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Yuuri finds out by accident.
Which, in retrospect, feels appropriate,
because if there were a list of things he actively sought out about himself, other people’s terrifying first impressions would not have made the cut.
It’s a headline Victor is reading aloud, idly, half-stretched across the couch with his legs draped over Yuuri’s lap. Something from a sports site. Victor’s tone is light, amused.
“ ‘Yuuri Katsuki cuts an imposing figure this season,’ ” Victor reads. “ ‘Calm. Severe. A skater whose silence unsettles his competitors.’ ”
Yuuri blinks.
Once. Twice.
“…What?”
Victor hums, scrolling. “There’s more. ‘An ice-cold presence. Difficult to approach. Intimidating even off the rink.’ ” He glances up, bright-eyed. “Do you intimidate people, Yuuri?”
Yuuri’s mouth opens.
Nothing comes out.
Intimidating?
His brain stalls so hard it feels like hitting a wall. He tries to map the word onto himself—onto the way he double-checks door locks, the way he apologizes when people bump into him, the way he still sometimes freezes up ordering food if the menu’s unfamiliar.
“I—no,” he says, automatically. “I don’t think so?”
Victor smiles, soft and fond and utterly unhelpful. “Mm. That’s what I would’ve said too.”
That does not reassure him.
Yuuri waits until Victor goes to shower before he spirals properly. He sits on the couch, phone in both hands, rereading the line like maybe it’ll change if he looks at it long enough.
Severe.
Unsettling.
Intimidating.
He opens his messages.
Yuuri: phichit
Yuuri: can i ask you something
The typing bubble appears immediately.
Phichit: 👀
Yuuri: do you think i’m intimidating
There’s a pause. Long enough for Yuuri’s stomach to drop.
Then—
Phichit: lol no
Yuuri exhales, relief washing through him so fast it makes him dizzy.
Phichit:
Phichit: but you look like it
Phichit: everyone at college was scared shitless of you
Yuuri stares.
Yuuri:
Yuuri: WHAT
Phichit: 😂😂😂
Phichit: yuuri you used to walk around with headphones in, never talked, always looked like you were thinking about death
Phichit: people thought if they bothered you you’d snap their necks
Yuuri presses his phone to his forehead.
“Oh no,” he whispers to the empty room.
It clicks into place with horrifying clarity: the bowed head, the quiet answers, the way he focuses so hard on not being a burden that he forgets to soften his face. He isn’t cold—he’s terrified of messing up. But terror, apparently, reads as menace if you’re quiet enough about it.
He thinks of fans hesitating before approaching. Of skaters backing off politely. Of reporters speaking to him like he’s a volatile animal.
No. No, he doesn’t want that.
Skating is already hard enough without people being afraid of him.
Victor comes back into the room, hair damp, sweater loose around his shoulders. Yuuri looks up at him with sudden, burning resolve.
“Victor,” he says.
“Yes?”
“I don’t want people to think I’m intimidating.”
Victor pauses. Studies him. Something warm and curious flickers across his face. “Is that so?”
Yuuri nods, serious.
Victor smiles slowly, like this is the most interesting thing he’s heard all day. “And what’s your plan?”
Yuuri hesitates. Then stands, grabs his coat. Slips on his shoes with purpose.
“I’m going to practice,” he says, and then, correcting himself, “—not skating. Just… being normal.”
Victor laughs softly as Yuuri reaches for the door. “Good luck, Yuuri.”
Yuuri pauses, hand on the handle.
“…Thank you,” he says, earnest as always.
He steps out into the cold, heart pounding, determined.
How hard can it be?
⸻
Yuuri chooses the café carefully.
It’s close enough to the rink that he won’t overthink the walk, but not so close that anyone there is likely to recognize him as a skater. He wants neutral ground. Civilian territory. Somewhere low-stakes, where he can practice being… approachable.
The bell above the door rings when he steps inside.
Okay, he thinks. First impression. Smile.
He tries to smile.
It feels wrong immediately, like he’s flexing a muscle he hasn’t used in years. His face settles into something he hopes is friendly but is, in retrospect, probably just intense concentration.
The café is warm and smells like coffee and sugar. There are only a few people inside: a couple hunched over laptops, someone by the window scrolling on their phone. Behind the counter is a barista, young, maybe around his age, wearing an apron dusted with flour, hair pulled back messily.
The barista looks up.
Their eyes widen.
Yuuri’s heart drops.
Okay. It’s fine. This is why you’re here.
He steps forward, rehearsed politeness lining up neatly in his head.
“Hi,” Yuuri says, gently. “Good morning.”
The barista startles so hard they knock their elbow against the espresso machine.
“Oh—! Hi—hi—” They fumble, hands flying. “Um. What can I—sorry—what can I get you?”
Yuuri winces internally.
“I’m sorry,” he blurts out. “I didn’t mean to—”
“No! No, it’s okay!” the barista says, voice pitching higher. “You’re—um—you’re fine.”
They are not fine. They are visibly flustered. Their ears are turning red.
Yuuri panics.
Plan B: be extra polite.
“I’d like a coffee, please,” he says. Then, remembering his new objective, he adds, “Whenever you’re ready. No rush at all.”
The barista nods too fast. “Right. Yes. Of course. One—coffee.”
They turn around, immediately knock over a stack of cups.
Yuuri watches in helpless horror as the cups scatter across the counter.
“Oh no,” he whispers.
“It’s fine,” the barista says, already crouching to pick them up. “It’s fine. This always happens.”
This very clearly does not always happen.
Yuuri grips the strap of his bag like it might anchor him to the floor. Say something normal. People say normal things in cafés.
“I—uh,” he starts. “It’s cold today.”
The barista freezes mid-reach.
“Yes,” they say faintly. “Very cold.”
They stand up too fast, bonk their head on the counter shelf, and swear under their breath.
Yuuri feels physically ill.
Abort mission. Apologize. Leave.
But no. He has to see this through. He takes a breath, forces his shoulders to relax, consciously softens his posture the way Victor once suggested offhandedly—don’t fold inward, Yuuri; it looks like you’re preparing for battle.
“Thank you for working so hard,” Yuuri says earnestly. “I really appreciate it.”
The barista looks at him like he’s just confessed a crime.
Their hands shake as they prepare the coffee. Milk sloshes over the side of the cup. Foam goes everywhere. Yuuri watches the disaster unfold in slow motion, absolutely convinced he is the problem.
When the drink is finally placed on the counter, it’s… lopsided. Crooked. The latte art is an abstract smear that might once have aspired to be a heart.
“On the house,” the barista blurts out. “I mean—because—I messed up—”
“No, you didn’t!” Yuuri says immediately, horror-struck. “It’s perfect. Really. Thank you.”
He reaches for his wallet anyway, but the barista shakes their head violently.
“No, please—just—have a good day.”
Yuuri takes the cup carefully, like it’s fragile. He bows—too deep, probably—and backs away toward the door.
“Have a—nice—day,” he says.
The bell rings behind him as he leaves.
Outside, Yuuri exhales shakily and stares down at the coffee in his hands.
His reflection stares back at him in the dark surface of the lid: serious, focused, eyebrows still faintly knit from concentration.
He groans.
“That was awful,” he mutters.
Inside the café, the barista slides down the counter and covers their face with both hands, heart racing.
⸻
Yuuri chooses Seung-gil Lee because he is calm.
This feels important.
After the café incident—which Yuuri has already categorized as a complete disaster, he decides the problem might be unpredictability. Loudness. Too many expressions. Maybe he needs someone who won’t be startled by politeness.
Someone who understands silence.
Seung-gil Lee is famously unreadable. He is composed. Severe, even. If anyone will not misinterpret Yuuri’s attempts at friendliness as some kind of threat, it will be him.
They are alone at the rink early in the morning. The ice is clean, untouched, reflecting the overhead lights like glass. Seung-gil is stretching by the boards, expression neutral, movements efficient.
Yuuri approaches carefully, making sure not to startle him.
“Good morning,” Yuuri says, softly.
Seung-gil looks up.
“Morning.”
No flinch. No widened eyes. Good.
Yuuri sits on the bench beside him, leaving what he hopes is a respectful amount of space. He folds his hands in his lap, posture open— Victor said that helps.
“I watched your free skate last season,” Yuuri says. “Your timing was very precise.”
Seung-gil blinks once.
“Thanks.”
His tone is flat. His face gives nothing away.
Yuuri nods encouragingly, though Seung-gil isn’t looking at him anymore. That’s fine. Silence is fine.
“I admire how consistent you are,” Yuuri adds. “It’s difficult to maintain that kind of control.”
“Mm.”
Still nothing. Not even a hint of reaction.
Yuuri’s confidence wavers. Maybe he’s being weird again. Maybe compliments are too much.
He searches for a safer topic. Something neutral.
“Oh,” he says. “You have a dog, right?”
Seung-gil’s shoulders stiffen almost imperceptibly.
“Yes.”
Yuuri, relieved, continues. “I saw a photo once. He’s very cute. What’s his name?”
A pause.
“Gom.”
Yuuri smiles, small and genuine. “That suits him. Dogs are very comforting.”
Seung-gil nods. Once.
Yuuri waits. Nothing happens.
No smile. No softening. No response at all beyond that single nod.
“I—um,” Yuuri says, already retreating. “Sorry if I bothered you. I should let you get back to training.”
Seung-gil stands immediately.
“It’s fine,” he says.
He takes one step back.
Then another.
Then, with the same blank expression, he turns and walks away toward the far end of the rink.
Yuuri watches him go, stomach sinking.
He sighs, embarrassed, and starts lacing his skates.
Behind the boards, out of Yuuri’s line of sight, Seung-gil stops.
He stares at the ice.
His face goes completely red.
He presses his lips together, jaw tight, eyes wide, breathing carefully like he’s trying not to combust on the spot.
He grips the edge of the boards and closes his eyes.
Yuuri steps onto the ice.
Seung-gil does not turn around.
He remains exactly where he is for a full two minutes, face burning, before finally sitting down and pulling his hood up over his head.
Yuuri skates away convinced of one thing:
“Okay,” he murmurs to himself. “So stoic people are also scared of me.”
He pushes harder into his edge, determination renewed.
Seung-gil Lee does not sleep particularly well that night.
⸻
Yuuri decides Yurio is safe.
This is not because Yurio is calm or polite or emotionally regulated. It is because Yurio is predictable.
Yurio yells. Yurio insults people. Yurio rolls his eyes and snaps and storms off. Yuuri understands this. He knows where he stands with Yurio, and that makes him oddly comforting.
If Yurio is intimidated by him, Yuuri will know immediately.
So—experiment.
Yuuri prepares.
He rehearses in his head while lacing his skates: soft tone, gentle smile, encouraging words. Victor once said kindness disarms people faster than confrontation. Yuuri intends to test that theory to its limits.
Yurio is at the boards, aggressively kicking at the ice, scowling at nothing in particular. His hair is a mess, his posture sharp with restless energy.
Yuuri approaches.
“Good morning, Yurio,” Yuuri says warmly.
Yurio flinches like he’s been slapped.
“…What the hell,” Yurio mutters. He squints. “Why are you talking like that?”
Yuuri ignores the edge in his voice. “Your jumps looked very strong today. Your takeoff has improved a lot.”
Yurio stares at him.
“What.”
Yuuri nods encouragingly. “You’ve been working very hard. It shows.”
Yurio’s ears turn pink.
“Shut up,” he snaps. “Don’t say weird shit.”
Yuuri smiles. “I don’t mean it in a weird way. I just wanted you to know.”
Yurio takes a step back.
“Why are you being like this?” he demands. “Did Victor put you up to this?”
Yuuri blinks. “No.”
“Then why are you—” Yurio gestures vaguely. “—like this?”
Yuuri considers. “I thought I’d try being nicer.”
Yurio recoils like that’s worse.
“Stop it,” he says. “You’re creeping me out.”
Yuuri frowns slightly. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.”
That does it.
Yurio explodes.
“WHERE IS VICTOR,” he yells. “WHY ARE YOU ACTING LIKE SOME KIND OF THERAPY BROCHURE—JUST BE NORMAL—”
“I am being normal,” Yuuri says, very sincerely.
Yurio looks like he’s about to commit a felony.
“Fuck off,” he snaps. “Go bother someone else.”
Yuuri tilts his head, concerned. “Are you having a bad day?”
Yurio makes a strangled noise.
“STOP ANALYZING ME.”
“I’m not,” Yuuri says gently. “I just—”
“I DON’T HAVE A CRUSH ON YOU,” Yurio shouts.
The rink goes quiet.
Several heads turn.
Yuuri freezes.
“…Okay?” he says carefully. “I didn’t say that. Nobody said that.”
Yurio’s face goes nuclear red.
“I MEAN—” He splutters. “THAT’S NOT—SHUT UP—”
He stumbles backward, trips over a skate guard, and has to grab the boards to stay upright.
“I’m leaving,” Yurio snarls. “You’re weird today.”
He storms off, shoulders hunched, ears still burning.
Yuuri watches him go, deeply confused.
“…I thought that went okay,” he murmurs to himself.
From behind the boards, Yurio sinks down onto a bench, buries his face in his hands, and screams.
Yuuri, meanwhile, takes a deep breath and checks Attempt Three off his mental list.
“So,” he mutters, skating away, “being extra nice doesn’t work either.”
He rubs his face tiredly.
“Everyone still seems scared of me.”
Victor, watching from the doorway with a coffee in hand, absolutely loses it laughing.
⸻
Yuuri does not usually linger after competitions.
He signs what he’s asked to sign, bows, smiles quickly, apologizes for his handwriting, and escapes. Fans make him nervous, not because he doesn’t appreciate them, but because he’s always afraid of disappointing them. Saying the wrong thing. Being awkward. Looking foolish.
But today he has a goal.
The fan area is smaller than usual. A handful of people waiting behind a rope, phones in hand, eyes bright. Yuuri steps up, takes a breath, and reminds himself of his plan.
Smile first. Speak first. Be warm.
The first fan, a young person clutching a program, steps forward.
Yuuri straightens, smiles wide, and says, “Hi! Thank you so much for coming.”
The fan freezes.
“Oh—um—hi,” they say, voice wobbling.
Good, Yuuri thinks. That’s normal. People get nervous. I can fix this.
He leans in slightly—not too much, just enough to seem engaged. “What’s your name?”
“My—uh—” The fan glances down at their phone, which promptly slips out of their hand and clatters to the floor.
Yuuri gasps softly. “Oh! I’m so sorry—”
“No, no, it’s fine!” the fan says, scrambling. “I mean—it’s my fault—I—”
Yuuri kneels without thinking, picks up the phone, and hands it back carefully, like it’s precious.
“There you go,” he says gently. “Are you okay?”
The fan looks like they might pass out.
“Yes,” they squeak. “I mean—no—I mean—yes.”
Yuuri nods solemnly. “I’m really glad.”
The fan’s face turns bright red.
Okay, Yuuri thinks. Maybe tone it down just a little.
He signs the program, concentrating hard on keeping his handwriting neat. Then, remembering Victor’s advice—connection matters—he looks back up.
“Thank you for supporting me,” Yuuri says earnestly. “It really means a lot. I try very hard.”
The fan stares at him.
Their mouth opens.
Nothing comes out.
Yuuri waits, smiling patiently.
“I—” the fan starts. “Your—your skating—”
“Yes?” Yuuri prompts softly.
“It—it’s incredible,” they blurt. “You’re incredible.”
Yuuri’s ears warm. Compliments still do that to him, no matter how many years he’s been skating.
“Thank you,” he says, and then, because he is committed to this experiment, he adds, “You’re very kind.”
The fan makes a small, strangled noise.
They nod furiously, clutch the signed program to their chest, and back away so fast they nearly trip over the rope.
Yuuri watches them go, heart sinking.
Too much, he thinks. That was too much.
Behind them, the next fan steps forward, eyes wide, clearly having witnessed the entire interaction.
Yuuri rallies.
“Hello!” he says brightly.
The fan drops their pen.
Yuuri picks it up.
“You can take your time,” he says gently.
The fan whispers, “Oh my god,” under their breath.
This continues.
Again and again.
Yuuri smiles. Yuuri thanks them. Yuuri asks their names. Yuuri listens attentively. Yuuri makes eye contact.
Each fan leaves increasingly flustered, stumbling away with dazed expressions and shaky hands.
Yuuri, meanwhile, grows more and more convinced that he is failing spectacularly.
By the time the line ends, his cheeks ache from smiling and his stomach feels hollow with dread.
“I really need to work on this,” he murmurs to himself, bowing one last time.
Across the lobby, several fans huddle together, whispering frantically.
“He talked to me.”
“He asked my name.”
“He looked right at me.”
“I think I forgot how to breathe.”
Yuuri walks away, shoulders slumped.
I tried too hard, he thinks. I made it worse.
He pulls his coat tighter around himself, already mentally preparing for Attempt Five.
Behind him, social media quietly explodes.
⸻
Yuuri does not hate journalists.
This is important. He tells himself this every time he’s ushered into a press room or stopped at an airport gate with microphones already angling toward his face. They’re just doing their jobs. They ask questions. He answers. That’s how it works.
Still, his usual strategy is efficiency: short answers, polite bows, minimal eye contact. Get through it without making a mistake.
But that was before he learned he was intimidating.
So today—today—Yuuri tries something new.
The press room is crowded, lights too bright, air faintly stale. Cameras click as he takes his seat. He folds his hands neatly on the table, posture straight but relaxed. He remembers Victor’s voice in his head: Let them see you think.
The first question comes fast.
“Yuuri, how are you feeling going into this season after such a strong finish?”
Normally, he’d say I’ll do my best and stop there.
Instead, he inhales.
“I feel… steady,” Yuuri says. “I’ve been focusing on control and intention. I want every movement to mean something.”
There’s a brief pause.
Pens stop scratching.
Someone murmurs, “Interesting.”
Yuuri blinks. Okay. That’s fine.
Another reporter leans forward. “Do you feel more confident now that you’re competing alongside the top skaters consistently?”
Yuuri nods slowly. “Confidence isn’t always loud,” he says, choosing his words carefully. “Sometimes it’s quiet. It’s knowing what you can do and committing to it fully.”
The room shifts.
People are paying attention now. Really paying attention.
Yuuri answers the next question, then the next. He explains his training philosophy. He talks about pressure—not dramatically, just honestly. About fear. About discipline. About skating as a conversation between body and ice.
He looks up when he speaks.
He doesn’t rush.
He doesn’t apologize.
By the time it’s over, his throat is dry and his heart is pounding, but he feels… lighter. Like he didn’t hide this time.
As he stands to leave, a reporter calls out, “Yuuri—one last thing. How would you describe yourself as a competitor?”
Yuuri pauses.
He thinks of Vicchan. Of early mornings. Of falling and standing up again.
“I don’t think of myself as intimidating,” he says earnestly. “I just take this very seriously.”
The silence that follows is dense.
Yuuri bows and exits, convinced, utterly convinced, that this time, finally, he got it right.
—
Later, in the car, he checks his phone.
That’s his first mistake.
HEADLINE: Yuuri Katsuki Speaks With Quiet Authority Ahead of New Season
HEADLINE: A Calm That Commands the Room
HEADLINE: “Confidence Isn’t Loud”: Katsuki Redefines Competitive Presence
Yuuri’s stomach drops.
“No,” he whispers. “No, no, no.”
He scrolls faster.
Measured.
Controlled.
Unflinching.
At the airport, it’s worse.
Reporters swarm. Microphones appear out of nowhere. Yuuri answers automatically now, still calm, still thoughtful—because he’s tired and because this is how he talks when he’s overwhelmed.
“Yuuri, do you see yourself as a threat this season?”
“I don’t think in those terms,” Yuuri says. “But I won’t hold back.”
Cameras flash.
Someone mutters, “Cold.”
Someone else says, “Terrifying.”
Yuuri’s soul briefly leaves his body.
By the time he escapes to the gate, he feels faint.
He sinks into a seat, covers his face with both hands, and groans softly.
“I tried so hard,” he murmurs. “I really tried.”
Across the terminal, a cluster of journalists rewatch footage, voices hushed and reverent.
“He didn’t dodge a single question.”
“That calm is lethal.”
“He knows exactly who he is.”
Yuuri peeks through his fingers, sees a reflection in the glass: straight-backed, composed, eyes sharp from focus.
He looks, he realizes dimly, exactly like the man they’re describing.
He drops his hands.
“…Oh,” he says.
Attempt Five is a failure.
Which means, unfortunately, that there is only one thing left to do.
⸻
Yuuri stops trying on accident.
It happens the way most things do with him, not with a decision, not with a dramatic internal monologue, but with exhaustion finally outweighing anxiety.
He’s tired.
Tired of adjusting his face in reflective surfaces.
Tired of monitoring his tone.
Tired of wondering whether kindness is too much or silence is worse.
Most of all, he’s tired of thinking about how he looks instead of what he’s here to do.
So when he steps onto the ice that night, Yuuri Katsuki does not think about being approachable.
He thinks about skating.
The rink is loud with anticipation, lights glaring, air sharp against his skin. He takes his place, shoulders loose, jaw set, not hard, just focused. The music hasn’t started yet, and already the arena feels quieter around him, like the space is holding its breath.
Yuuri exhales.
Just skate, he tells himself. That’s all.
The program begins.
From the first push-off, there’s no hesitation. His edges carve clean lines into the ice, movements precise and deliberate. There is grief in it, yes—there always is—but there is also resolve, something unyielding beneath the softness.
He doesn’t smile for the audience.
He doesn’t search the stands.
He doesn’t soften anything.
He commits.
Each jump lands with authority. Spins tighten, controlled, endless. His body remembers what his mind no longer interrupts: balance, strength, intention. The rink becomes small, intimate, just him and the ice and the rhythm threading them together.
People stop whispering.
By the final sequence, Yuuri feels it—that familiar burn in his muscles, the clarity that only comes when he gives everything without holding back. When the music swells, he does not pull away from it.
He lets it carry him.
The ending pose is still. Grounded. Unapologetic.
For a heartbeat, there is nothing.
Then the arena erupts.
Yuuri bows, breathless, sweat cooling on his skin. He looks up at the scoreboard without bracing himself, without rehearsing disappointment.
The numbers appear.
They are high.
Very high.
Yuuri blinks.
“Oh,” he says softly.
Yuuri steps off the ice, heart still pounding, and only then realizes something strange.
He doesn’t feel bad.
He doesn’t feel embarrassed.
He doesn’t feel like he failed at being softer, warmer, less sharp.
He feels… fine.
Victor meets him at the barrier, eyes bright, smile wide with unmistakable pride.
“There you are,” Victor says, voice warm. “I was wondering when you’d show up.”
Yuuri laughs, breathless. “I didn’t do anything different.”
Victor tilts his head, studying him. “No,” he says. “You stopped doing something.”
Yuuri thinks about that as he dries off later, phone buzzing nonstop with notifications he doesn’t check.
Headlines will come. They always do.
This time, though, Yuuri doesn’t flinch at the thought.
If people see strength when he’s simply being honest, when he’s simply skating, then maybe that’s not something to fix.
Maybe that’s just who he is.
Yuuri Katsuki, intimidating not because he tries to be—
—but because he no longer tries at all.