Chapter Text
Go where you'll be challenged, they said. Choose the coach who will push you the hardest, they said. It had seemed like good advice at the time. And so Yuuri had turned down several offers from very good coaches, including an excellent one from Celestino Cialdini in Detroit, in order to train with Yakov Feltsman in St Petersburg. But a month after arriving in Russia, Yuuri wished he'd listened to the one person—a dime-a-dozen skater who'd reminded Yuuri uncomfortably of himself, which had made him easy to ignore—who'd said, It's hard to be the small fish in a big pond.
It was an honor to train with Yakov Feltsman. Feltsman saw more in five minutes than most coaches could in an hour. So if all Yuuri got was five minutes, he still came out ahead, right? If he listened carefully, took every word to heart, a single sentence could keep him busy for most of a day.
And of course it was a dream come true to train alongside Victor Nikiforov. He spent all day with his idol! Just... at a remove. He knew all about Victor's training regimen, for example. Pre-ice stretches? Check. Strength training program? Double check. Jump practice on the trampoline and in the safety harness? Yuuri could eavesdrop to his heart's content. He'd had to sign a non-disclosure agreement so he couldn't tell the press that Victor tried (and failed) to land a quadruple axel in the harness at least once a day. Being in the know made Yuuri feel important. And watching Victor practice his routines, refine his choreography on the ice, was a true gift. He was painfully beautiful, even in faded and stained training gear. His skating took Yuuri's breath away, always. Every time.
But they didn't chat. They didn't hang out. They didn't eat lunch together or fool around on the ice or exchange tips.
Naturally, Feltsman spent more time on Victor than anyone else. They had an odd relationship, warm but quite combative. Half the time, Victor ignored his coach. But the same could not be said in reverse. Often while Yuuri was aggressively soaking up his (not at all resented!) five minutes with Feltsman, the old man would pause to shout out an instruction to Victor.
Victor was the big fish. Yuuri had never felt so small.
***
An inquisitor armed with pincers, time, and taste for cruelty could have forced some very embarrassing confessions out of Yuuri: "I admit it! My deepest, darkest fantasy is that Victor Nikiforov will feel my eyes on him as he's skating and instantly realize that no one loves him as much as I do and no one ever will. He'll take me home with him and I'll worship him forever!" and then "Enough! I confess! When I say worship I mean with my tongue!" and, if the Inquisitor were particularly cruel, "And one day we'll skate together and he'll watch me on the ice the way I watch him."
Without the pincers, those fantasies stayed right where they belonged: locked and vaulted inside his daydreams.
Yuri had shared one of his more modest fantasies with Yuuko before he left Japan. It hadn't seemed too far-fetched at the time. "Do you think, if Victor and I are rinkmates, that we might become friends?" And Yuuko had replied, "I'm sure of it! Once he has a chance to know you, he'll love you. How could he resist?"
He was glad that he'd only told Yuuko. She was kind and wouldn't laugh when he told her how wrong he'd been.
Victor made a point of welcoming Yuuri to the rink, offering to answer questions and provide guidance when he could. Friendly, pleasant, sincere. But Yuuri hadn't had any questions that Victor Nikiforov and only Victor Nikiforov could answer, so that hadn't gone anywhere. And Victor hadn't approached him since.
The long and short of it was that he was alone in a foreign country where he didn't speak the language, surrounded by better skaters who challenged him (but also made him feel very, very insignificant), working himself to the bone to earn crumbs of attention from his coach, and eating his own heart out with longing because he'd honestly felt closer to Victor when they were continents apart.
***
He lived in a dormitory near the rink. Mila Babacheva drove him to an Asian grocery store twice a month and in exchange Yuuri shared the meals he cooked. But nothing tasted quite like home and eating familiar dishes sharpened his homesickness instead of soothing it. A smarter person would have learned new recipes. Yuuri ate his feelings and made more feelings to eat in the process.
At least Mila seemed happy.
Yuri was eating oversalted homemade ramen when he got the email from his new assistant coach with the subject PRELIMINARY MUSIC SELECTION. It automatically added a fifteen minute appointment to his calendar to discuss the music he hoped to use for his new routines with Feltsman. He had two weeks to make his choices and burn them onto a CD for his coach. The assistant coach had the necessary equipment in his office, if Yuuri did not.
Yuuri had never chosen his own music. The email, the chance to do something new and explore a new way to make his skating his own, was the first thing to excite him in months. He spent the evening browsing his music library but nothing caught his interest. Frustrated, he bought tickets to a dozen local concerts. Most were cheap, just university chamber orchestras and church groups. But he splurged on a ticket to the ballet, a nosebleed seat with a pillar blocking most of his view.
In the end, he settled on Erik Satie's 3 Gymnopedies for his short program. It came closest to encapsulating Yuuri's mood since he arrived in Russia, beautiful but melancholy. Or, in a sentence: the most amazing thing just happened, is actually still happening, and I am so, so sad.
***
His first year in Seniors went well. His anxiety never went away but the triggers shifted. The judges weren't half as scary as Yakov. The other competitors weren't as intimidating as his rinkmates. He used to get nervous about falling during a competition, fixating on how he'd disappoint the audience and by extension his friends, his family, and also his entire country. But over the last six months he he'd fallen flat on his face in front of Victor Nikiforov many dozens of times, often while failing to land jumps that Victor could do in his sleep.
Shame had a new meaning for him now.
For example: At the NHK, he flubbed half his jumps and winced while an assistant coach did her best Yakov impression at the Kiss and Cry before the loudspeakers announced a sub-standard score that landed him in fifth place with several skaters yet to go. Embarrassing, shameful, disappointing.
Alternate example: Yuuri tripped over his own toepick at the home rink and belly-flopped right into Victor's path. Victor swerved to avoid a collision, offered Yuuri a hand up and chirped, "Falling at my feet again, Yuuri? I'm flattered, but let's not make a habit of it," before winking and zooming away. Yuri had wished himself, intensely and fruitlessly, to the bottom of the world's deepest oubliette. Or to Anarctica. Or a monastery in Tibet. Anyplace so remote that he'd never have to look another human being in the eye ever again.
So, yeah. Competitions. They were almost almost relaxing by comparison.
***
He had a panic attack before the free skate at Worlds, flubbed half his jumps, and came in last. You're only twenty, said everyone. You'll do better next year. And yeah, he might. But what if he didn't? It didn't take long to cement a reputation. Two golds in a row would make him a star. Two catastrophic failures would make him a loser.
No pressure though.
He escaped the sympathetic well-wishers as early as he could and took a long walk instead. Walking alone through a vibrant, bustling city always made him feel his own insignificance but in a soothing way. His priorities rebalanced, his goals felt a little more manageable. Eventually he turned around and retraced his steps, returning to the hotel at... he looked at the clock glowing above the porte-cochere and winced. Two am. Feltsman had booked everyone on an early flight back to St Petersburg and and Yuuri hadn't packed yet. Best case scenario, he was looking at three hours of sleep.
Yuuri was silently cursing himself when a black sedan with tinted windows glided to a halt beneath said porte-cochere and a tall, slim figure stumbled out of it, wearing nothing but gladiator sandals and shiny gold hot pants. Glitter streaked across his bare chest and his sharp nose poked out from a fringe of silvery hair.
Victor. He'd taken gold, as usual. And must have gone out to celebrate.
Yuuri didn't need to be told that he was looking at a scandal in the making. The paparazzi had been camping out across the street all week and might still lurk in the darkness, waiting for an opportunity exactly like this one. Yuuri peeled off his hooded sweatshirt as he jogged to Victor's side, squeezed the hot bare curve of his shoulder to grab his attention. "Put this on."
Victor made a face at it. "I'm not cold."
Yuuri shook out the hoodie and carefully fitted Victor's arms into the sleeves. "Is that a taxi? Do you have money on you?"
Victor patted the front of his hotpants. He extracted a condom from a condom-sized pocket and frowned.
Yuuri got Victor's head through the neck of the sweatshirt and left him to figure out the rest, darting over to the driver. "How much?" Luckily, he had enough cash in his own wallet to cover the bill. Yuuri paid, waved as the driver rolled up his window and eased back onto the street, then straightened the hem of his hoodie around Victor's waist and pulled the hood up over his head, tucking the unmistakable silvery hair inside. It was clumped stiff with sweat in some places, silky and fine in others. Yuuri's fingers tingled from the contact.
"Come on, I'll get you to your room."
Victor flung an arm around Yuuri's waist and collapsed against his side. "Are you taking care of me? That's so nice."
"Do you have your room key?" Yuuri asked, eyeing the check-in counter. He could help Victor to get a copy but that would require talking to the concierge--require letting Victor talk to the concierge--which was not a good idea. A gossipy employee could easily start a Twitter frenzy or sell a story to the tabloids.
"I hid it." Victor tapped the tip of Yuuri's nose with one long, slender finger. "Because I am very clever."
"Where did you hide it?" Yuuri asked.
"By the elevator!"
Yuuri looked at the elevators. Two banks of three facing one another, framed by acres of polished brass, with a single potted plant to dampen the glare. "So the concierge, then."
"Not here." Victor smiled and bumped his hip into Yuuri's waist. "On my floor."
"We'll check," Yuuri conceded, and supported Victor across the lobby. Victor stumbled a little but mostly he seemed in danger of wandering off, waving at his own reflection in a mirror and exclaiming, "I should take a selfie! Can I borrow your phone?" and "What's down that hallway? Is the pool still open?" and grumbling in Russian when Yuuri tightened his grip, restraining Victor as well as supporting him.
The key, it turned out, had been affixed to the back of a bland painting of the ocean with a dot of chewing gum and there it remained. "Good trick, right?" Victor prompted, leading Yuuri to his door and slumping against the wall while he waited for Yuuri to work the lock. "You can steal it if you want. That makes us even, I think."
Yuuri swung the door wide. Victor dragged the hoodie over his head, tossed it aside, then flopped onto his bed and popped the button on his hotpants with a happy sigh. That left the whole of his torso bare, elegant lines gorgeously elongated, hipbones jutting. "Ahh, that's nice."
Yuuri filled a glass with water and knelt by the bed. "You need to drink."
Victor drained the glass and held it out. "Another."
Yuuri rolled his eyes but obeyed. "You should pack."
"Maybe later."
"You're going to wake up in two and a half hours and do it then?" Yuuri asked. "Really?"
Victor smiled sweetly. "I might. You never know."
"I have to pack too," said Yuuri. "But I'll check on you when I'm done, okay? Pack your stuff now. You'll be glad you did."
"So responsible, Yuuri." Victor widened his eyes. "You could do it for me?"
"You really want a stranger touching all your stuff?" Yuuri shuddered. He didn't have anything private in his luggage but he would die before he let anyone handle his dirty underwear.
Victor fluttered his lashes. "You're not a stranger."
Yuuri flattened his palm against his stomach, which had just exploded with butterflies. "I'll be back," he said, skittering away before Victor could attack him with charm again. "Please pack your things."
***
"I thought about packing!" Victor insisted half an hour later, still wearing the gladiator sandals and hotpants. "More than once!"
"Just find some clothes you can wear to the airport," said Yuuri, rolling his own hastily packed roller bag into the room. "I'll do the rest."
"Change?" Victor groaned and flopped back on the bed. He appeared not to be wearing any underwear. And probably had an expert waxer on speed dial. "I can't. Too hard."
Yuuri approached. Loomed over his idol, drunk and bleary and somewhat worse for wear but still eye-searingly beautiful, and tried to sound stern. "I may not have had much media training but I know you can't go to the airport in hotpants. And if you ask me to change your clothes, I'll--"
"You'd do that for me?" Victor interrupted, fluttering his eyelashes again.
"I'll refuse," Yuuri continued, only stuttering a little. "Which only leaves one option, which would be calling Mr. Feltsman, so..."
"So mean." Victor's abs rippled beautifully as he sat upright. "I can't change until I shower. It's too much work to shower."
Yuuri went into Victor's bathroom, quickly gathered every single beauty product but for a single bar of hotel soap into his arms, and dumped the entire collection on the bed while Victor protested loudly. Yuuri slung an arm beneath Victor's shoulders, heaved him onto his feet, and marched him into the bathroom.
"Wash with the soap. Don't get your hair wet. Hurry up."
Victor groaned. "But--"
Yuuri gave him a light shove and shut the door behind him. A minute later, the shower turned on. Yuuri sighed and sat about gathering the rest of Victor's things, resisting the urge to fold all of Victor's clothes. They weren't friends. He wasn't Victor's valet. If Victor didn't want to pack his own things, he could deal with wrinkles. And that was that. Yuuri could only be pushed so far.
Then the door to the bathroom opened and Victor emerged wearing nothing but a cloud of steam, six odd feet of long limbs clad in lean muscle. "You didn't give me any clothes."
Yuuri sat back on his heels and--no, no he had nothing. He couldn't answer or joke or even look away. He felt like he'd been electrocuted.
Victor's whole demeanor changed, went loose and catlike. He prowled close, dropped to one knee, tipped Yuuri's chin up with his index finger and thumbed his bottom lip. "It's a good thing you've been so nice, Yuuri," he murmured, smile small and sharp. "Because otherwise I might take advantage."
Victor dug through his luggage while Yuuri struggled to breathe. He snatched up an armful of grey and black fabric and positioned himself behind Yuuri's back. Yuuri returned to himself with a shudder, burying his face in his hands and wishing, as he so often had since he'd moved to Russia, for the world's deepest oubliette.
A knock sounded at the door. Victor, dressed now in comfortable leggings and a loose t-shirt, answered the door. Yuuri peeked through his fingers at Mr. Feltsman but didn't try to follow the quick, whispered conversation in Russian. At last, right before Victor closed the door on him, Mr. Feltsman switched to English and barked, "Meet in the lobby in half an hour, Katsuki."
"We'll be there," Yuuri replied.
"See that you are."
At the airport, Victor paid to have Yuuri's seat upgraded to first class. "To thank you for your help!" he explained, smiling sweetly. After boarding, he lifted the armrest separating them and draped himself over Yuuri, falling asleep after takeoff with his head nestled into the hollow of Yuuri's shoulder. "This is okay, right?" he asked, no uncertainty in his voice at all. His hair smelled of cigarettes, mascara still stained the delicate skin around his eyes, and he was heavy. Even after a sleepless night, Yuuri found it hard to rest. But he couldn't bring himself to wake Victor or shove him away, either.
Yuuri stumbled off the plane in a daze, grateful that he could shamble after the other skaters who lived at the dorms because he would have had trouble making it home on his own. He managed to stay awake until sunset and then collapsed into bed, exhausted beyond measure.