Chapter Text
[Saturday]
[May 1, 2010]
[01:07 AM]
Yuuri blinked sleepily as he leant against the cool glass of the car window. With his glasses off, the outside world was a faded smear of shifting black, intermitted with flashes of red and yellow as they passed traffic lights and closed store fronts.
It had just gone one in the morning, and Yuuri was on the verge of nodding off as his new coach drove them through the nearly-empty streets of Detroit in a beige company-owned SUV. It would have been three in the afternoon back in Japan, but the thirteen hour flight plus layovers had exhausted him in his inability to sleep through the noise and turbulence. To round the experience off, he had been caught up at baggage claims for the better part of an hour, as the final suitcase bearing his skates and related gear was one of the last to emerge through the carousel.
At least there weren’t any screaming babies, Yuuri consoled himself as he rolled his forehead against the window, to relieve a little of the tension from the flight. At least the woman sitting next to me didn’t want to talk. At least they didn’t straight up lose my bag. At least, at least, at least …
Yuuri hated flying.
“We should be there in about fifteen minutes,” Celestino’s lightly Italian-accented voice broke through Yuuri’s thoughts, startling him enough that his forehead jerked against the glass. Yuuri turned to the man, who was driving them with comfortable ease. “Are you hungry? Thirsty?”
“No,” Yuuri said softly. Airplane food always left him a little queasy – the thought of eating right then made his stomach turn. “Just tired.”
Celestino hummed in acceptance, and the brief conversation lulled back into silence. Yuuri turned his attention to the outside streets as they passed by. Dotted throughout the blocky two-level homes was the occasional curiosity. There was a car dealer, bordered by drive-through food outlets. There was a local bar, with a few patrons still lingering. There, an abandoned gas station. There, an empty playground. There, a playing field.
It’s so different, Yuuri thought wistfully. Everything here was hard concrete and raw lights and broad flat spaces uncomfortably open to the sky. There were no sharp hills, or gentle streams, or signs in familiar kanji. The buildings here were further apart, the roads wider and straighter, and everything just seemed … bigger. Where his hometown of Haesetsu had been a tight knot of old traditional stairways and narrow one-lane roads, bordered by a mix of new-glass with old-wood buildings, Detroit was a sprawl of stone and grass spotted with thin, looming trees, and it seemed like it went forever. It made Yuuri feel uneasy, for reasons he couldn’t quite pin down-
“We have three other skaters with us already.” Celestino seemed determined to make a conversation. Yuuri suppressed a sigh – he really was quite tired – and turned to the older man. “Have I told you about them?”
“A little.”
“The youngest, Theresa, is a talented local girl – she lives with her mother about fifteen minutes from the rink, so she doesn’t board with the other skaters. I’ve been coaching her officially for almost six months now, and-”
Yuuri sank into his chair, propped his chin on a hand braced against the door’s hand rest, and let the conversation wash over him. He was tired. He was in a new place, surrounded by unfamiliar sights. His stomach was re-enacting his last skating routine with increasing fervour. And he was too damned polite to do anything other than let the loud, entirely too-awake man beside him talk their way to his new place of residence.
“-and then there’s the group sessions. Twice a week I offer classes to the general public – there’s a kiddy class, for the little ones, and a senior class for couples and the like. Maybe you would like to help out one day, hmm? Even just hanging around the rink and doing a few spins can really inspire the students, it gives them something to look up to, and-”
Let me sleep, Yuuri pleaded silently. Let me sleep, let me sleep, let me sleep-
“-but I am most curious to see how you will get along with Christophe – I have told you that you will be rooming with him, yes?”
Yuuri blinked, and turned his attention to the conversation so quickly he almost felt his head swim in shock.
“Ah…” was all that could escape this mouth – but apparently, Celestino took this for an affirmative.
“He is a wonderful young man – I think you will get along very well!” Celestino gave a short, deep laugh before continuing in the same enthusiastic vein, but Yuuri wasn’t listening any more.
Rooming? Sharing a room? With another person? No one told me this! What am I going to do – does he have a spare room, a closet, anything? I haven’t had to share a room since – no, I’ve never had to share a room! Not to mention that ‘Christophe’ sounded extremely familiar. He was certain he had heard the name at one of his recent competitions. Maybe he was a Junior?
“And here we are!” Celestino announced. Yuuri raised his head to see that they had pulled into a narrow side road of cracked concrete. His eyes were drawn immediately to his right, to the broad and empty carpark, and to the massive, dark building that dominated the space behind it. He could make out an unlit neon sign mounted in the centre, and two pillars framing an entrance patio that channelled towards a pair of dark glass doors. Is that …?
Celestino turned left, and Yuuri’s neck twisted as his eyes followed those glass doors for as long as he was able.
“This is my home,” Celestino informed Yuuri, whose attention was brought back around to the narrow two-story building of dark wood and white windows that was before him. The car had pulled up on a short driveway that led to a closed garage door, a steep set of stairs, and a shallow veranda about the front edge of the house. “This, I share with my wife and daughter – you are welcome to find me here any time, if you have concerns.” The car shuddered into silence, and Yuuri clutched his backpack as he drew it up from where it had been sitting between his feet.
“But over here is the home you shall share with Christophe and Esteban,” Celestino continued as they climbed out of the car. Celestino locked the car with the remote keys, lights flashing across the dark night, and Yuuri took in the matching home that was beside Celestino’s, second in a line of five.
“The rent and utilities are included in my coaching fees, for students of mine that do not wish to board themselves – as you already know. It will be my skaters’ job to find groceries and such, but I’m sure Esteban will arrange this with you in time.” A light on the second level was on, and the window was pushed open. All that could be heard was the occasional hush of traffic on the road behind them.
“Christophe should be home – and although he should be asleep, I think he is waiting for you,” Celestino laughed as he gestured to the open window, not a hint of rebuke in his voice or eyes. He moved about the car, and began pulling Yuuri’s hard-cover suitcases from the back of the SUV, which Yuuri stacked on the sidewalk between Celestino’s car and his new shared home.
“Esteban has travelled to visit his parents for a post-season holiday, and will not be returning for another week. His room is smaller, so Christophe has agreed that you shall share a room with him. This is better, I think – Christophe is much more outgoing than Esteban, Esteban can be a little … private. A good skater, yes – but a very quiet boy, sometimes.” Celestino hummed to himself, before shaking his head as if to clear his thoughts away. All the suitcases were out, and he pushed the back hatch closed. The sound cut through Yuuri, startling him in his exhausted state.
“Now! It is well passed time for sleep, Yuuri – we will have an early start, so that I can see your skill and begin work as your coach! Here, these are your house keys-” Celestino pressed a small keyring with two keys into Yuuri’s hands, “-your and Christophe’s room will be on the top floor, on the front-facing side. Christophe will show you. I will see you in the morning Yuuri – standing right here with all the gear you need at ten, and not a minute later! I will be very displeased if you are late! Ciao ciao, Yuuri! Sleep well!”
Celestino left suddenly, like a whirlwind that had blown itself out. He left Yuuri blinking and a little stunned in his absence, standing surrounded by suitcases on the pitted sidewalk. Yuuri watched as Celestino climbed the stairs to his own home, and pulled the door closed behind him with a sense of finality.
Then, he eyed his own door in trepidation.
Take a breath, he thought to himself. You can do this.
He picked up two of his suitcases, his backpack already slung across both shoulders and clipped across his chest, and climbed the stairs to unlock the door with shaky hands.
The door opened soundlessly. A truck passed on the main street behind him, startling him with the low thrum of its engine. Yuuri stepped inside.
He was standing in a kitchen that spanned the width of the house. The only source of light was the range hood above the stove, sending the room into a pale orange glow. The fully-sized fridge was humming, almost distracting Yuuri from the soft footsteps above him. Yuuri walked through the room into a corridor beyond, and found himself faced with a choice between an open archway into a dark lounge on his left, a door left just ajar to a pale bathroom on his right, or an alcove of wooden stairs before him that turned about a mid-point landing as they rose to the upper level. Light was echoing down the stairwell, and Yuuri could hear someone humming to an unknown tune.
He swallowed. Painfully.
“H-Hello?” he called hesitantly. He suddenly became aware of his own accent, muted by practice and time, but not shaken entirely. “Is this … Christophe?”
The footsteps above his head quickened and hardened, and Yuuri couldn’t stop himself from flinching as they tore down the steps to reveal-
Christophe.
“Here he is!” the man purred, his voice heavy with his own native accent. “My new, elusive roommate. Welcome! My name is Christophe – and you are Yuuri, are you not?”
Christophe’s floppy hair was bleached blonde, setting off his naturally brown eyebrows and moss green eyes. He had the most ridiculously long eyelashes Yuuri had ever seen on a man, and he was wearing nothing but a pair of loose gym shorts that covered barely half his thighs.
“Hi,” Yuuri said weakly. “It’s … it’s nice to meet you?”
“Ah, you are a shy one, aren’t you topolino?” Christophe smiled charmingly, and Yuuri couldn’t say whether he was shivering or shuddering in response. “Never mind – we will cure you of that soon enough. Do you have many bags? Are they still outside? Let me help you!”
With this Christophe bounced past Yuuri, through the kitchen, and down the steps to where the rest of his suitcases were still scattered. The cold of the night snuck in alongside him as he returned moments later with a suitcase in either hand, and a third tucked under one arm. He beamed at Yuuri as he passed, his energy seemingly endless. Yuuri felt as if he were lost. If Celestino was a whirlwind, then Christophe was a tsunami; while Celestino pulled you about and left you standing alone in a pile of debris, unsure of what had just happened, Christophe just swept in and pushed at you relentlessly, until you were a hundred metres inland with no idea how you got there.
“This way, Yuuri,” Christophe said in a voice that was half-chirp, half-rumble. Yuuri stumbled after him, managing the staircase with a little difficulty to find himself in a small carpeted hallway that held three doors; two down a short corridor to the left, and one to his right. “This is our home gym, with simple weights and such things. It has mirrors too, and a little space for practicing simple routines, if you wish,” Christophe nodded to the closest door on the right as he tossed a smile and wink over his shoulder, which Yuuri received with a confused blush. Christophe then turned to the door furthest to the left, which would lead to a room that faced away from the front of the home. “That room is Esteban’s – you maybe ... should not go in there unless you very much need to-” it was the closest the man had come to frowning that Yuuri had seen yet, “- but, no matter. This here is the largest room, which will be shared by the two of us!”
Christophe nudged the door on their right open with his foot, and edged the suitcases in with a little care. “Here – these are the drawers you can use for your clothes and things, and here is your bed! I have already set out the blankets, am I not the most thoughtful roommate, Yuuri?”
Why does he keep saying my name like that, Yuuri thought weakly. Why.
He took a breath, and savoured Christophe’s moment of silence as he allowed Yuuri to finally take in the room.
It was surprisingly nice, and larger than he’d expected. There was room for his and Christophe’s beds, matching bedside tables, and even a desk against one wall that also held an expanse of metal shelves bolted at convenient heights. It was immediately obvious which half of the room was to be his. Christophe’s bed on the closer side of the room was a tangled mess, the blood-red duvet bunched at the end and the mustard-yellow pillows stacked against the wall haphazardly. There was more than one item of clothing strewn around and under the bed, and the metallic glimmer he could see on the bedside table was a foil string of-
Yuuri blushed what was surely a fantastic shade of red, and turned to the bed that would be his.
It was a vision to the exhausted Yuuri, a vision laid out in shades of blue; a deep blue duvet, a soft blue woollen blanket folded at the end, and four plump pillows in two different tones. The bed was pushed underneath a long window that centred at Yuuri’s shoulders in height, and overlooked a dark plain of formless shapes. There was an open window between his and Christophe’s beds as well, and through it Yuuri could see the pale stretch of road, the pool of yellow concrete under the streetlight, the empty carpark, and the dark, bold outline of a building overlooking it all.
Yuuri let out the breath he had unconsciously been holding in, and turned to Christophe – who it seemed was about to burst from his shell in anticipation at Yuuri’s reaction.
“I … like it,” Yuuri finally said, allowing a shy smile to creep over him. “Thank you, Christophe.”
Christophe beamed.
[08:07 AM]
Sleep hit Yuuri like a freight train, and he woke the next morning with only a vague recollection of the remainder of his night – he remembered pulling his night clothes from a suitcase, and waving to Christophe as the lights dimmed, but little else. Now, natural light was soaking through the window between his and Christophe’s beds, glaring off the pale beige walls and lightening the room until it was almost unbearable.
Squinting, Yuuri’s eyes fell on the culprit – the grey-white plastic blinds still folded above the window, and not pulled free to save him from the sun’s interruption.
Christophe had it right. He lay sprawled over his bed wearing nothing but his shorts and a pink-and-yellow eye mask, embroidered with large, fake blue eyes where his own would have been. I need to get a pair of those. Yuuri paused. Except, maybe … a little more “me”.
Pushing himself up in his own bed, Yuuri took a catalogue of the scene around him.
His five suitcases – plus backpack – were stacked unceremoniously by the door, with the exception of the suitcase he had pulled his sweatpants and sleeping shirt from earlier. Yuuri had absolutely no desire to sort through those cases right now. About the only thing he wanted was a bath, his toothbrush, and another ten hours of sleep.
Giving up on the latter, Yuuri grabbed the toiletries bag from his unzipped suitcase and softly made his way through the hall, stairs, and into the downstairs bathroom.
Yuuri was both surprised and relieved to see a shower and bath combination tucked against one of the walls in the tiled bathroom. His family’s onsen had been his favourite place to relax after a gruelling training session with Minako, his ballet instructor. He was pleased that he wouldn’t have to give up the sensation of a warm bath entirely, even if it wouldn’t be entirely the same experience.
As he finished brushing his teeth and moved to fill the bath, shucking his sweatpants off, Yuuri’s thoughts began to settle into a slow, dark spiral.
His family. His family’s onsen. Minako.
Vicchan.
The moment the bath was full enough, Yuuri sank in and submerged entirely, keeping his body and head under the surface with two hands braced against the outer edges of the tub.
He’d been in Detroit less than a day, and he already missed home like he would never see it again. The decision to move to the United States was one he and his family had agonised over for weeks, ever since his final season as a Junior had finished two months ago, with a handful of medals crowned in a single gold that felt like a lightning bolt.
Mari. His mother. His father.
Vicchan.
Yuuri opened his mouth a little, and watched the air bubbles gasp for the surface. His third season in the Junior circuit had lifted Yuuri from a one-time bronze medallist who may have just been lucky, to a consistent Junior world champion on the verge of building a reputation. The coaching offers had come in thicker than they ever had before, and his advisors at the Japanese Skating Federation had hounded him relentlessly when Celestino’s email arrived at the close of the Grand Prix series. The man was a genius, they said. He would bring you glory and victory. He would hone your skills and strengthen your weaknesses, to make you one of the best skaters in the world.
Yuuko. Takeshi.
Vicchan.
The visa they had arranged for him would last the duration of his stay with Celestino, no matter how long that might be. The scholarship the JSF secured with Wayne State University had his mother in tears, at the thought that he would be the first in his family to graduate with a degree, and from America at that. There was noone in Detroit that could have watched Vicchan, nothing that would suit Yuuri's full-time employment as a student, a skater, an international competitior.
Vicchan.
Yuuri could feel his heartbeat in his ears, and finally let himself surface with a shock of cold morning air. He lifted his hand to push wet strands of hair from his eyes, and-
“Kuso!” Yuuri all but shrieked, his knees jerking to his chest in an attempt to cover himself as he threw himself back against the side of the tub. Yuuri continued in startled Japanese, his tone growing higher with every word, “What the hell are you doing in here?”
“Yuuri,” Christophe slurred from where he was standing side-on to Yuuri at the sink and mirror, leaning in to examine his own face with care. “We use small voices in the small hours of the morning.”
“Christophe, I am taking a bath!”
“I can see nothing that I do not have myself,” Christophe replied absently as he reached for a white plastic box at the side of the sink.
“I – still, I-” Yuuri struggled with the words, unable to articulate just what it was that bothered him. He had grown up in what were essentially public baths – nudity didn’t exactly bother him as much as it might others. “I didn’t … know that you were here.”
“Mmm, you were too busy trying to drown yourself, topolino,” Christophe said, opening the plastic container and reaching in to balance a near-invisible contact lens against his fingertip.
Yuuri sank a little lower in the bath tub, and tried desperately to throw off the surreal atmosphere that was settling around him.
“What does that mean?” he finally asked, after he had given Christophe time to slip the contacts into his eyes. He had been startled in the act himself, once – and although he was frustrated, Yuuri was nothing if not thoughtful of others.
“It means that you need air to breathe.” Yuuri briefly reconsidered his stance on thoughtfulness.
“No – that’s not-” Yuuri frowned at Christophe, who laughed and turned to share a shit-eating grin.
“I know, I know topolino. But I think I will keep my secret for a little longer. You are very cute when you are angry.”
Yuuri fought back the red rising in his cheeks, and gestured weakly with a hand that was not wrapped desperately around his knees.
“Just … go. Please.”
“As you wish,” Christophe left with a two-fingered salute. He didn’t close the door behind him.
Yuuri groaned and leant forward to brace his forehead against the porcelain edge, the warm water sloshing around him. He had known the man less than twelve hours, but Yuuri knew already that Christophe would be the death of him.
[10:00 AM]
“Welcome to the Eastgate Ice Arena, Yuuri,” Celestino announced with no small amount of flair as the two walked across the half-filled carpark and towards the massive building. It looked even bigger in the daylight, with pale-grey corrugated iron and white pitted brick that stood starkly against the empty blue of the sky, the flush green of the nearby trees, and the pale gold of dry grass in the field to their left. Yuuri could hear the soft screech of cicadas from that field, and it reminded him so much of home that he fell half a step behind Celestino when they climbed the short steps to the tiled entrance patio.
“The Arena is open to the public from noon-to-night on weekends, and for a few hours on Thursday and Friday after school lets out,” Celestino said as they reached the glass doors. Yuuri could see a handful of adults standing in the room beyond, talking to each other soundlessly. “The local hockey club books out the rink on Tuesday and Wednesday evenings, and Saturday mornings are reserved for tournaments, like today. I hold my group classes on Saturday and Monday evenings … maybe this will be easier if I just send you a timetable,” Celestino finally muttered to himself, to Yuuri’s relief. The glass doors swung open, and they stepped into the naturally lit room.
The reception of the Arena was broad and overwhelmingly purple, with blue accents in the carpet that thinly softened underfoot concrete, and in the welcome desk to their right. The chatting adults at the far end of the room glanced in their direction and disregarded them immediately. Yuuri’s eyes fell past them to the archway in the centre of the far wall, drawn by the squeals and crashes and shouts that carried through from the rink beyond. He could see a slip of glass and bright lights, and the corner of a green hockey jacket, flying along the side of the rink. He turned away.
“As my student, you are welcome to use the rink whenever you please, apart from games – I have an arrangement with the owner,” Celestino informed him as they moved past the reception desk. Celestino pointed to a discrete white security box along the wall, beside the phone. “You will find a key hanging by the door in your kitchen, the security codes are written on the tag. I feel that I do not need to tell you this, but for my conscience – please, do not bring strangers into the rink.” Celestino broke off to mutter to himself, and Yuuri made out only the words Chris and idiot before the mutters cut off with a sigh.
“But this is not time for that – this is time for you, Yuuri!” Celestino turned to face him with a cheerful grin, and Yuuri subconsciously straightened his back. “Let us begin, yes? I have seen your performances at the Junior Grand Prix, and at the Junior Worlds. You have a very strong performance score, which I suspect is from your dancing – ballet, wasn’t it?”
“Yes,” Yuuri confirmed softly. It was the first time he had spoken since leaving the house, outside of a quiet good morning in response to his coach’s enthusiastic ciao ciao. “I’ve practiced ballet since I was three.”
“Fantastico,” Celestino responded with his usual broad grin. “You have this grace when you skate, and move – it is beautiful to see.”
Yuuri blushed at these words, which broadened Celestino’s smile.
“Today, we will not touch the ice. The game will last until noon at least, and clean up will be another half an hour on top of that. No, today I would like to start us off the ice. First, you will show me your routine on the ground – the free program from this last season. Then, we will see what we have to work with, and I will prepare a training routine to match. What do you think, Yuuri?”
Yuuri nodded and Celestino lead them further beyond the reception desk to a climb of stairs that ran against the wall of windows at the front of the room. The staircase was topped by a small landing and a locked door, which Celestino told him was locked only on weekends, and would accessible through the second key on the ring hanging in the kitchen, next to the one that would give him entry to the building.
The corridor beyond was narrow and windowless, the walls painted white but littered with bruises, scrapes, and smudges of dirt. Celestino led them to the first thin wooden door.
“This is the viewing room,” Celestino announced, opening the door and letting Yuuri look past him into what appeared to be a strangely oriented sitting room. There were mismatched sofas and sitting chairs, along with a desk and two filing cabinets, but the chairs were all facing the long far wall that looked as though it had been replaced with a television of the highest definition. Yuuri realised that the wall was in fact a window, and that it looked down over the active rink in the massive room beyond. Yuuri couldn’t see who was winning, but he could see the crowds of parents and friends, and hear muffled cheers from raised tiers along the edges of the room.
Celestino closed the door, and drew Yuuri to the next.
“This is a private locker room, for my athletes only.” This room was much smaller, and lined on one wall with tall metal lockers. There was a long wooden bench in the centre of the room, with a first-aid kit set open on one end. A table at the front edge of the room held a pile of folded clothes and towels, a small chaos of skate repair tools, and a blade-sharpening machine that looked medieval. At the end of the room, the walls turned, and the tiles of the floor suggested a closed-off area for showering. “Your locker will be the second one from the end – you can leave your skates and gym clothes in there, if you do not want to carry them home and back every time you come to skate.”
Yuuri nodded, and planned to do just that at the end of the day.
“And finally, here-” Celestino prompted Yuuri to move to the last room, at the end of the corridor. “This is the studio.”
The room was perfect. It was large; more than big enough for Yuuri to practice his dancing and routines without fear of knocking into the walls if he lost himself in the movements. The light from the in-ceiling bulbs was warm and clear, and two of the four walls had been replaced with floor-to-ceiling mirrors that were flawlessly clean. The floor was beautifully polished wood, with a slippery sheen that would be ideal for practicing spins. There was a small pile of yoga mats in one corner, a rack of light-to-medium weights beside these, and a handful of simple exercise machines directly opposite the door. A combined radio and CD player was propped at one end of the knee-height bench that ran along a mirror-less wall. The room was still-silent, with not a hint of the noise from the game outside.
Yuuri fell a little bit in love.
“Here is where we shall spend the morning,” Celestino announced, and the two moved into the room entirely. The door fell half-closed as Yuuri placed his bag down by the wall. “Take your time warming up. I’ll be here, by the door – begin when you are ready.” The man sat slowly at the end of the bench, and Yuuri turned away, fighting against the piercing feeling of his eyes.
Yuuri shrugged off his outer layer, leaving himself dressed in a loose black singlet, and dark knee-length sweatpants that had a navy-blue stripe long the outer sides. He kept his pair of springy black sneakers on – he would need them for the jumps, and to soften the landings.
After stretching carefully – touching first his toes, then his heels, then slowly pulling each of his legs behind him until they were almost completely vertical, among other increasingly complex stretches – Yuuri stepped into the centre of the room and closed his eyes. Celestino was watching. He needed to show him what he could do, that he was worthy of being here. He needed to show him what being on the ice meant to Yuuri. Eyes still closed, he raised his arms to curve above his head, slipping one foot behind the other to assume the fifth position.
He hadn’t brought his iPod or a CD, but he didn’t need music to picture the routine he was about to perform. He could already hear the music in his mind, memorised from countless hours of practice and repetition over the months of his final run in the Junior level.
The gentle piano notes echoed in his mind, and Yuuri began to move.
Translating his movements from the ice to movements in the studio had never been a problem for Yuuri. If anything, Yuuri preferred stepping his routines on ground, before he even considered the ice. His first dance had been ballet, in a studio just like this one; ice skating had only come later, under the encouragement of his best friend Yuuko. Much of his choreography had its inspiration in ballet, and it could be seen in every careful movement Yuuri made.
It could be seen in the way Yuuri held his head and arms as he leapt across the studio, picturing in his mind how it would have looked were he gliding on ice instead of wood. It could be seen in the way Yuuri didn’t hesitate to throw himself into a double axel, the way he landed with a graceful bend in his knee, the way his free leg held at an exact angle as it swung about. Yuuri ran and twisted and danced about the studio, using every scrap of space he needed, as he poured the comforting routine into the mirrored room. And as his body coiled and uncoiled, Yuuri could feel the source of this comfort soaking into his movements, loosening his muscles and moving the dance away from just a routine, and into his favourite story.
At the cautious beginning, Yuuri remembered the first time he had danced on the ice, the first time he had glided from one end of the rink to the other with his arms poised just like Minako-sensei had shown him. A fold forward, small like a child, and an arm extended as he rose. I am new and cautious, and it feels so right.
For the excited first jump, he remembered the first time he had danced in front of others, their eyes shining the way his mother’s did when Mari offered her a scribbled drawing from school. A leap, two turns, arms thrown out in delight. They can see, now. They see me.
He remembered how Takeshi's father, the only ice skating coach of Haesetsu, had taken him aside and told him that he had a gift, and that sharing that gift with the world was his duty as a skater, as a dancer. Steps quickened with urgency and movements bolder than before, demanding the attention of the audience. They understand me? They understand me!
He remembered competing for the first time, the sound of the audience as they watched and listened and applauded him. A jump, twice in combination, higher than before. See what I can do, see what I am capable of? A turn, a kick, a graceful curve of the arm … I want to do this forever.
As the music in his mind finally tapered, the notes growing higher and softer towards their finish, Yuuri imagined himself gliding back to the centre of the rink, wrapping one arm about himself and carefully raising the other with his inner wrist turned to the ceiling, his feet tucking themselves back into fifth position. He could feel where the ice would bite against his blades, could feel the cold creeping against his ankles and calves. With his eyes closed, Yuuri could almost imagine he was back there, at his last and greatest performance – the Junior Worlds, in a snow-covered Netherlands, and his breath was catching in his throat because he’d known that it was perfect, that all his worries had been for nothing. That Minako and Coach Nishigori were waiting for him at the edge of the arena, and that they had seen him-
“Bellisimo, Yuuri,” Celestino’s cheerful voice broke through the illusion. Yuuri lowered his raised arm and half-turned, to see Celestino sitting patiently at the end of the bench beside the closed door. Yuuri had forgotten the man was there, so caught up in the memories that had ended with his first gold at an international competition. “That was wonderful. Truly, very wonderful. Your sequences are – well, you have magnificent control. This comes from your years of ballet, hmm?”
Yuuri only nodded, still panting a little too hard from his routine to speak just yet.
“Yes, your control of your body, I don’t think we will need to spend much time on that,” Celestino heaved himself from the bench and made his way closer to Yuuri, who finally relaxed his feet to a resting position. “Here – there is something … I need to be sure. Can you repeat for me your combination? And then the sequence after this?”
“Okay,” Yuuri agreed easily, before moving to stand in the furthest corner, facing the mirrors. His brown eyes, framed by a pair of subtle rubber-grip glasses, peered back at him from two angles. His hair wasn’t sticking to his forehead yet, he hadn’t worked up enough of a sweat, but it was feathered lightly from where it had been disturbed by his spinning jumps. Yuuri could see Celestino behind him, standing to one side where he would not be in the way, his arms folded in contemplation.
The combination, it was … triple salchow, double toe-loop … yes, then turn, shift this arm, a twizzler, kick – gently – and turn, hold that arm, shift to the left inside blade –
With the sequence already playing through in his mind, Yuuri braced himself for the first jump. He began stepping backward into the movement, let his free leg rise as he turned once to gain momentum, pushed down with left leg and knee, brought his arms to his chest as he rose, and –
Oh.
He was so startled, that even as his body began its turn into the toe-loop, he could feel himself popping out of position. He managed only a single rotation of the toe-loop before stuttering to a halt, not two metres from where Celestino was nodding thoughtfully into the hand propped over his mouth. Yuuri’s arms were curved awkwardly at shoulder height, and his eyes were wide in shock.
“A double,” Celestino said slowly, as if Yuuri wasn’t already aware of how many rotations he had actually fit into the jump. “This was a triple salchow in your Junior Worlds performance, yes?”
“It was,” Yuuri confirmed weakly, the words a little bitter on his tongue as he finally lowered his arms from the landing position. His toes curled against the lining of his sneakers. He hadn’t even noticed that the jump had slipped to a double, he had been so lost in the story of his routine. How did I not notice?
“You did not have the speed, perhaps,” Celestino offered to Yuuri as he lowered the fingers pressed to his mouth. “On the ice, you enter this from a mohawk, with much speed from the length of the arena. Here, we are starting from a standing position.” Celestino paused. “Which triples can you land, on the ground?”
“Toe-loop, loop, … and salchow … normally,” Yuuri admitted slowly. And the axel … more often than not, anyway. He shifted his balance to one leg, to give his right foot a subtle shake. Despite the cushion of the sneaker sole, his toes were still ringing a little from the impact of his landings.
“Show me again.”
Yuuri returned to the corner, and this time when he met his own eyes in the mirror, he didn’t see the cautious confidence from before, the assurance that had come from finishing a favoured routine with grace and poise. This time, the eyes that looked back at him were wide. They weren’t sure that he could make it. You didn’t even notice, they told him. How many of your other jumps have slipped without you noticing? Did you really jump a double axel? Did you really think you could? Who do you think you are, to think you could land a triple salchow off the ice?
Can you even land a triple salchow on the ice?
Yuuri’s next breath was heavier than the others before. He shook his hands out against his thighs, lowering his head and gathering determination even as it slipped away from him.
I can do this, I know I can. I’ve done this before.
Tensing his core and pinching his brow in determination, Yuuri began his step back for the lead-in once more.
Step, hop-turn, hop-turn – swing the leg, bend, push, jump –
“Hmm.”
Yuuri slowly lowered his arms from where they had been straight and wide for the finish. He’d landed at the correct angle, on the correct foot, with his free leg raised for balance. If he’d been on his blades, he would have landed on the correct edge. It would have been a perfect jump.
A perfect double salchow.
“You are not under-rotating, or over-rotating,” Celestino finally spoke. His arms were folded once more, and Yuuri could see in the reflection of the mirror that the coach was considering him, his eyes picking apart Yuuri’s pose. “Your form is perfect, for a double. I know that you have the height and power you need to make the triple. So, this is a different problem, hmm?”
Yuuri’s breathing had recovered completely from the routine, and from the energy of the jumps. But it was still hitching a little on every breath in.
“One more for me, Yuuri. But this time, try to remember what you are thinking, what you are doing when you lead to the jump. And then share with me what you were thinking, when you have landed.” Celestino gestured with one hand for Yuuri to return to the corner, which Yuuri did with a shaky breath.
What am I thinking?
Yuuri blinked at himself in the mirrors.
Why was it a double? What did I do wrong? I need to make sure, I have to be perfect, I need to push harder, I need-
Yuuri raised his arms a little in preparation for the jump, and bent his knees as he practiced a bounce on the balls of his feet.
My thigh muscles need to move like this … my arms need to go like that …
He didn’t feel ready – if anything, he felt even less ready that he had before. But waiting wasn’t making it any easier, and Celestino was watching him.
I can do this. My body knows how. I just need to tell it what to do.
Yuuri stepped backwards, in a mimic of a gliding mohawk, and spun to gather the speed of the entry. He tensed his jumping leg, hunched down as the energy grew, and sprung from the ball of his foot as he pulled his arms and legs against the centrifugal force, to nestle against his body.
Suspended in the air for a moment, as the mirrors spun around him, Yuuri could feel his body tightening, the energy fading too quickly. Something’s wrong.
He pulled his right leg from where it was crossed under the left, and curled his toes in anticipation of the impact.
The shock of the ground hit Yuuri harder than it had all morning, and his free leg wasn’t where it should be, and one of his arms was still half-tucked to his chest, and his knee was buckling, and he was right, dammit, he couldn’t do this, he couldn’t-
“Yuuri!”
Yuuri blinked, and found that the new, warm weight across his chest was Celestino’s arm, catching him from where he had over-rotated the landing, and tripped, and nearly taken the Italian man out in the process.
“Celes- oh, no, I’m so sorry!” Yuuri stammered as he scrambled to find his feet again, to carry his own weight. “I didn’t mean – are you-?”
“I’m fine, Yuuri,” Celestino comforted him as he helped Yuuri prop himself back on to two feet. “You did no damage. Now – come, sit over here with me.”
Celestino guided Yuuri to the bench, and as he sank onto the wooden surface, the reality finally hit him.
I can’t land a triple salchow.
I can’t – I can’t even land – but I have to, if I want to skate – only I can’t – how pathetic is that –
“Yuuri, tell me what you were thinking, during your last jump.”
Yuuri blinked hard. His hands were gripping each other between his knees, so hard that white was blooming where the skin was being pressured. Yuuri could see Celestino’s hand, resting against the man’s own knee next to him. He didn’t dare look up, to see the older man’s face.
“I was thinking …” What was I thinking? What was I thinking? “I was thinking about where my body needed to be … I suppose.” Was that what I was thinking? … yes. Yes, it was. “I was thinking about my jumping leg … my free leg. My arms. I know my form was perfect, it was. But - but then I tried to put more in, to make the third turn, and when I was in the air … it was like the power wasn’t there anymore.” I’m not explaining it right. These aren’t the right words – but I don’t know how to say this feeling, that I’m … that it isn’t …
“I thought so,” Celestino’s voice rumbled from beside him. Yuuri’s head raised a little, enough that he could see Celestino’s chin and shoulders. Celestino was smiling. “I believe I know what your problem is, Yuuri-ino.”
Yuuri blinked, both at the words, and the unfamiliar suffix.
“You do?”
“Mm-hm. I want you to try something for me. I want you to try this jump, one more time.”
Yuuri’s breath caught in his throat. I can’t try again – I can’t. What if I fail? I can’t fail again, I can’t handle it, I’ll –
“And this time, I want you to think of nothing.”
“… nothing?” Yuuri felt at once that this was the last thing he had expected to hear, but also that this made more sense than anything he had told himself so far. It was confusing. “But how will I make the jump? I need to make sure – I need to tell my body what to do, to make sure that I-”
Celestino raised a hand to touch Yuuri’s shoulder, and Yuuri finally raised his head to meet Celestino’s eyes. “Your body already knows what to do. I have seen it, during the Junior Worlds, during the Junior Grand Prix. You are a skilled skater, you do not need to think where must I be, or what does this leg do. When you think these things, you bring hesitation to your body, and you begin to fail. Yuuri, what you need to do is trust what your body already knows. There is no one here to judge you. There is no penalty for getting this wrong. If you under-rotate, if your landing is shaky, if you touch down – only I will know, and I will not care that you have done so. I will only be proud of you for trying.”
I will only be proud of you for trying.
A breath. One more. Another.
“… okay.” Yuuri straightened his back and pushed himself from the bench, pulling free from Celestino’s hand. He crossed the room, caging himself against the corner where two walls of mirrors touched.
Yuuri met his own eyes, reflecting back at him accusingly. Brown, behind glass, behind sweat-stuck hair.
I’ve done this before. I don’t need to tell my body what to do.
I need to think of … nothing.
Yuuri closed his eyes firmly, ignoring the accusing stare, forgetting it. Don’t think of the memory. Don’t think of the crowd. They aren’t here. And this time when he moved, it was as if he was only a bystander – as if he were Celestino, watching through the mirrors. He didn’t tell his body down, bend, push, turn. He only stepped, and let his body flow with the motions.
He could feel his free leg spinning with the momentum. He could feel his muscles tensing, could feel the power building. He could feel the way his body coiled as the leg began to push down. His arms shifted inwards, folding, and his legs twisted together as the air of the studio rushed around him. One foot extended itself, almost absently. The other leg curled itself away, preparing for the balance of the landing. His arms stretched out of their own accord, the line of his fingers an elegant extension of his wrists. The first impact shook through him lightly, his right leg bending naturally to soften the blow. His body hopped once through the momentum that would have taken him about the rink for the next step in the routine, his free leg swung around behind him and tightened to counter the backward force, and then his body finally slowed, and stopped.
Yuuri opened his eyes, and found his reflection in the mirrors. He was standing on one foot, body unmoving, with both arms and his left leg extended just so. Celestino was standing behind him. Yuuri’s heart skipped a beat – how many rotations, how many was that, was that enough - and then Celestino nodded.
He was smiling.
You see? his smile seemed to say. You can do it.
Yuuri grinned back, his first smile of the day. His thoughts relived the last few moments, and the smile on his face grew.
“This is your first lesson, Yuuri-ino,” Celestino stepped closer, both hands now coming to clasp Yuuri’s shoulders. He was standing behind Yuuri, and their eyes met in their reflection as Yuuri’s body slowly sank from its landing position. “You must learn to move without thinking, and without hesitation. Trust yourself, trust your ability, and your body will obey. We will discover together just how far you can go.” Celestino’s hands tightened comfortingly. “I can’t wait, Yuuri. I can’t wait to see how far you will go.”
The moment stretched, and Yuuri’s silent agreement rose in the shape of a shy smile, and a small nod.
“Now!” Celestino shook his hands against Yuuri’s shoulders, startling him out of the small reverie he had fallen into. “We shall start with some exercises! I would like you to show me the strengthening routine you use already – I will make changes where we need to, and help design a new routine to prepare your body. I want you to be landing at least one quad for this next season, Yuuri – and I know that you will be able to do this! Now – here, fetch a mat from the corner. Show me the stretches you use for …”
The morning marched on, relentless, brutal, and satisfying. And although they did not even touch the ice, although Yuuri left having landed nothing more than what he had already known he could, he left with a sense of accomplishment like none he had felt since the first time he had landed a triple axel in training.
Celestino was unlike any coach he had trained with so far. Not like Minako-sensei, who was tough love and hard ballet wrapped up in a dangerously delicate exterior. Not like Nishigori-san, who had become Yuuri’s skating coach as the owner of the Ice Palace and only full-time ice instructor in Haesetsu, and had been a gruff, awkward, but supportive man. Not like the temporary coaches of the training retreats he had frequented, who were so impersonal as to almost make Yuuri feel that they were instructional videos come to life.
No. Celestino was different.
And Yuuri was looking forward to that.
[10:47pm]
Life with Christophe was going to be strange, Yuuri thought to himself that night as he lay in bed and carefully recounted his day. The man was unlike any he had ever met before – and living in the only inn to be found in his tourist town, he had met a lot of people.
The first lesson Yuuri had learned was that Christophe insisted on music.
There was to be music in every room, at all times, Christophe had told Yuuri as he walked back in from the Arena in the early afternoon to find the older man bobbing his foot at the kitchen counter. A CD player in a corner against the wall was launching a chorus of pop music with a seductive beat. “How else am I to find the perfect music for my routines?”
That had also been the moment Yuuri remembered with sudden clarity just where he had seen Christophe before. The man had made it to the Senior division of the Grand Prix Finals two seasons ago, Yuuri had been sitting in the crowds after pleading with Minako-sensei to stay, and the sultry croon It’s Britney, Bitch had slapped him across the ears just as the red-leather figure on the ice began to move.
Facing that same man in the kitchen, Yuuri’s thoughts had ranged from how could I have ever forgotten that, to, no wonder I erased that from my memory.
The second lesson Yuuri had learned was that clothes, especially in the warm suggestions of an oncoming summer, were optional at best.
Most of the men he had seen naked were too busy sitting around the bathing area or soaking in the heat of a natural hot spring for anyone to really notice anything. The onsen had rules, and expected behaviours. Walking into their bedroom to hunt down his charging cord, and finding Christophe standing stark naked as he scrolled through messages on his phone, obeyed none of those rules or behaviours.
“I got distracted while looking for my skating clothes, it happens every now and then.”
“It really isn’t that big of a deal, topolino – now we are equal!”
“It’s alright to look, Yuuri, I am not shy!”
He had no reason to be shy, Yuuri thought to himself privately, before quickly moving on with a shake of his head.
The third lesson to be learned was that skating, for Christophe, was the most visceral joy that could be had in life.
Yuuri had spent his evening on the couch of the lounge, the TV set to a backdrop news channel, rubbing oil deep into his thighs and calves after the hours of tense work Celestino had put them through. Christophe had returned from his own time with Celestino in a sweat-drenched shirt and matching tights, cheeks flushed, and his eyes sparkling so much that Yuuri could distinctly see the reflection of the TV and both of the lit table lamps.
“The ice, Yuuri, it calls to me,” the man had crooned dramatically as he flung himself over an armchair that Yuuri decided there and then never to use. “She is like a lover, hmm? She demands and demands, but if you give yourself to her, you will be-” his voice had caught, “-rewarded.”
Which was more than Yuuri had ever wanted to know about Christophe’s skating.
The last lesson Yuuri had learned that day, as the sun set through the open back door and cast red shadows through the lounge, was that Christophe was an amazing cook, and Yuuri should never have doubted him.
Lunch had been picked out of a salad bowl in the fridge, alongside a cup of instant microwaved rice. But dinner was something else entirely. When Yuuri had walked into the kitchen to see Christophe humming at the counter, pots and pans and glass jars strewn about, his first instinct had been to panic. It was only later, when Christophe pressed a plate of red-sauced eggplant parmesan and chicken into his lap while he sank into the couch next to him, that Yuuri admitted to himself that he was pleasantly surprised.
“Food is love, Yuuri,” was all Christophe had said, curling his legs under him as he changed the TV to a repeat of last Monday’s The Bachelor.
And now laying in his bed with Christophe in the bed across from his, tapping out a message on his phone, Yuuri stared up at the dark ceiling. His headphones were tucked into his ears, playing a soothing melody overlaid by a female Japanese singer.
Detroit wasn’t anything like home was. But that was alright, Yuuri thought as he deliberately closed his eyes. This was something new, and different, and somehow he was just too curious to do anything other than look forward to finding out what tomorrow would bring.