Chapter Text
The pottery studio was warm with the hum of equipment and the gentle spin of wheels turning clay into something more. Natural light filtered through the high windows, catching in the fine dust that floated in the air like powder.
Yuri sat hunched over his wheel, apron streaked with slip and clay dust up to his elbows. His blonde hair, already tousled into its usual 70s shag, looked even more chaotic under the dim studio lights. Sweat had plastered a few strands to his forehead, and near his temple, a smudge of clay was stubbornly holding on, half-dried and blending into the pale gold of his hair.
It didn’t matter how careful he tried to be, how often he pulled his sleeves up or tied the apron tight—working with clay was messy. And Yuri, for all his precision, wasn’t immune to it. Especially not with that shag of his that never stayed out of his face, no matter how many times he pushed it back with the side of his wrist, leaving more clay than before.
Still, there was something comforting about it. He belonged here: in that haze of dust, sculpting something from the earth with quiet intensity, completely absorbed, the chaos of his hair and the grime only making him more himself.
His brows pulled together in that intense, unblinking focus he always wore when deep in the zone.
The clay between his hands wobbled slightly, but he was quick to center it again, palms firm but precise, guiding the form like it was instinct. It was almost meditative, the gentle rhythm of the spinning wheel, the feel of wet clay taking shape beneath his fingers. This piece— one of the pieces for his final for his advanced studio class had to be perfect. It wasn’t just for the grade, but for the gallery showcase he was invited to.
A place where he had to be seen. Where people would pause in front of his work, take photos, maybe read the name card beside the sculpture and—god—for a moment, think they knew something about him. The thought made his stomach twist. Not because he didn’t want it. He did . But it was also terrifying.
His fingers faltered slightly, then refocused.
The gallery wasn’t like the studio. It wasn’t quiet and safe. It wasn’t a place where he could hide behind a wheel and a smudge of clay and pretend he wasn’t there. It was bright lights and strangers and questions. It was a version of exposure he didn’t know how to prepare for. The piece had to look good. It had to mean something. It had to stand there and speak on his behalf, loud and clear, when his own voice might fail.
For his dignity. For his pride. For the small, silent part of himself that had always been afraid of being looked at, and the even smaller, braver part that had always wanted to be seen anyway.
Hours had passed. Maybe more. Time always slipped when Yuri was working, especially when it mattered. He’d been hunched like this all afternoon, jaw tight, sleeves rolled up, completely ignoring the way his shoulders ached and his spine protested the position.
Then—sharp.
A sudden jolt shot up from his wrist, white and blinding, so different from the dull muscle ache he was used to. Yuri hissed and immediately yanked his hand away, nearly splattering clay as the wheel kept spinning for a second too long before he hit the pedal.
He cradled his left wrist in his right hand, pressing his thumb gently into the joint and grimacing at the tender ache pulsing under his skin.
“Shit,” he muttered, under his breath. His fingers flexed slowly, thumb circling the sore spot like it would coax the pain out.
Cramping. It had to be cramping.
He got those sometimes—occupational hazard, working so often and so intensely with his hands. His professors warned about it, but Yuri always thought that kind of thing happened to other people. Older people. People who didn’t know how to pace themselves.
He flexed again. Soreness radiated from the base of his thumb to his forearm.
“Okay,” he exhaled, trying to shake it off.
With a practiced motion, he wiped his hands clean on a towel nearby, fingers still a little stiff as he reached for his water bottle. As he drank, his eyes drifted back to the wheel. The clay was lopsided now, slumped in the center from the loss of his hand. A half-finished shape.
Useless.
Yuri’s lips pressed into a thin line. He set the bottle down and rolled his wrist carefully in a circle. Then again in the other direction. There was tension there, a pressure that didn’t feel like normal strain but he told himself it was fine. Stretch it out. Massage the tendons a bit. Rest for a few minutes. It’d pass.
It always did.
It had to.
The gallery was too important. This piece was too important.
It wasn’t just another assignment, it was the assignment. The one that would be displayed, scrutinized, judged. A public presentation of everything he’d learned, everything he was . And as much as Yuri hated the idea of standing around in some stuffy, overlit room pretending he wasn’t crawling in his own skin, he couldn’t shake the thought of what would happen if the piece didn’t turn out.
It had to speak for him. His hands were the only part of himself that ever knew how to talk. So even as his wrist throbbed and his fingers stiffened with fatigue, he breathed in through his nose, curled his palm into a loose fist, and told himself again:
It’ll pass.
He couldn’t afford for it not to.
Thus, he turned back toward the wheel, hands hovering over the collapsed clay. His fingers ached to fix it, to return to the motion and rhythm, but for the first time in a while, he hesitated.
Only for a moment.
Then he sat back down. Pressed his foot to the pedal. Wet his hands. Told himself it was fine.
And kept working.
The theater was dim, except for the sharp slices of light cutting across the stage in soft golds and icy blues. Yuri stood near the front row of the house, arms crossed over his chest, lips pressed in concentration as he watched Mina scramble up and down the stage adjusting gels and snapping commands at the tech crew.
“Does that one hit too warm?” she called, pointing to the second rig overhead.
Yuri tilted his head, narrowed his eyes. “Slightly. The contrast’s better if you bring the cool tone stage left by two degrees. It’ll help balance out the amber from that overhead wash.”
Mina snapped her fingers. “See? Artist’s eye. I knew asking you was the right call.”
Yuri gave a modest shrug, trying not to smile too much. He hadn’t expected to enjoy this—being dragged from the ceramics lab into the dusty black box theater but there was something surprisingly satisfying about watching the lighting bend at his suggestions, shaping the mood of a scene without a single prop. Almost like sculpting, in a different language.
He walked slowly toward the stage, gesturing toward one of the newer fresnels, carefully tracking how the shadows fell. But halfway into the movement, the sharp ache struck again—his wrist, left side, that same gnawing stab that had started creeping in more and more.
His breath caught sharply, just for a second. He stopped mid-step, flexing his hand as subtly as possible, letting it fall casually to his side while his fingers gently rolled at his wrist to test the strain.
It burned.
Shit.
Yuri shifted his weight to hide the slight tremble that followed, trying to stretch without making it obvious. He clenched his hand into a slow fist behind the hem of his jacket, biting down on the familiar frustration.
“You good?” Mina asked, one brow raised as she descended the steps from the stage. “You winced.”
“I’m fine.” It came out too quick, but calm. Practiced. He lifted his chin, pushing his hands into the front pocket of his faded denim jeans as casually as possible, hiding the one that still throbbed. “Just bad posture. I’ve been standing weird.”
Mina eyed him for a moment, but didn’t press. She knew Yuri was private, and unless he was bleeding on the floor, she wasn’t about to make a scene.
“Alright,” she relented, moving to the light board. “You still good to stay another hour?”
“Yeah. Of course.”
Yuri nodded, then exhaled slowly through his nose when she turned her back. His hand burned, the pain creeping up his arm like an old warning sign. He wouldn’t show it. Not here. Not in front of Mina, or the tech kids hauling rigs and props. It was nothing. Just strain. Overuse.
He’d stretch it out later.
Or lie awake again tonight massaging it in silence, refusing to let it interfere with his projects.
But for now, he pressed his lips together, took another step closer to the stage, and tried to focus on the glow of the lights and how the blue shimmered like water across the curtain.
Yuri was walking back to his dorm, hoodie pulled up over his pale hair, earbuds in and eyes set on the pavement like it owed him something. The autumn breeze tugged at the sleeves of his jacket, and all he wanted was to get back to his room, maybe collapse into bed and forget the day. His backpack was heavy with sketchbooks and a half-finished ceramic model wrapped in towels. His wrist still ached from earlier in the theater, a dull throb that hadn't faded even after stretches and deliberate ignorance.
Then, from across the quad—
“ Yo, Yuri! ”
Yuri flinched, head snapping up just in time to see Wally jogging toward him, grinning like a golden retriever with a mission, a football tucked under his arm.
“Don’t you dare—” he started, but Wally was already pulling back and tossing the ball in a clean spiral toward him.
It wasn’t far. Just a few meters. Normally, Yuri would let it hit the ground out of sheer spite for the sport and everything it stood for, but he’d learned to deal with Wally. Dating Charley had come with a package deal: late-night group study sessions, chaotic movie nights, and of course, Wally’s relentless attempts to turn every hallway into a scrimmage zone.
Yuri rolled his eyes, sighed like he was about to be crucified, and lifted both hands to catch the ball—
Pain. Sharp, twisting pain.
He sucked in a breath through his teeth as the ball hit his palms. His fingers adjusted, but the moment he gripped, his wrist flared. He flinched, visibly, and nearly dropped the damn thing before securing it against his chest.
Wally’s smile faltered instantly.
“Whoa—dude, are you okay?”
Yuri forced his expression into neutral territory, holding the football like it was an inconvenience instead of a jagged reminder that something was wrong. “Fine.”
“Uh, no. You winced,” Wally said, stepping closer, brows knitting in genuine concern. “That looked like pain, not ‘I hate football’ pain, like actual pain pain.”
Yuri shoved the football back into Wally’s arms with a bit more force than necessary and muttered, “I don’t wince. That was surprise. You threw it without warning.”
“Because you were looking right at me. ” Wally raised an eyebrow, adjusting his grip on the ball. “What’s going on? Is this from pottery?”
He hesitated a second too long, and Wally caught it.
“You’ve been overworking it, haven’t you?” he said, more gently this time.
Yuri hated that. Hated being read that easily. Hated that even someone like Wally could pick up on it. He wasn’t supposed to be an open book, his entire life was built around not being one. But apparently, being with Charley came with the side effect of being understood through proxy.
Charley talked. A lot. About everything. Especially about him .
So now even Wally knew the things Yuri tried to keep to himself. Knew that Yuri had a tendency to work until he broke something, that he’d downplay his pain like it was nothing, that if he went quiet and stiff-limbed it usually meant something was wrong.
Yuri glanced away, jaw tight. The sky looked like it was going to rain soon. Heavy clouds loomed like they knew something he didn’t.
“It’s just sore,” he muttered.
Wally huffed, like he didn’t believe him but also didn’t want to push too hard. “Charley knows?”
Yuri hesitated again.
That was enough of an answer.
“Dude. He’s gonna kill you for hiding it,” Wally said, then added with a sideways grin, “lovingly.”
Yuri rubbed at his wrist without thinking. “He worries too much.”
“Yeah. Because he loves you, man. That’s kinda how that works.”
There was a pause.
“It’s nothing.” Yuri said with a sigh.
“Right.” Wally gave him a look. “Well, next time nothing stops you from catching a ball like a tragic Victorian orphan, I’m dragging you to the campus nurse myself.”
Yuri rolled his eyes. “Please don’t.”
Wally chuckled and tossed the ball lightly back into his hands, gentler this time. Yuri managed to hold it without flinching.
Still, the dull ache didn’t go away. Neither did Wally’s concern, evident in the way he slowed his steps to match Yuri’s as they continued across the quad in comfortable silence.
Yuri supposed he should’ve been annoyed.
But... it wasn’t the worst thing, knowing Charley’s people had his back too.
It was late, past midnight.
Yuri’s room was quiet aside from the low hum of the mini fridge and the occasional distant shout from someone outside the dorm. He was curled up in bed, half-buried beneath the covers, a worn t-shirt hanging loose over his collarbones. His left wrist throbbed again, the pain sharper than usual. Maybe it was because he hadn’t taken the pain meds yet, or maybe because he’d been stupid enough to try sketching again earlier.
The gallery project still lingered like a weight behind his ribs, pressing every time he let his thoughts wander. The centerpiece was still just a concept floating in his head, a concept that should’ve been on paper days ago. That was why he’d tried to sketch. Just a rough draft, he’d told himself. A way to get something—anything—down before the ideas started slipping through his fingers like wet clay.
But his hand hadn’t cooperated. Every line felt like it cost something. And now the pain was worse.
Still, he kept thinking about it: how the gallery showcase wasn’t just about the grade. It was about showing up. Being seen. Not hiding.
And if he couldn’t finish it? He didn’t want to think that far yet.
Either way, it was relentless. He cradled the wrist beneath the blanket, as if hiding it—even from himself—might dull the ache.
The screen of his phone lit up on the nightstand, buzzing softly. He didn’t need to check who it was. Only one person texted him this late without hesitation.
Charley.
Yuri’s lips curved just a little as he reached for the phone, unlocking it with a quick swipe. A FaceTime request. He hesitated—he looked tired, his hair was a mess, and he’d been nursing this damn wrist all evening, but it was Charley. Always Charley.
He accepted the call.
Charley’s face popped up, slightly pixelated in the warm glow of his desk lamp. His glasses reflected the screen at first, but then he shifted and beamed, all teeth and fondness. “Hey, babe.”
Yuri leaned into the pillow, smiling softly. “Hey.”
“You look handsome tonight,” Charley said, without missing a beat. “Even with that bedhead.”
Yuri snorted, pushing his bangs back a little. “I’m literally in pajamas.”
But Charley’s words lingered, unexpectedly warm. Being called attractive—even in this rumpled, tired, slightly grumpy state felt like a lot. Not because Yuri didn’t want to hear it, but because it still caught him off guard. Charley always said things like that with so much certainty, so much ease, like it wasn’t even a question. As if Yuri didn’t have to try or earn it. He was just… already enough. That was still hard to wrap his head around, even now.
“And I’m literally dying without you over here.” Charley sighed dramatically, resting his cheek on his hand. “When do I get my boyfriend back? The one who sneaks me snacks and lets me complain about professors for an hour straight without judgment?”
Yuri chuckled, soft and dry. “You don’t need snacks. You need a nap.”
“I can want both.” Charley tilted his head, a grin tugging at his lips. “How’s the project going?”
He shifted on his bed, careful to keep his left wrist out of frame.
“Tiring. I’ve been stuck on the shaping part for days. Nothing’s turning out the way I want.”
Charley pouted. “I wish I could be there. I’d totally cheer you on in the least helpful but most enthusiastic way.”
“You already do.” Yuri’s voice dropped just a little, filled with more affection than he usually let show. Only Charley ever gets that privilege. “FaceTime counts.”
“I guess,” Charley murmured, looking at him like he was the only person in the world. “Still wish I could hold you right now.”
Yuri’s chest tightened. He closed his eyes for a moment and let the ache in his wrist be replaced—if just for a second—by the warmth blooming in his stomach. “Me too.”
They talked more, about nothing and everything. Class. Rhonda’s new chaotic roommate. Wally’s karaoke phase (they both agreed that it unfortunately, was not a phase). There was teasing, and flirting, and that playful edge that always simmered beneath their conversations. But Yuri was still glad the camera was angled just right. Charley hadn’t noticed how stiffly Yuri had been holding his arm, how his fingers hadn’t curled fully all evening.
He was also grateful Wally hadn’t said anything earlier. Not that Wally would, not without asking first, he was surprisingly considerate like that but still. Yuri wasn’t ready. Not for the worried look Charley would give him. Not for the guilt. Not when he didn’t even know what was wrong with his wrist yet.
“All right,” Charley finally said, rubbing his eyes. “I should go before I pass out on this keyboard.”
Yuri hummed. “Sweet dreams.”
“I’ll probably have one of you, so yeah.”
Yuri rolled his eyes, smiling. “Cheesy. Goodnight, Charley.”
“Goodnight, love.”
The call ended, and the room was quiet again. Yuri lay there in the dark, phone warm in his hand, the pulse in his wrist reminding him with every throb that this wasn’t going away. Still, he kept the screen lit a second longer, just to look at the last frame of Charley’s face—still smiling like Yuri had never been anything but worthy of it.
He exhaled, long and slow, and finally set the phone aside.
Tomorrow, maybe, he’d tell him.