid while Phichit chatters on, Phichit’s hand steady and practiced. He frowns a bit when the tip of the pencil traces out just a bit past the corner of his eye and lingers there another second, filling in.

“All right, open. Look up at the ceiling,” Phichit orders. Yuri does, and Phichit finishes by tracing along Yuri’s bottom eyelid, from not quite the whole way over. “Mm, perfect. Take a look.”

Phichit backs up so that Yuri can hop down. When he turns around, Yuri has to admit it’s impressive; the green of his eyes pops way more obviously, but until he leans in closer the actual line of the eyeliner isn’t clear. He can even forgive Phichit the wings because, although he mostly associates them with one of Mila’s most annoying teenage time periods, he has to admit that he rocks them rather well.

“Yes, I am rather a genius,” Phichit says airily, leaning in beside Yuri to examine his handiwork. Yuri feels something slide into his back pocket and is about to protest when he realizes it’s the eyeliner pencil. “Keep it! You need to practice. Yuuri’s can do it for you too, but hooooo boy, don’t let Victor walk in on that, y’know!” Phichit grabs Yuri by the shoulders and spins him around, ignoring his splutters that he does not know. “Showtime, my winged baby bird! Go find that cute Kazakh dumpling of yours and see if he doesn’t just give you everything you want as soon as you bat your new lashes.”

“What the fuck,” Yuri curses, but he keeps going in the direction Phichit pushes him because it seems safer than staying here, for sure. And he might be just a teensy bit interested in what Otabek’s reaction will be.

“Good luck!” Phichit calls as Yuri passes through the door. The sleazy wink is clearly audible in his voice. “Don’t get into too much trouble!”

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