Archive of Our Own

Junior World Championships, 2004

The reporters will ask him for weeks to come how it feels to break the Junior world records for the short program, free skate and combined scores, and Victor will smile and tuck the truth deep in his heart where no one can twist his words apart:

Making history is chaotic.

Victor loves the attention, but it's overwhelming. He's all of sixteen and well used to public scrutiny even at that age, but now the flash of cameras are brighter than even the lights on the rink and everyone seems to scream questions at him. Victor only has so much time after the kiss and cry to say a few words and he's still a minor, meaning that Yakov restricts his press conferences and public interviews accordingly, and so the reporters and paparazzi have taken to accosting him whenever they have a chance: when Victor is between transports, whether that's the airplane or train or cars, at the hotels Victor stays at for competitions, and outside every arena he competes at.

His fans are very sweet, especially the loyal ones who have supported him since his junior debut, but suddenly Victor is receiving fan mail from around the world, the familiar Cyrillic mixing with Latin script and logographic alphabets – Chinese or Japanese or Korean, Victor isn’t familiar enough with any of them to tell. Victor feels inundated, utterly awash in attention, and so when he walks past Yakov’s office one day and hears Yakov say to someone on the phone, in a voice that has a note in it—

“Vitya isn’t of age yet, so no. Remind him again that there are rules, and that I’m sticking to them.”

—Victor simply shrugs, and puts it out of his mind. He gets enough publicity as it is, and if there is something that requires him to be an adult – a more risqué brand endorsement, perhaps – well, Victor has an entire future ahead of him. There’ll be time enough for that later; as nice as photo shoots and advertising contracts are, right now he’ll rather carve out more ice time to prepare for his senior debut.

(Victor won’t realize until years later that that note in Yakov’s voice had been eight parts steely determination, one part irritation, and one part dread – because Yakov is Yakov; what could the grizzled old coach be afraid of?)

World Championships, 2006

Victor turns eighteen on the heels of a senior GPF bronze, and is frustrated enough with his stiff tendons and shifted centre of balance that he ignores Yakov's barked advice and throws himself headlong into the pain.

It's not a mistake, but the struggle to conquer his body and fend off his coach and yet smile graciously at the cameras through it all takes its toll. Victor makes mistakes on the ice at Turin and can't quite compensate for them; his constantly changing height impairs his calculations, and what should have been accurate calls made the moment before his blades leave the ice only end up unbalancing him further. He's performed quads for more than two years now and his familiarity with the jumps is the only reason why he doesn't eat the ice when he lands badly; the force of the touchdown haunts him the rest of the week, a lingering ache in his arm and elbow like he's bruised the bones themselves.

Victor finishes just off podium. He bites his tongue, and submits to Yakov's growled instructions after that.

By the time Worlds rolls around, Victor hits what is likely to be his final height and a combination of his physical trainer’s unrelenting off-ice conditioning, Lilia Baranovskaya's iron hand and Yakov's strict discipline has mostly smoothed the transition to Victor's skating. He'll never be flexible enough to perform the Biellmann as he did when he was fourteen, but there's a powerful edge to Victor's grace on the ice now, physical and stunning where previously he had been ethereal and captivating.

He takes home the silver and is only a little bothered by it – next season, Victor thinks, looking at his body in the mirror, the sharp cut of his cheekbones, the new breadth of his shoulders, the long torso, his ever familiar battered feet – next season there'll be nothing holding Victor back.

He runs his fingers through the long fall of his hair, regretful but determined, and shears the entire length of it off, a straight line at the nape of his neck. He'll need to find a proper hairdresser later, but there are some things that Victor has to do for himself. Tomorrow, his adoring and very zealous fanbase will ensure that the entire world knows about this change fifteen minutes after he's seen in public, but for now, in privacy, Victor gets to stare at his reflection in the mirror, his head surprisingly light and his neck prickling with goosebumps from the unfamiliar touch of cold air, and practice a new smile to maximize the now exposed line of his throat and jaw.

Victor will remember this moment for the rest of his life: when Yakov summons Victor to his office, Victor first attributes the thunderous, almost fearful look on Yakov's face to his striking short hair, freed of the hat he'd hidden under.

He almost laughs aloud; Yakov has never made a face like that before.

Then Victor steps into the room and notices the man seated at Yakov's desk. The man isn't a skater, Victor can tell immediately, and he's young enough – mid-twenties, if Victor had to guess – that Victor doesn't think he's a coach or an official. The full-length jacket and the long scarf are an oddity, but it's the subtle way Yakov moves to never put his back to the man that makes Victor straighten, pay attention.

Victor has good instincts; anyone who grows up under constant public scrutiny cultivates the skill or is rapidly turned upon by the media. He summons his new smile, charming and confident, and doesn't step beyond the invisible line Yakov marks, standing midway between Victor and their visitor.

"Hello!” he chirps, but tempers the enthusiasm by keeping his voice low and smooth. “I'm Victor Nikiforov."

Yakov's eyes flicker, but he gives Victor a short nod, familiar after dozens of interviews and press conferences – Yakov will allow Victor to stand on his own two feet for this occasion. All right, then.

The man studies him for a long moment, violet eyes wide and curious. There's something uncanny about those eyes, and Victor feels his smile strain, lets his expression fade into something more natural and neutral.

"I know," the man says at last, his voice quiet and musical and almost childlike. "My boss suggested that I meet you after you broke a world record, but there are rules in place and apparently you were too young. So instead, I listened to news of your senior debut and your struggles on the ice this past year. Amusing. Won't you introduce me, Yakov?"

Victor is too wary to react to the barb in the stranger's words, and the way Yakov clenches his jaw but does not react otherwise is even more worrying.

"Vitya, this is Ivan Braginsky."

"A full introduction, Yakov," Braginsky says in that same tone; the pleasantness in his voice only makes the undercurrent of ugliness all the more threatening.

Yakov doesn't react, however, just keeps his gaze on Victor. "Vitya, why do you skate?"

The sudden topic change catches Victor off-guard, and he pauses, more than a little bewildered now. After a moment, he opts for the truth rather than the filtered version he uses for the press. "Because I can't not skate. It's like breathing for me."

"So you skate for yourself. But out there, at international competitions – who do you skate for?"

This one's easy. All Yakov's students get a lecture on national pride and conduct the moment they start competing internationally, and Victor hears variations of that speech every time he gets a new Team Russia jacket.

"I skate for Russia," Victor says.  

"Not for the government? Not for the Russian Skating Federation?"

"You're the one who insists that sports stay separate from politics," Victor points out. "I compete for the pride of my country. It says only Russia on my jacket, after all. It's a lot easier to skate for an abstract entity than to get tangled up with people or organizations."

Midway through his junior career, Victor learned that loyalty to his country doesn't necessarily equal loyalty to his country's government or his skating federation, and began systematically breaking boundaries until there had been a minor war between him and the RSF, subsiding only when Victor earned his Junior world records two years ago. He's only heard faint grumbling out of the RSF about his androgynous costumes and his crown of blue roses and subtle homages to figure skating legends they don't approve of ever since.

A look of grim resignation flashes through Yakov's eyes – he's likely thinking of the same incidences –and he nods his head towards Braginsky, who had sat patiently through the entire conversation with a slight smile on his face. "When you compete for Russia, you're essentially competing for him."  

Victor stays very still, but he can't help the way his gaze darts between Braginsky and Yakov. It's too fantastical for a joke, putting aside the fact that Yakov never jokes, but Yakov's eyes are hard in a way Victor has never seen and he taps two fingers against the back of his palm – mark your technical components, Vitya.

Victor has been able to calculate his technical scores and make split second decisions on the ice since he was thirteen and started competing internationally; he hesitates now, despite what logical reasoning tells him.

"If competing for Russia is the same as competing for him, and not the government or the RSF, then he... is Russia?"

It sounds utterly, completely nonsensical when he says it out loud, but neither Yakov nor Braginsky laughs.

Instead, Braginsky smiles. "Well done." 

"It's not the first time I've had to introduce you to a student of mine," Yakov snaps, and watching the fire return to his coach's eyes is more assuring than anything else. Victor straightens his spine, thinks of all the times he'd had to push down the innate fear to jump again after particularly bad falls, and meets Braginsky's strange violet eyes.

"Who are you?"

"I am Russia," Braginsky simply says. "Some people call us personifications, but it's more complicated than that. Where we come from, no one knows. All I know is that I am tied to this land and its people. Or rather – you are all tied to me. A happy family. Sometimes."

Victor is sure he isn't drunk or hung-over; he was stone cold sober when he cut off his hair the night before. He hasn't even gotten on the ice yet, so it can't be a concussion from a fall he doesn’t remember either.

Yakov heaves a sigh. "I've known him since I became one of Russia's top coaches. That was thirty years ago. He hasn't aged a single day."

"No," Braginsky agrees. "The world has been very peaceful these past decades. And I've been around long enough that I did my growing up long ago."

His hand flashes out, deadly fast despite his larger frame. Light glints off the letter-opener like the glare of spotlights off the blades of Victor's skates, and before anyone can react, Braginsky has drawn back his jacket sleeve and slashed a line along his forearm.

The letter-opener has an edge but is blunted by design, but Braginsky is precise and unflinching and it only takes a second slash for the scratch to open into a deeper cut. Victor chokes back an instinctive shout, but Braginsky just stares down at the blood spilling between his parted flesh and flicks the end of his scarf over his shoulder with the clean handle of the letter-opener, thoughtful.

"It doesn't really hurt," Braginsky says, and demonstrates by pressing two fingers against the wound, deftly tilting his arm upwards so the blood trickles downward and pools in the well of his elbow instead of spilling onto the cushions of his chair. It's terrifyingly considerate of him – Victor has been skating long enough that he's experienced and witnessed his share of skating injuries, and blood is hard is get out of fabric. "By tonight, this will be a faint line on my skin; by tomorrow, all traces of it will be gone."

He looks up at Victor. "Ah, but blood and blades remind skaters of bad memories, don't they?" A perfunctory wipe cleans the letter-opener enough that Braginsky can tuck the blade into his belt without dripping blood everywhere, and then he carefully draws his jacket sleeve down over the cut to hide it from view as if he isn't still openly bleeding under it.

"If you're done terrorizing my student," Yakov says sharply, "we do still need to get on the ice today."

"Of course." Braginsky stands up then, and from across the room Victor can only guess that they're of similar height, now that Victor's had his growth sprout, but where Victor is all muscular slenderness, Braginsky is broad and powerful and, despite his youthful appearance, quite intimidating. He smiles earnestly at Victor. "They call you Russia's rising star, but I've heard such promises before. Time will tell whether you fulfil your potential. But watching you, as a person – that's been interesting."

Victor bites the inside of his cheek and lets the minute pain focus him. "I'm interesting? Are you not interested in my skating at all?"

"Of course the skating is an important part of you. But I don't like the cold, so it's really the consequences of your skating that intrigues me." And while Victor's busy mulling over the fact that Russia doesn't like the cold, Braginsky continues, "Like your hair."

"My... hair."

"It reminded me of my sister." Braginsky's voice has an odd note in it, nostalgia and wariness both. "But this suits you as well."

Victor has to reach up, up, up to touch his hair now, fluttery short ends where previously he could loop the length of it around his fingers several times over. "The long hair doesn't fit my image anymore."

"And so you took it all off two days after medalling on the podium in one of figure skating's biggest events."

Victor thinks of the conviction in his heart when he’d looked at his reflection in the mirror the night before, and then he raises his chin, staring at Braginsky in subtle defiance. "I was going to do it no matter what, so I might as well do it in the most surprising way possible."

Braginsky laughs.

“Continue breaking expectations, Victor." For so tall and broad a man, Braginsky moves with surprising litheness; between one blink and another, he’s crossed the room to stand in front of Victor. “I have to go now, but it’s been nice meeting you. The world expects from you great things, but that’s a cliché, isn’t it? I’d rather see where your stubbornness and resolve take you. Oh!”

The exclamation is sudden enough that Victor startles, and disconcerting enough that Yakov shoots Victor a look of caution over Braginsky’s shoulder.

Braginsky pays them no attention; he lifts his arm instead, pulling roughly at his jacket with little consideration for his injury. The inside of his jacket sleeve is a mess of smeared blood and Victor tries not to flinch, but when he looks at Braginsky’s forearm the cut has sealed up like days, not mere minutes, have passed, angry and inflamed but clearly well on the mend.

“Just in case you still had doubts about what I am,” Braginsky says pleasantly. He lets his sleeve fall back, gives a nod to Yakov, and then sweeps out the door.

Braginsky leaves a poignant silence in his wake, and then Yakov lets out a heavy breath that shatters Victor’s paralysis. Victor manages the four steps to the other side of the office and sinks into a spare chair, pulling deep breaths through his mouth in an effort not to breathe in more of the cloying metallic tang of spilled blood.

Yakov takes one look at him, and crosses to his desk.

"We're going to have words about your hair, Vitya, but for now, you've earned this." And with that, Yakov slams a bottle of vodka and two glasses on his desk and deftly pours out a generous amount into each glass.

There are dozens of questions at the back of Victor’s mind, thoughts and expletives that crowd the tip of his tongue, but they can wait. Victor knocks back the glass, lets the burn of vodka chase the disconcertion of the past half hour far away enough that he can look at Yakov with a measure of his calm back.

Maybe it’s Victor’s uncharacteristic silence, but Yakov sighs, drinks his own glass at a slower pace than Victor did. He looks tired but much less worried than when Victor first walked into the office, and Victor feels his pulse settle into a steadier rhythm.

He’ll get an explanation for this one, Victor already knows from Yakov’s expression. Victor doesn’t know what other surprises lay in wait for him, but no matter what, at least he’s not facing them alone.

Victor sets his glass back on the table, and when Yakov begins speaking, for once listens without interrupting.

Russian Nationals, 2008

Victor loves the Yubileyny Sports Palace for many reasons, and not least of those are for the wide windows lining the sides of the rink, spilling in the faint morning and afternoon sunlight and lighting up motes of frost and ice spray as Victor twirls circles and circles across the ice.

Slipping out from the Sports Palace into the darkness of the night doesn’t feel so disheartening when Victor gets plenty of natural light while he’s on the ice.

It’s late enough that most of the foot traffic in this part of town are clubbers and St. Petersburg’s youth out on drinking sprees. Victor could so easily blend in amongst them, but only on the surface. Not many of these youths, Victor’s supposed peers, have strict diets where they have to count every calorie or gruelling schedules that have them awake at five in the morning and back home only in the evenings, where bruised and bleeding feet have to be treated so the training can be repeated all over again the next day. Fewer of them, Victor knows, would be willing to trade fractures and snapped ligaments for a chance at a gold medal.

Victor always thought that if he was going to injure himself, it would be his feet or Achilles tendons, maybe his knees. His jumps are consistently the strongest elements in his routines, after all, and the repeated impacts – not to mention the many hard falls in the learning and perfecting of his jump repertoire – are bound to take their toll. 

So he paid particular attention and care to his jumps, and when he ended up with a back stress fracture mere weeks before the beginning of the competitive season, Victor is almost as angry that he’d ended up injuring himself somewhere unexpected as he is for ending up injured in the first place.

Injuries happen, however, and no amount of bitter recriminations can change that.

There were differing opinions on how much time he should take off, but Victor listened to all the doctors and then insisted on returning for the Russian Nationals. Yakov could overrule him but eventually gave in – having a concrete goal is the only way to get Victor to go through physiotherapy and recovery properly – but not before he had a plethora of doctors and physiotherapists recommend and draw up extensive plans.

He picked one of the more conservative ones, of course, but since it got Victor back on the ice with enough time to practice and compete at Nationals, Victor nodded, dipped his head down, and followed all the directives precisely.

Now, three months later, Victor is finally back on the ice where he belongs, frost motes whirling at his bladed feet until the sun sets and Yakov chases him off the rink. He walks in the opposite direction to the crowds, his feet throbbing in an aching, satisfying way, and Russia’s winter nights are cold, much colder than the rinks, but familiar all the same.

Victor wraps his scarf tighter around his neck, and steps out to cross a street—

—only to be yanked back by the collar, the jerk so abrupt he chokes—

—and the car, headlamps unlit, screeches by so close that the buffeted air is like a slap to the face—

And then Victor falls back against a solid body, all the air frozen in his lungs, the lapels of his jacket two sharp lines cutting across his collarbones.

I can’t get hurt again, I just got back on the ice, Victor thinks, staring at the faint retreating shape of the car, followed by the sudden thud of his heart leaping in his chest and oh fuck I did almost get run over—

“You might have a death wish, but surely there are less messy ways of killing yourself.”

Victor’s head snaps up, his thoughts careening to a halt, realizing abruptly that someone had saved him, pulled him back – someone that he’s half collapsed against.

Ivan Braginsky stares down at him, one hand still fisted in the collar of Victor’s jacket.

“I don’t have a death wish,” Victor says senselessly, and hugs his bag with his skating boots to his chest, irrationally glad he hadn’t dropped it.

"I’m glad to hear that. Human lifespans are so short, after all." There's quiet melancholy in Ivan's voice. "And those of soldiers and athletes even shorter."

Victor feels a chill go down his spine that has nothing to do with his near accident or the deepening night. Soldiers might fall in the line of duty, but athletes retire at the end of their careers.

Don’t they?

“Thank you,” Victor says uncertainly, and Braginsky looks at him again, as if he’d forgotten that Victor was there. He lets go of Victor and takes a step back, and Victor straightens, pulling his jacket back into place, feeling his healing spine twinge a little from the earlier abrupt yank.

Better a twinge than more fractured or broken bones, however.

The thought is a surprisingly galvanising one, and Victor draws in a deep breath, lets it out. “Thank you,” he says more confidently this time. “Nationals are later this week, and I really need to rank well if I want to go to Europeans or Worlds.”

“Aren’t you injured?”

“I was. I’ve healed, mostly.” 

Braginsky’s eyes are very pale, almost glowing in the darkness. “And yet you’ll risk aggravating your injuries further to get back on the ice.”

It’s not an admonishment, but after weeks and weeks of everyone trying to hold him back it hits Victor like one.

“Yes,” Victor snaps, his hands clenching tight onto his bag, his fingers digging into the hard curves of his skates, “Because it’s my body and my career and my aspirations, and trust me, I’ve definitely given it much more thought that you have, Russia.” Maybe it’s the adrenaline, because Victor remembers the easy way Braginsky had carved cuts into his own skin; the last thing Victor should do is provoke him, but at this moment, he doesn’t care. “You can heal overnight, but the rest of us don’t. So while I was recovering over the last fourteen weeks, I thought long and hard about what I want and although it’s painful and it terrifies me that I could injure myself permanently I still want the ice.”

His voice rings out in the silence of the night and Victor stops then, his breath coming short and choppy in his chest and his heartbeat pounding in his ears. Braginsky is quiet, very quiet, and some sense of self-preservation finally seeps back into Victor’s bones.

“I…” he says.

Braginsky smiles then. “And you say you don’t have a death wish.”

Before the blood can quite freeze in Victor’s veins, Braginsky turns away, his long scarf snapping in his wake. “You shouldn’t cross roads when you’re distracted,” Braginsky’s voice drifts back.

Victor stares after him. His hands finally loosen their clutch on his bag, his fingers aching from how hard his grip had been, and Victor closes his eyes, breathes in deeply, forces his tense muscles to relax.

“Oh, and Victor.”

Victor’s eyes snap open, his gaze going automatically to Braginsky, who watches him over his shoulder. None of Braginsky’s words or actions so far have been normal by any stretch of the imagination, but there’s something in those violet eyes now, unearthly and compelling, that underscores who and what Braginsky truly is, beneath his humanlike frame.

Victor’s name in his nation’s voice is a summons, and Victor can no sooner ignore it than he can the call of the ice.

“Yes.” The acknowledgment is all he can manage at this moment.

“You may call me Ivan.”

Braginsky tone is light, but it’s not a suggestion. He waits with unnatural patience, the only movement his pale hair and his scarf ruffling in the wind, until Victor nods once, sharply.

Braginsky smiles again, and then disappears into the darkness. 

Victor stands there for long minutes, bone-tired and chilled, and quite shaken. He wonders if every encounter he has with Braginsky—Ivan—will knock him so off-kilter like this, wonders if there’s anything he can do to safeguard himself, wonders if it’s worth telling Yakov about this or whether that will just worry his coach unduly. Victor is a man of action, but the Russian wind blows ever colder, and Victor shivers, tucks his bag closer, and resumes his long journey home.

Vancouver Winter Olympics, 2010

The Olympics are important enough that almost everyone wants some stake in it, and so there are plenty of press events and official gatherings in the weeks before the Olympic athletes begin their slow trickle to Vancouver for their individual preparations. This one is full of politicians and government officials, and Victor dutifully makes the rounds, taking the well-wishes with his usual aplomb. Expectations are high for him to bring back the gold in men’s singles figure skating and Victor doesn’t contradict them; he’s honed his presence on the ice in the years since Turin and his confidence is not unfounded. Still, the faces of the officials blur after a while, and Victor operates mostly on auto-pilot until he feels a familiar aura cutting through the room.

It’s clear no one knows who Ivan is, even though the nation speaks at least a word or two to every athlete. To everyone else, he’s just another governmental well-wisher, never staying long enough to make a deeper impression, and Victor wonders if it’s by Ivan’s choice or at his superior’s insistence.

Ivan comes close enough that Victor begins overhearing his comments, simple “congratulations”s, and “you’ll do well”s, and then he turns away from a luger, his violet eyes catching immediately on Victor.

The detached politeness in that gaze sharpens, coloured by a strange mix of delight and cool regard, and unconsciously Victor straightens. Beside him, Georgi turns, alerted by Victor’s body language and on-guard by Yakov’s order to stick together and for God’s sake, stay out of trouble.

Ivan’s eyes flick away, and he smiles at Georgi, his congratulations soft and unaffected. Then he tilts his head and in the same voice, says, “Enjoy this while you can, Victor.”

Georgi draws in a sharp breath.

Ivan draws away before either of them can react further, Georgi in shock and Victor already turning the puzzle of that comment over in his head. When Ivan disappears between two officials, Georgi unfreezes enough to snag Victor’s arm, and hisses, “Do you know that man? Was that a threat?”

Trust Georgi to come up with the most dramatic explanation possible, but Victor can’t say he blames him.

“It’s fine.” Victor keeps his voice low to avoid drawing any more attention. When Georgi doesn’t budge, Victor adds, “Yakov knows. It’s fine, Zhora.”

He rarely uses diminutives with his rink mates no matter how much Georgi goes on about the power of team camaraderie, and that, together with the knowledge that Yakov is aware of the situation, seems to appease Georgi, at least enough that Victor can drag them both to the drinks table. That proves enough of a distraction, and Georgi mercifully drops the topic.

It’s a warning, Victor thinks in the days after. He’s in the prime of his career, twenty-two and blazing trails for the figure skating world, but there are no guarantees in a sport as physically demanding as his. Victor’s back stress fracture wasn’t as bad as it could have been, but healed as he is all figure skaters are just one unlucky injury away from an early retirement. Victor contests at the highest competitive level – the risk will always be there.

When he reaches the Olympic Village and sinks into the controlled chaos of it all, Victor revises that opinion. It’s his second outing at the Olympics, but he’d been consumed by his own internal struggles in Turin; here in Vancouver, Victor is settled in his own skin and has time to observe his fellow athletes, and the underlying tension beneath the egos and pride and festivities is almost ugly. The Olympics are the most prestigious event any athlete can compete at, and the four-year interval ensures that at best most get only a shot or two at it.

Victor takes to the ice like he was born for it and ignores the jealous glares and the cool stares, looks instead for the friendly gazes and makes sure he smiles back.

He’s coming off the ice after his final practice session when it happens. Victor had ceded Yakov to Georgi since it’s his rinkmate’s first Olympic outing, but there are so many more people than Victor ever expected, coaches and choreographers staying rinkside and entire national teams sneaking into the audience stands. It’s almost a relief when Victor spots Lambiel heading towards the ice. Although Victor is closer with Chris – and how the young meadow boy had shot up over the years, slowly climbing the senior ranks – Victor has shared the podium with the older Swiss skater and admired the sheer speed and grace of his spins long enough that it’s a pleasure, not an obligation, to wave to him.

Lambiel tips a hand up in greeting, and the man next to him glances towards Victor as well.

Victor’s first impression is that of discipline – for all that the man is short, with choppy blonde hair in a chin-length bob, his posture is military rigid, his shoulders set and straight as he coolly studies Victor.

That first impression doesn’t matter at all, because the moment Victor gets a good look at the man’s eyes, Victor knows. It’s a surprisingly lucid gaze, strong and steady and lacking the contradiction inherent in Ivan’s eyes, which can swing from terrifyingly sweet to thoughtlessly cruel in a split second. But the majesty in them, the otherworldliness is the same.

That man is a nation. And since he’s standing next to Lambiel – the odds are high that he is Switzerland.

The encounter lasts for just a few seconds. Victor isn’t quite sure what his expression is like, but Lambiel’s smile dims a little in puzzlement, and then after a moment, his eyes widen in understanding.

Switzerland touches his shoulder lightly, having to reach up to do so, and Lambiel turns immediately to his nation. They murmur together for a moment, and then Lambiel nods. They turn away, but Lambiel shoots Victor one last glance over his shoulder, giving him a short nod, before removing his skate guards and taking to the ice, leaving Switzerland on the sidelines.

Victor tilts his head so his bangs hide his face enough so he can hurry away without drawing attention to himself. Yakov had impressed upon him how important it was to keep Ivan’s identity secret after that first meeting, and Victor has a suspicion that it’s the same for other countries. He’s not going to test his luck on a nation he knows nothing about.

They’re down to the final six of the free skate when he and Lambiel cross paths again. As the second to skate, Lambiel stays rinkside when they all come off the ice after their six-minute warm up; Victor pauses, and then decides to stay as well. It’ll be the last time Lambiel will perform at the Olympics, possibly his last competition before retirement, and Victor’s skating last, so he can afford to watch.

The American skater in sixth place after the short program speaks quietly to his coach, and the announcers boom out instructions overhead, drowning out much of the ambient noise from the crowd. 

“Bonne courage, Victor,” Lambiel says, soft but each word precise. “Tonight, we skate for the pride of our countries.”

Switzerland has been notably absent since the practice session a few days ago, but Lambiel glances towards the audience stands, and it’s likely that his nation is up there amongst the crowd.

“So we do,” Victor murmurs back, careful to keep his voice low, and Lambiel’s eyes flicker at the oblique acknowledgment.

“Is yours watching as well?”

Victor blinks once, and then laughs. “No. Not his style. He doesn’t like the cold.”

“Ah.”

They lapse into silence, Lambiel no doubt mentally preparing for his upcoming routine, and Victor stares out into the ice. The American finishes his routine to loud applause, and Lambiel’s coach steps to his side.

Victor cedes ground immediately. “Bonne courage, Stephane,” he says before he goes, and Lambiel glances up at the audience stands once before smiling at Victor.  

Lambiel performs solidly – his jumps are a bit of a mess, but his transitions and choreography are beautiful, and his spins are breathtaking as always. It’s not quite enough to get him on the podium, Victor thinks, but some performances aren’t about the score.

Somewhere out there, a stoic Swiss nation is clapping along with the audience and might just be spotting a rare smile of pride for his figure skater.

A fifteen-second impression isn’t much to work with, but Victor spends the time between Lambiel’s performance and his own pondering the differences between Switzerland and Ivan. By the time Yakov descends on him for the last minutes of preparation before he takes the ice, Victor has gone through every encounter he’s had with Ivan. Victor never forgets how much he owes to his country, for the opportunities the ministries give him and the privileges they grant in light of his accomplishments, but it’s different, to know that there’s a face and a person to the country, someone Victor sees rarely and whose conversations are strange but also strangely profound.

“On the ice, representing the Russian Federation, Victor Nikiforov!”

Enjoy this while you can, Ivan had told him, and Victor takes it for the challenge that it is.

Victor takes a swift loop around the rink, revelling in the touch of the cold on his skin, and throws in a triple flip for the simple joy of it. The audience roars, and Victor keeps his smile to himself as he skates to his starting point in the centre of the rink. Ivan might not care as much as Victor would like about his skating, but the Pacific Coliseum seats thousands, all of whom have their eyes fixed on Victor at this moment, and there are millions more viewing his performance live worldwide.

Yakov’s going to kill him, but it’s the Olympics, and what better venue to unveil the jump he’s been working on the past year, a jump that no other skater has attempted, much less land cleanly, in competition?

He’s the favourite to win gold, but no one knows exactly how he’s going to do it. Victor’s going to surprise them all.

Watch me, he thinks, and moves.

St. Petersburg, 2012

Other than Yakov, no one else in the St. Petersburg skating circuit knows who – or should that be what? – Ivan is.

But Lilia does.

Victor isn’t sure when she found out that he knows – he and Yakov rarely speak about Ivan openly, and certainly not in front of others – but she knocks on his door late one evening, still dressed up from a function, and bluntly says, “I know you know about Ivan Braginsky.” Victor gapes at her for long seconds before wordlessly letting her in.

There’s an interval between Lilia putting away her coat and the two of them settling in the kitchen when they fall back into a rhythm. Lilia is the antithesis of Ivan, in that she’ll ignore Victor’s consistent bachelor status or the fact that he spoils Makkachin silly or the bareness of his fridge unless they affect his skating. He submits to her scolding the way he never does with Yakov, and sets a kettle of water to boil.

She lapses into silence after that, watching him with narrowed eyes, but Victor knows better than to push. Lilia only ever dances to her own tune; she’ll lead the conversation. 

“Beyond the two of you at the rink, no one else in my social circle knows,” Lilia says, answering Victor’s unspoken question in that uncannily perceptive way that she has. “I can’t say there are any set criteria for who Braginsky reveals himself to or whom his superiors allow him to contact, because as far as I know, the majority of the people who know are ones with extremely high positions in the government. For all intents and purposes, Braginsky is a state secret of the highest confidentiality. But I suppose there’s no overriding the will of a nation, especially one as…”

Lilia pauses, uncharacteristically hesitant, and Victor makes no move to fill in the silence. Ivan, as the concept of the personification of a country, defies understanding. Ivan, as an individual, is unpredictable, a creature of contradictions.

“Volatile,” she says at last, “as Braginsky can be. Ballet and figure skating are two of Russia’s most emblematic performance arts and sports. But you’ve set a number of world records and are well on your way to becoming a legend on the ice and I was appointed prima ballerina of the Bolshoi Ballet, so I suppose we both have accolades enough to make the cut.”

The kettle whistles, and they pause for a moment for Victor to turn off the stove, to make up a tray with a tea service and bring it to the table. They have rules for this, unspoken though they are: tea for their rare meet ups and alcohol only in celebration, when Victor gets to break his normally strict diet. 

“Yakov says he’s known of Ivan for years.”

Lilia’s mouth thins at the mention of Yakov’s name, but she keeps her peace. “Yes, well, it’s because of Braginsky that we became close. Two people from separate competitive spheres meeting at a function usually leads to polite and incredibly boring conversation. Two people who know of one of Russia’s greatest secrets, however – it was something that connected us instantly.” She tips a small amount of concentrated tea into a cup and then adds hot water, stirring in just a bit of honey to sweeten the brew.

Victor waits for her to finish before making up his own cup – plain, and almost as strong as coffee. “When did you first meet Ivan?”

“Years ago, when I still performed with the Bolshoi Ballet. Unlike you, I saw him only rarely, even then.” She takes a sip of her tea, her eyes never leaving Victor’s. “I saw him tonight, at a gathering hosted by the Mariinsky Ballet. Our country has a long memory, and he often stands with me when his superiors don’t require him to do anything but be present – because I at least know who he is, I suspect. Imagine to my surprise, when he spoke of you.”

“Oh.” Victor thinks on that for a while, watching wisps of steam rise from his teacup. “He’s never mentioned anyone else to me other than Yakov occasionally, and Yakov was there when I first met him.” He looks back at Lilia. “What did he say?”

What’s rattled you enough that you’d come immediately to me now, years after I’ve first met the personification of our country?

“Braginsky interacts with Yakov because Yakov’s mentored a number of students that have caught his interest over the years. He interacts with me because my dancing captivated him once, and after that I suppose I simply became familiar. Neither of us have the type of conversations that you seem to have with him, and neither of us has been granted the familiar privilege of calling him ‘Ivan.’” Lilia sets her teacup down on its saucer, and the sound of porcelain striking porcelain is like a gunshot in the quiet of the kitchen. “Do you understand, Vitya? He’s fixated on you, and it hasn’t waned over the years.”

Victor sets down his own teacup. There’s a jumble of emotions in his chest – surprise, yes; wariness, yes; but also a misplaced sense of protectiveness.

“Is that so bad?” he says quietly. “I know that as a nation Ivan cannot be measured by our normal standards. I also know that even when compared to other nations there’s something off about him. But even then, he’s our country, and I’ve never been fearful in his presence.” Then Victor thinks of bloody cuts and challenges couched in threats and the command in Ivan’s voice, and amends that to, “well, I don’t stay afraid after he leaves, anyway.”

Lilia’s eyes soften, and Victor suspects despite her misgivings that over the long years she’s become fond of Ivan as well, in a distant and respectful way. Still, she tilts her chin up, and Victor knows she’s not quite done yet.

“Have you ever thought about what it means to be a nation? Not the politics or how he interacts with Russia’s citizens, but what it means to Braginsky personally.”

“Not really,” Victor answers honestly.

"It means that what is history for us are memories for him. You didn't continue your schooling in favour for skating, Vitya, but even you must know what our country's history is like."

Victor knows. Centuries of wars and revolutions, and particularly violent ones. Even without the details, it’s hard to imagine living through such tragedies – lifetimes of them.

Lilia touches her teacup, straightens the pots of honey and sugar and jam until they are all aligned. “All nations have their dark histories, but his seem to have hit Braginsky particularly hard.” She goes quiet for a moment, and then sighs, very softly. “You need to be careful.”

And that’s the crux of Lilia’s visit, the reason why she’s sitting in Victor’s kitchen at one in the morning. Ivan operates on a momentum of his own, but Lilia worries nonetheless, and so she’ll do what little she can to address those worries.

It’s been a while since Victor last saw her, the intervals between each meeting growing increasingly longer especially after her divorce from Yakov, but they keep in touch – mostly when Lilia sends Victor scathing feedback on his routines after competitions, and plenty of criticism for his less than ballet-perfect form. Victor never tells her that he saves every message. 

He smiles at her. “Aren’t I always?”

“You’re not, you reckless fool,” Lilia shoots back, and Victor knows she’s pushed as far as she’s come to do tonight. “Your postures are horribly sloppy; think of your spine.”

Victor laughs then, and pushes the pot of concentrated tea and the kettle closer to her. Lilia sniffs, and makes up a fresh cup of tea for herself, and when she pauses to consider her condiments, Victor says, “I’ll be more careful, I promise.”

Their eyes meet over the tea service. They both know Victor isn’t talking about his form on the ice.

“I’ll hold you to your word,” Lilia simply says, and turns back to her tea.

Sochi Winter Olympics 2014

Victor skates a routine of splendour and cruel beauty reminiscent of Russia's winter to the deafening support of the Russian people, and takes the gold by an astonishing margin.

The mild headache he nurses the next morning is not because of the banquet or the afterparties – Victor is Russian, after all – but there's something about the cold that makes the ache in his left temple throb all the more, and he opts for the strange comfort of coffee, familiar from years of travel through anonymous airports and train stations. The Olympic Village is empty and eerie at five in the morning and the coffee will go cold in about four minutes flat at Sochi's current temperature, hovering nice and balmy at freezing point, but Victor didn't buy the coffee for the flavour. He bites off his gloves for once – even if the paparazzi dared to breach the Village's security they surely wouldn't do so at this time – and cradles the little takeaway cup between two hands, the cold nipping at the back of his palms. He breathes in deeply; Victor prefers the taste of whiskey but he loves the scent of coffee, strong and heady, and he lets it wrap around him even as he stares out into the darkness, his thoughts cocooned by the quiet.   

It's in this liminal time and space that Ivan finds him.

"I'm surprised to see you here," Victor says, because it might an international event of extreme importance set in Russia itself, but Ivan really does hate the cold and it's the Winter Olympics; even the indoor arenas are frigid. Ivan was at the Opening Ceremony, of course, but Victor had expected him to return to Moscow soon after.

"I too have my duty to perform," Ivan says stoically, like a long suffering soldier forced to march through slush and snow and knows he can never complain.

"At five-thirty in the morning?"

"You are here," Ivan points out without a hint of sentiment in his voice, and Victor just nods.

"Did you watch?"

"No." Ivan pauses. "Yakov sent me the footage afterwards, of course. Gold once again."

Ivan never seems to care about the medals Victor brings back under Russia's flag, which is both infuriating and oddly comforting. It takes the pressure off Victor's shoulders; once, he'd worried about medalling, chasing after the gold like an eagle on the hunt. Nowadays, that pressure is a distant memory and a different weight has settled over Victor – the struggle to outdo himself at the lofty peak of his accolades, to keep surprising the audience when he has little inspiration and little challenge to pit himself against.  

The margin between Victor and Chris – the silver medallist – had been so wide this time. It's probably another record he's broken.

Victor can't bring himself to care.

"I enjoyed your theme," Ivan says thoughtfully. "Very symbolic."

"Were you surprised?"

"No." Ivan's eyes are sharp and knowing, but his smile isn't cruel. The truth is what it is, after all, and it only hurts because it's true. "You might have surprised others, however. I doubt they expected you to be so patriotic. I know better, of course. You're very loyal, Victor, but it's certainly not foremost to Russia."

Victor almost smiles. "It's nearly the same thing," he says quietly; winter and the ice are to Russia what maple leaves are to Canada or the fleur-de-lis is to France – symbols so iconic that they've become quintessential to that nation's identity.

"Perhaps." Ivan turns to look out into the darkness, and his ever-present scarf whips in the wind. Victor has never seen him without it, not even at the height of summer. "I care for many people and for many things. My relationship with Winter, however, is complicated. It protects me, and shackles me. A love-hate relationship, you could call it. Much like you and the ice."

It takes a moment for Victor to realize he's dropped his cup; the lid breaks off upon impact, cold liquid splattering over Victor's shoes, the aroma of coffee overwhelming in its intensity. Ivan doesn't even twitch, and Victor lets his instinctive curse go, just takes a step back from the mess, staring at Ivan all the while.

It's not like Victor hasn't acknowledged it, the sinking, lost feeling in his chest, the loneliness that burns cold and steady like an ember – just as likely to flare to life as it is to smother to a silent death. He's always soared on the ice but lately the confines of the rink have started to feel like the bars of a cage, and the ice that he had always found inspiration on has started to lose its lustre. Victor doesn't hate the ice – how could he, when through it he’s gained every good thing in his life? – but he's starting to become ambivalent to it, and with that ambivalence comes the recognition of just how empty the rest of his life truly is.

It's not the worst realization: Victor knows that if he waits long enough, his feelings towards the ice might just turn to resentment.

Victor has known this for a while now; he just hadn't expected to hear it out loud.

He seals all of this behind his tongue and pulls out his gilded public smile instead. "I'm not sure what you're talking about," he dissembles, a truly idiotic decision, he acknowledges a few hours – and a few kilometres – away from this moment.

Ivan isn't human. Victor never forgets, but sometimes he slips. It's funny the things anyone can get used to, with enough time and exposure, and most of the time Ivan lets him get away with it. Might enjoy it, even, since he always seems amused in those moments.

Other times, Victor is forcibly reminded that he's dealing with the living manifestation of his country, in all its frigid and violent glory.

"No?" There's something decidedly wrong with Ivan's smile, like hairline cracks on what should be pristine ice. His voice, soft as it is, resonates with an unspoken strength that makes Victor want to clap his hands over his ears. "You'll feel it soon enough. If you're not careful, it will break you."

And then, with an abruptness that's disturbing, Ivan's smile softens out, and he blinks, eyelashes dipping low over his eyes.

"Run along now, Victor. Give my best to Yakov, for another successful year."

Victor rarely, if ever, runs away from a fight, but this isn't a fight at all. This is one very fragile, very mortal human against a force of nature, and Victor has scrapped himself bloody and raw on the unyielding ice too many times to be stubborn about this.

But because there was a catch in Ivan's voice when he said it will break you, something honest and resigned and human, Victor pauses long enough to murmur, "Until next time, Ivan," and puts his long athlete legs to good use.

If the burn of his breath in his lungs and the rhythmic pounding of his shoes on the pavement – so different from the smooth glide of his skates or the explosive landing of a jump – drowns out the nagging thoughts from his mind, well, Victor just won his second Olympic gold.

He'll think about his future another time.  

Hasetsu, 2015

Victor is three months into his new life in Hasetsu when he remembers one of Ivan's seemingly flippant comments.

Victor is used to Russia's winters, to the burn of the ice, but even he has to admit that the perpetual cold and the short, greyish days can be quite dreary, especially without the comforts of modern amenities and the little luxuries that Victor's lifestyle – with his excess of sponsorships and accumulated wealth – affords him. And so Ivan's little murmured longing for warm days and fields of sunflowers just that: a common wish all Russians long for when plunged in the heart of winter.

He enjoys plenty of winter-free days now. Spring slips quietly towards summer with a slow languidness that Victor doesn't quite notice because the hot springs inn is always warm, the ice rink beautifully, chillingly cold, and Yuuri a contradicting enigma that confuses and delights Victor at turn.

Hasetsu is the first foreign place that Victor has lived in for longer than a month, and it exists in stark contrast to the bustle of St. Petersburg, familiar call of seagulls aside. The people and hence the social norms are different, the language, the food, and Victor, freed from the restrictions of competitive skating, revels in it all. He knows he enjoys an indulgent status as Yuuri’s coach in a town that reveres its local figure skating hero – a good half of Hasetsu recognized Victor on sight when he appeared on Yu-topia’s doorstep, and after Onsen on Ice the rest of the town knew him too. But at the same time, the polite reserve of the Japanese people means that Victor retains his space and most of his privacy, and since all of Hasetsu is firmly Yuuri’s adoring fanbase and support circle first, the only expectations they have of Victor is what he can offer to Yuuri, and very little of his own career on the ice.

It’s gratifyingly, wondrously refreshing.

The realization that Victor is happy sneaks up on him one morning at the breakfast table, when he’s slowly working through a traditional Japanese breakfast of miso, pickled vegetables, grilled fish and rice, somewhat hampered by Makkachin’s warm weight over his lap. Yuuri is out on his morning run and Victor smiles at the thought of the rest of the day – they’re working on refining the Yuri on Ice routine and Yuuri has started pushing back in earnest, taking Victor’s choreography and making minute changes until his strengths – the emotive – and Victor’s – the technical – merge and transform into a performance that will captivate the world. Yuuri’s love is a many-faceted element, after all, and even just a glimpse of it though the medium of the ice is breathtaking.

Makkachin’s tail wags enthusiastically back and forth, and when he jumps from Victor’s lap with a bark of greeting Victor finally startles out of his thoughts. Hiroko-san watches him from the kitchen doorway, and Victor isn’t quite sure if the twinkle in her eyes is for him or for Makkachin.

"That’s a lovely smile, Vic-chan," Hiroko-san says, taking Makkachin's excited licks of greeting with aplomb and gracefully disengaging herself moments later with all the calm of a long-time dog owner. She pets Makkachin on the head and walks with the dog towards Victor. “What were you thinking of?”

“Just the day ahead,” Victor says, laughing when Makka greets him with equal enthusiasm, his tail thumping rhythmically on the smooth floor boards. “Yuuri will be back soon.”

“That’s good,” she says, and if they were more fluent in each other’s languages she might say more. Victor now understands and speaks enough Japanese that they can get through simple conversations, but anything more complicated than that requires the aid of the translation app on Victor’s phone or excessive hand-gesturing, and the morning feels too peaceful for anything like that.

Some days, Victor wants to babble at Hiroko-san about how amazing everything is, her wonderful cooking, the lovely hot springs, the friendly warmth of Hasetsu’s locals. He wants to tell her that Yuuri is nailing his quad salchow more often than not now, and that since the conversation at the beach he and Yuuri seem to have reached an understanding that’s half spoken through skating and the music and fleeting touches that evolve into symbolic hugs and gestures before taking the ice and somehow, they’ve developed a language that’s just for them. Yuuri is amazing, Victor knew that long before that video of Stammi Vicino went viral, but he knows it now too in a dozen other ways: through the sweat of Yuuri’s unwavering perseverance and discipline, the way he disappears, anxiety eating at him, but always comes back to meet Victor halfway, and the way he is with Yuuko’s triplets, a little out of his element but doing his best all the same.

The way Yuuri can glide on the ice, a skilled figure skater carving neat shapes on the ice, and then flip his head around and smile, sensual confidence in every line of his body.

Oh yes, Victor can wax poetic on Katsuki Yuuri for hours – had done so the first time he’d met Yuuri’s mother, in fact, in an excited rush of English he realizes now she didn’t really understand – but since then he’d taken his cues from Yuuri, shyer and more reserved than what Victor remembered at the GPF banquet, and saves his praises for when Yuuri earns or needs them.  

So Victor just smiles at Hiroko-san, an unaffected smile that feels more and more natural each day he spends in Japan. Hiroko-san smiles back at him, and in a gesture that she’s performed a dozen times on her son, reaches out to gently brush the bangs out of Victor’s eyes.

Victor freezes, caught entirely off-guard, and Hiroko-san makes a quiet little tsk sound. She frees a hairpin – Victor can see a neat row of them along the edge of her apron pocket now – and asks him a question which Victor thinks he answers in the affirmative, because the next moment she’s brushing his bangs away from his forehead again and pining his hair back near his ear.

“There,” she murmurs, looking down at her work with a critical eye, and unconsciously Victor raises a hand, touches the hairpin, chasing the phantom feeling of Hiroko-san’s fingers against his hair.

Abruptly Victor thinks: Warm days. And sunflowers.

And somehow, he musters up enough sense to utter a quiet arigatou to Hiroko-san, who just smiles at him in return.

“Remember to bring the dishes to the kitchen when you’re done,” she says, and gives Makkachin a final pet on the head before she leaves. Victor nods because that’s normal now – he’s not just a guest and he might not be family but he’s something, a something that’s related to the contentment in his chest. It’s an unfamiliar feeling, but not an unwelcomed one.

There are no fields of sunflowers in Hasetsu, but the grounds of Hasetsu Castle boast of a wisteria trellis nearly half an acre wide, and come spring long trails of wisteria flowers will drape down like delicate pale purple curtains, filling the air with a faint perfume. They’re not the sunflowers Ivan dreams about, but Victor thinks that for himself, they’re close enough.

Victor hopes he’ll be here the next year to see them.

Rostelecom Cup, 2015

Moscow is a battleground, and Victor and Yuuri map out the days before the competition accordingly.

Victor’s return to Russia is plastered all over the news, and he uses his fame to distract the reporters from accosting Yuuri, who keeps his head down and makes it to the rink for practice mostly unscathed. On the ice, Yuuri holds his own against the other competitors and the murmuring audience with a confidence that takes Victor’s breath away, and after public practice sessions are over Yuri is an irritable presence that nevertheless sticks to Yuuri’s side like a burr. Victor watches the two of them for a while – there’s an underlying buzz of tension to Yuri that Yuuri clearly picks up on, and he lets the younger skater snap and snipe and bully him around and only pushes back just enough that Yuri doesn’t walk all over him.

Victor is so fond of them both that he doesn’t care if the cameras pick up his every expression, unfiltered and honest, his heart thrumming pleasantly in his chest every time he catches Yuuri’s gaze. He lets the media and the public drink their fill of his regard, and then, fortified by his own dose of Yuuri, slips away from the rink. He navigates through the private corridors that his credentials – previously as a competitor and now as a coach – give him access to, and leaves the arena through a little-known back entrance. 

Ivan is waiting for him, of course.

“Welcome back,” Ivan says.

“I’m back,” Victor murmurs, an echo of the Japanese tadaima and okaeri exchange transposed to Russian. “Hello, Ivan.”

The sun hasn’t quite set yet, but it’s quiet and chilly in the little alcove – it’s late enough that the fans who have taken the time to travel to the arena to watch the practice sessions would be making their way back to their own accommodations, out of the cold, and so they are almost guaranteed their privacy even while out in the open. Ivan planned it that way, of course.

Victor knows what this will be about, because even if he thought Ivan might have turned his attention to other people after Victor left Russia, there’s the fact that Victor’s little impulsive leap at the end of Yuuri’s free skate at the Cup of China had been broadcasted live internationally, and that the Russian media had exploded about it immediately after.

Ivan could care less about Victor’s skating but he’s always been invested in the rest of Victor’s life, and so Victor waits for the questions, the comments.

"Tell me about him."

Victor pauses, thrown for a second, and Ivan laughs.

"I don't think you want me in the arena with him," he says indulgently. "So be thorough, Victor."

Victor draws in a breath, shuddering quietly in his lungs, and watches Ivan carefully. He’s is not afraid of his nation, exactly, not the way so many others who know what Ivan is are.

He's not stupid. He's one of the world's top athletes, someone who makes his living with his body, and he's skilful enough, with a reputation and fame great enough that he's infinitely more valuable to Russia untouched and unharmed. There's no use for a broken living legend, after all, and for all the distant madness that lurks behind Ivan's eyes, Victor knows with bone-deep certainty that the nation is a master tactician first and foremost. Impulsive and not quite sane Ivan might sometimes be, toys broken at his feet from too ferocious loving, but tools – tools are useful, and are to be taken care of.

Victor, with golden blades on his feet and a smile that could capture hearts worldwide, is definitely a weapon in Russia's armoire.

Then again, Victor might really be a little bit stupid. Yakov is always yelling – has always yelled – at him for his reckless abandon, his utter fearlessness on the ice at the risk of injury, his seemingly thoughtless judgment calls, and Victor is no different off the ice: Ivan has never once threatened harm on Victor, not through the long years of their association, and Victor trusts to that pattern now.

So Victor is not afraid, but he is cautious. He is protected by a combination of strategic value and the strange fondness Ivan has for him—

—but the same does not apply to Yuuri.

Victor's not sure if Ivan approves of his seeming rebellion or whether he considers Victor's move to Japan abandonment, treason of the highest order.

“Don’t look so conflicted,” Ivan says idly, although his gaze on Victor is anything but. “I’ve already received a call warning me off your protégé. It wasn’t plainly said, of course – I trust you’ll show the utmost hospitality to a representative of my country, even if your public will definitely be against him – but I can read between the lines.” He smiles. “I suppose I can’t refuse. Tit for tat, after all, and Kiku was always politely ruthless with negotiations.”

Victor knows how to read between the lines as well, and he swallows back his surprise. Did Ivan—call Japan and warn the other nation off Victor as well?

With Ivan, anything is possible. It’s both alarming – the higher Victor is in Ivan’s regard, the further he has to fall – and humbling – that of all the things Ivan concerns himself with, from diplomatic relationships to governmental politics to the economy, Victor is considered one of them – and it’s the latter that allows Victor to speak freely and in whole, starting from that disastrous first meeting immediately after the GPF when Yuuri walked out on him, the life-changing encounter mere hours later at the banquet, and everything after.

He ends with the last few hours at the Cup of China, of how he’d shattered Yuuri’s glass heart and how after the teary, frustrated outburst Yuuri had gone out onto the ice and threw himself fearlessly into a quad flip.

“My quad flip,” Victor says. “The one that I landed cleanly for the first time at an Olympic venue, the one I’ve performed for years now, the one that no one else could replicate. My signature move – and one day, it will become his too.”

"A tribute to the person who inspired him the most,” Ivan says perceptively, “and one that cut out your legs from under you.” He tangles his hands in the tails of his scarf, and his eyes are contemplative. “A true son of Japan. Quiet, seemingly unassuming, but with a spine of steel under his soft hide. Careful, Victor. You could tear yourself to pieces on his hidden edges.”

As much as Victor wishes to admit otherwise, he’s come up against Yuuri’s defences too often to lie to himself. “Yuuri is complicated,” he admits. “He can be difficult, and sometimes I wonder whether I’m able to give him the support he needs, or wants. It hasn’t always been easy, but—” Victor can’t help it; he can feel the smile on his face, instinctive and irrepressible. “He’s worth it. I won’t change him, or any of it.”

Ivan watches him very closely, not quite the demanding stare of a nation, but not relaxed either.

“So you’ll give up the ice for him.”

Something in Victor falters, the part of him that has held strong and steady through injuries and disappointments and the test of time. But contrary to what Yakov yells at him every time Victor calls, he does think about his future, and for the first time in – oh, twenty or so years – Victor’s priorities have shifted.

“I still love the ice, you know. Love it more, now that I have time, and space, and inspiration.” His mouth quirks up automatically at the thought of Yuuri, ever surprising on the ice. “Coaching Yuuri isn’t a sacrifice; choreographing routines, skating at his side – I haven’t given up the ice at all. I want to see him succeed.” Victor’s voice goes up suddenly; he hasn’t taken the risk to say any of this to Yuuri so directly, always couches his expectations and belief in Yuuri in teases and sunny words to the reporters, and the sentiment bursts out of him now. “I want him to have all the accolades he deserves – and I can assure you, he deserves them all – and I want him to be proud of himself, of everything he’s accomplished. I want him to be happy. He loves the ice as much as I do, if not more, and I love h—”

Victor’s thoughts screech to a sudden halt, and he snaps his teeth shut on the rest of his words. There must be something wrong, he thinks over the thundering of his heart, to confess his love in front of his country when Yuuri himself hasn’t even heard those specific words out of Victor’s mouth.

Even if Yuuri knows. Hell, does Victor hope Yuuri knows, just how much Victor loves him.

Victor pulls on all the skills he’s honed from years of charming the public, and changes the subject. “I’ll miss the competitive circuit, yes, but I’ll have to retire soon enough. A year or two doesn’t make much of a difference.”

“I remember a time when you shouted at me for even implying that you stay off the ice, to further heal from your skating injuries.” Ivan’s smile has a curious edge to it. “Will you stay with him in Japan, then?”

“For now, yes. Anything else depends on Yuuri.” Victor stops then, and just looks at Ivan. He schools his expression to calmness, and does not look away.

Ivan’s smile transmutes into something a little sharper, more knowing.

"I don't like it when people leave," Ivan says, "but you caused quite the uproar when you left. There was chatter at the Ministry of Sport about you every week. And little Yuri too. I wonder if he'll be able to fill your mantle. It's been a struggle for him."

Victor is used to Ivan's amusement at practically everyone else's expense, but this is Yura, who trailed angrily after Victor for years as if he could absorb Victor's skill on the ice if he stared hard enough; this is their Yurio, who is brilliant and bad-tempered and so, so young still. He forces his voice to stay light. "Yuri's a little young, isn't he?"

"He is. I haven’t decided whether I want to meet him yet, and Yakov is very strict. You'll have to entertain me for at least another three years, Victor. Either on or off the ice."

The conversational tone Ivan uses makes it sound like any other meeting Victor has had with the RSF over the years – discussing Victor’s career path, his ascension through the Russian skating ranks, what ice shows and public events and endorsements he is allowed to accept without losing his certified status or his international competitive eligibility. For all of Victor’s rebellions he knows he can’t fully ignore his skating federation, not when he wanted to skate internationally, and for Russia.

This exchange feels similar, but it’s not the same at all. Victor doesn’t ask so is all this okay? because only he or Yuuri gets a say in their relationship and all the decisions it encompasses, but Victor has been a public figure for so much of his life that there’s a part of him that will always belong to the public and to his country, as well as their expectations.

Victor could care less about the Russian Skating Federation right now, and Yuuri comes first, always, but—

It’s a little frightening, just how much Ivan’s opinion has come to mean to Victor, and not just because Ivan could probably kill him with impunity if he really wanted to.  

“I would be glad to,” Victor says softly. “For more than three years, if you’d like.”

Ivan makes a little humming noise, and then turns away. His scarf flutters out behind him, a distraction, and when Victor’s gaze flicks back to Ivan his nation has already turned back, a dusky ceramic pot in his hands.

Victor's heart jolts in his chest, his breath catching.

“If you insist on staying rinkside instead of skating on the ice, you might as well have a reminder of warmth,” Ivan says, and drops the pot into Victor’s hands with an abruptness that almost catches Victor off-guard. He barely gets his arms up in time, but Victor would have caught that pot even if he had to dive to do so.

The ceramic pot is a solid weight, the scent of dark soil rich and earthy, and the miniature sunflower glows in the last rays of sunlight, a spot of warm brightness against their steel and concrete surroundings and the grey winter sky.

Victor hasn’t forgotten the constant dread that lurks under Yakov’s gruff ferocity whenever Ivan comes up in conversation, wonders which of Yakov’s previous skaters Ivan might have terrorized beyond their limits. He holds his promise to Lilia close, the knowledge that no matter how fond she has become of Ivan that he’ll always be Russia to her. He’d expected his country’s tolerance, had hoped, in the deep recesses of his heart, to have his approval—

But to have his nation’s blessings—

"Hasetsu's beaches remind me of St. Petersburg," Victor blurts out.

Ivan smiles, but there's a gleam in his eyes, sharp and knowing. "Are you sure that it is not St. Petersburg's beaches that remind you of Hasetsu?" The word rolls differently off Ivan's tongue, Ivan’s Russian accent harsh on the name of Yuuri’s hometown while Victor’s picked up the Japanese way of pronouncing it, lighter and more musical.

The petals of the sunflower are very soft under Victor’s fingers. He understands now, why people pledge allegiance to their countries, why Lambiel shone even amongst the other flag-bearers when he carried Switzerland’s flag into the BC Place Stadium for the Vancouver Olympics’ opening ceremony.

Victor dips gracefully, the sunflower pot still cradled between his hands, halfway between a bow and a curtsey, like one of his sweeping choreographies on the ice.  

He is used to listening to the music for his cues, both the audible tunes piped over the speakers or the kind that exists only in his head when he skates, and so it’s almost fitting that Victor’s phone chimes then, the distinctive tone of an incoming message. It’s even odds whether it’s Yuuri looking for him or Yuri yelling at him for not being with Yuuri right now; Victor holds his pose for a moment longer, and then straightens, his eyelashes sweeping back up so he can meet Ivan’s gaze squarely.

Ivan’s eyes, strange and ethereal, watch him over the sunflower’s golden corona of petals. The quiet wraps around them, peaceful; it’s less that Ivan has nothing to say and more that he’s already said everything he’s wanted to.

“I have to go,” Victor says.

Ivan laughs. “I look forward to the uproar you’ll cause at tomorrow’s competition.”

Yuuri’s the one who will light the ice on fire, but Victor thinks of the way he can’t keep his eyes off Yuuri, the constant urge that clamours at Victor to stay close, to attend to Yuuri’s every whim – and well, Ivan knows Victor very well, and he’s not wrong. Victor’s going to give all the papers and news outlets plenty to talk about.  

“Watch Yuuri,” Victor says instead, although he knows Ivan won’t. Ivan doesn’t even watch Victor’s performances, but it’s the principle of the matter to say so anyway, a coach’s pride in his skater, a besotted man speaking of his beloved.

“Remember to visit often,” Ivan counters, voice light, but Victor hears the undertones to that demand anyway.

He hugs the potted miniature sunflower closer to him, not caring that he’s getting damp spots on his coat. Victor’s never had a particularly green thumb – he’s far more accustomed to beautiful bouquets that wilt after a few days – but this sunflower will do more than survive; Victor will make sure it thrives.

Victor bends his head and smiles. “I will.”

Japanese Nationals, 2015

Somehow, Yuuri doesn’t expect the crowd that is waiting for him at Sapporo’s airport.

There’s always a crowd at any airport’s arrival hall, and Yuuri is caught entirely by surprise when he steps through the gates and there’s a sudden rise in the pitch of voices, his name the one consistent, decipherable word in the cacophony. Yuuri misses Victor the moment he’d stepped on the plane, and for one moment the longing spikes, a fervent wish that Victor’s at his side, an anchor and a shield to deflect the attention from Yuuri until he can catch his bearings.

The longing fades quickly in the immediacy of the crowd, however, and Yuuri steps forward again. Victor is grounded in St. Petersburg preparing for the Russian Nationals under Yakov’s iron hand and with Yurio to kick and yell at him if he gets distracted (“with all his sickening pining,” Yurio grumbles, “so make sure you win your Nationals and get back here before I strangle him with my skate laces”), but Yuuri knows exactly what Victor would say at this moment—

You’re Japan’s top men’s singles figure skater, you’ve had an amazing season so far with a GPF silver to your name and you’ve beaten my long standing record to now hold the highest free skate score in the world. Of course anyone who knows anything about figure skating would be clamouring to meet you!

—and Yuuri smiles at the thought of his coach and soon-to-be fellow competitor and fiancé – and that’s a concrete thing now, more tangible than the golden rings he and Victor wear on their right ring finger, the fact that he is Victor’s and Victor is his. The click of phone cameras breaks Yuuri out of his reverie, and he gives a shy wave to the closest girl, who looks Yurio’s age. Yuuri has never really understood his fans but the attention – both from the media and from his supporters – has never bothered him as much as his own anxieties do, and he’s game enough to sign autographs if it makes them happy.

He gets a lot of congratulations and some gentle teasing, as well as plenty of well wishes for the upcoming Nationals, and then his eyes catch on a familiar black dance bag. Yuuri has spent hours upon hours dancing at Minako-sensei’s studio, and although she’d retired from active dancing she did occasionally travel to teach. Jetlagged and travel tired, Yuuri would still recognize that bag anywhere.

The problem is that Yuuri has never seen the man holding Minako-sensei’s ballet bag before.

There’s nothing particularly striking about the man – neat dark hair, dark eyes, average height. Standing still, he still appears lithe enough that he could be a danseur or a skater, but Yuuri doesn’t think so. Putting aside the fact that Yuuris’ never met him before, the man is comfortable in his suit like wearing them is second nature. Not even Victor has that ease; Victor wears suits very, very well, but that’s because he wears practically everything well. Given a choice, Victor prefers outfits that are less restricting, that are trendy and stylish and easier to move in.

The man smiles, just slightly, and nods once. Yuuri stares for a long moment, and then makes his farewells to his fans, citing fatigue from the long journey and early practice the next day to detach himself.

“Katsuki-san,” the man says, his voice low and smooth, when Yuuri finally drags himself and his suitcase over. “My name is Honda Kiku.”

Some days Yuuris’ manners gets scrambled by all the countries and cultures he’s passed through – years and years of ritual Japanese customs worn down by America’s casualness, Phichit’s enthusiastic Thai greetings and Celestino’s cheerful Italian interjections, and Russian etiquette, so many variations of it, made more complicated by Yurio’s aggressive teenage irreverence and Victor, who is open and accepting and variable from years and years of competing internationally and yet can be surprisingly Russian in so many ways. Yuuri’s carry-on and suitcase are blessings; with his hands full and a heavy backpack on his back, he settles for a bob of the head and ignores the contradicting impulses to bow or wave or shake hands or whatever.

“Nice to meet you,” Yuuri says, which is polite enough, and then— “why do you have Minako-sensei’s bag?” —which, when accompanied by a faintly suspicious and accusatory tone, isn’t quite.

Honda just laughs quietly, however. “You know that Okukawa-san had business with one of her former students, and that she’s flying directly here from Tokyo.” It’s not a question; Honda is fully aware that Yuuri knows this. “She asked me to drop by Hasetsu, pick up a few things for her – hence, her ballet bag.”

Yuuri blinks, and then relaxes. A close friend of Minako-sensei’s, then. “It’s nice of you to do so – Hasetsu’s a ways out from the major cities.”

“I must confess, I have an ulterior motive. I’ve been looking forward to meeting you. Okukawa-san knows this. Her flight is running late, however, so I decided to come meet you instead.”

Yuuri’s hand goes automatically to his jacket pocket and the phone tucked within it – switched off for the flight, which means he’ll have quite a few messages to catch up with. A moment later, Honda’s comment sinks in.

“Me?”

“Yes.” Honda smiles again, and it’s warm and kind with a curious patience to it – almost parental, although that can’t be it. The travel fatigue must be getting to Yuuri. “You look happy now, Katsuki-san. I’m glad for that.” And before Yuuri can come up a response, he holds out the ballet bag. “You also look tired, and it’s rude of me to hold you up when you should be resting ahead of the competition. Will you pass this to Okukawa-san for me? It isn’t heavy, so I hope you can manage.”

Yuuri takes the dance bag, and the familiar sturdy material under his fingers is grounding. He’s lost count how many times he’s had to fetch the bag for Minako-sensei; it shouldn’t be surprising that she’s managed to rope someone like Honda into ferrying it across the nation. “Who are you?” he says, because there’s nothing particularly striking about Honda, but the same can be said about Yuuri until the moment he puts on a pair of skates and gets on the ice.

“I’m sorry I won’t be able to attend the short program competition, but I’ll be there for the free skate.” Honda’s expression is neutral enough, but there’s a spark in his eyes, bemused. “Good luck, Katsuki-san. Get lots of rest tonight; I know how long the flight from St. Petersburg can be.”

Yuuri is tired and the “thank you” is automatic; he barely catches the fact that Honda had blithely sidestepped his question before Honda flashes him one last smile, already turning away. The other man is as fluid and graceful in motion as Yuuri suspected he would be, but not in the artful manner of a danseur or a figure skater; Honda’s movements are more purposeful.

Ballet, Yuuri remembers, first originated as a dance interpretation of fencing, and there’s a moment, when Honda ducks quickly to the side to avoid a harried and distracted tourist, when he reminds Yuuri exactly of that: a nimble swordsman dancing, because there is no need for him to draw his blade.

Yuuri watches Honda disappear into the mass of travellers, and wonders.

---

Minako-sensei, of course, doesn’t tell him anything useful.

“He’s interested in figure skating, and he knows you from ballet, so is he from the Japan Sports Agency?” Yuuri says. 

“So Kiku finally waylaid you, huh? And of course he didn’t introduce himself properly. Typical.”

“When you say ‘waylay’, it makes it sound like he’s less… official than he looks. Is he a Hasetsu native?”

Minako-sensei laughs, loud and boisterous. “Kiku? From Hasetsu?” And after Yuuri bites his lip, thinking of how metropolitan Honda had appeared in his suit and his neat haircut, with his mild but resonant way of speaking, she calms down, holding a considering finger to her cheek. “Well, you’re not wrong. He’s from everywhere in Japan, really. Maybe Tokyo or Kyoto more than other cities, however.”

“What does that mean?” Yuuri asks, and then changes tack when it becomes clear he’s not going to get an answer. “Is he a businessman? Is that how you met him, through your snack bar business?”

“I was joking about my dance bag,” Minako-sensei muses, riffing through said bag. “I really didn’t expect him to take the excuse to come up here to meet you. I shouldn’t be surprised he knows how to get into my ballet studio without a key.”

“Minako-sensei,” Yuuri says, exasperated. It feels like they’re having two entirely separate conversations, and he glares at her reflection in the mirror as he slicks up his hair, combs it back.

“He wanted to meet you, you know,” Minako-sensei says, her tone unchanging. “When you qualified for the Grand Prix Final last year – it’d been the first time in years a Japanese men’s singles skater made it that far. He was in Nagano, actually, wanted to see you after Nationals, but you weren’t doing well then, and he didn’t push. I wouldn’t have let him, anyway. You went straight back to Detroit afterwards.”

The smile on Minako-sensei’s face never slips, but her eyes are serious, and Yuuri bites back his irritation and the habitual guilt that always arises when someone mentions the disastrous Sochi GPF and the even more disastrous Japanese Nationals after that.

“What does that mean?” he asks, more calmly this time.

“That means, Yuuri, that it’s not my secret to share, and that you’ll find out soon enough. If Kiku is here and he said that he’ll be at the free skate, he’s probably going to tell you.” Minako-sensei sighs, and then gestures him away from the mirror, plucks the comb from his hands when Yuuri comes close enough. “It’s not a bad thing, I promise. For now, you’ve got a National title to reclaim and everything else will fall into place after that. Got it?” 

Yuuri studies her, and then nods. He sits down beside her, tucks his hands into his Team Japan jacket, and lets her apply his makeup with an expert hand. It’s not Victor’s fingers in his hair, but Minako-sensei is family, she’s always, always been there for him, and she’d been the first to help him with this, the preparations before a performance, even after he’d switched from ballet to figure skating.

Yuuri has always trusted her. He’s not going to stop now.

---

There’s a moment, just as Yuuri steps onto the rink for warm-ups, when he feels the shadow of last year’s failure sink its claws into his shoulders. His breath catches, and for an instant it doesn’t matter that Minako-sensei is standing rinkside or that he’d worn a hard-earned silver medal from one of the biggest international figure skating events around his neck just weeks ago or that Victor believes in him, completely and wholeheartedly; his ears are full of white noise and the cold is a palpable pressure on his exposed skin, dragging him down.

Muscle memory is a tremendous phenomenon – it carries Yuuri out onto the ice without tripping, it pulls him into a warm-up routine that is simple enough that it doesn’t overly strain him before a performance but is challenging enough to push him into the competitive mindset, and before Yuuri knows it, he’s flying into a perfect triple flip, and the impact when he lands is what jolts his mind clear.

Even when mired in his anxiety Yuuri had been careful to note the position of the other skaters and he skids to a gentle halt now, shakes his head hard, lifts his eyes to make eye contact with someone – anyone – just to keep himself grounded. Minako-sensei is watching him like a hawk, but the sternness breaks when their eyes meet, and she waves at him, before making an impatient hand gesture, get on with it, I’m going to make sure you do this right.

Yuuri turns his attention back to the ice, and he still feels jittery but he’s used to this kind of restlessness. This, he can channel into his performance of On Love: Eros, the frenetic chase of it, the hint of uncertainty that the seductress will always harbour, no matter how confident she is, because passion is a game between two.

It’s the first time Yuuri has to perform his short program in competition without Victor at his side; instead of dwelling on Victor’s absence, Yuuri throws himself into pulling off a long-distance seduction.

He must have done something right – his scores are excellent, and when Yuuri makes it back to Minako-sensei after changing she’s giving him an arched look. From a distance, he can see the way his phone is lighting up; he’d stuck it in silent mode and passed it to Minako-sensei with the entreaty that she doesn’t give it back until they get back to the hotel so Yuuri doesn’t get distracted by Victor blowing up his inbox. Ranking first for the short program feels surprisingly wonderful, less of the pressure of the Grand Prix competitions, and it’s easier to let Victor get all his enthusiastic praises out by text message so he can be a coach when Yuuri calls him that night.

Minami screeches up a storm when they finally cross paths after the short program, but he grinds to a stop two steps away, all that boundless energy suddenly contained, tempered. Yuuri is worried for all of two seconds, but then Minami – sort of – punches him in the arm, except it's barely a tap and more of a reverent touch. Minami's eyes are still shining when he looks up at Yuuri, however, and Yuuri remembers the bracing slap on the back he'd bestowed on Minami at the Chugoku, Shikoku and Kyushu Championship and Minami's loud shout of congratulations mixing with the rest of his family and friends when he'd called home after the GPF, and smiles.

And then, on the morning of the free skate, there is Honda Kiku.

Yuuri had been convinced that Honda isn’t affiliated with the Japanese Skating Federation, so it’s a surprise when he comes off the ice during the practice session and Honda is there, rinkside, like he’s a coach or team member or official.

Minako-sensei notices Yuuri’s distraction immediately, and when she spots Honda her expression lights up. She lets Yuuri get his skate guards and jacket on before she snags him by the arm, dragging him bodily to the corner where Honda stands, mostly out of the way of the competitors.

“Kiku!” she calls, tempered but cheerful, a little like how she greets Yuuri’s mother and quite typical for her.

The way Honda responds, however, is not typical by anyone’s standards.

“Minako-chan,” he says, and Yuuri’s jaw drops, because Honda must be half Minako-sensei’s age, if at all – he looks around Yuuri’s age – and Yuuri might have lived in Detroit for far too many years, but he’s pretty sure he hasn’t forgotten all the social norms governing Japanese honorifics.

Honda’s gaze cuts to the side, catching Yuuri’s expression, and he tilts his head. “Minako-chan gets irate when I don’t call her by her first name, so I try to oblige when I see her in person.”

Minako-sensei snorts. “It’s backwards, don’t you think, to go from a familiar honorific to a much more formal one?”

Honda lifts a hand, tucks his bangs neatly behind one ear. “I called you Minako-chan because you were a teenager when I first met you. When you grew older and especially after your career flourished, it was polite to use a more formal form of address.”

“You first met Minako-sensei,” Yuuri says slowly, “when she was a teenager.”

Minako-sensei, for once, doesn’t say a word, and Honda looks at Yuuri, nothing but calmness in his eyes.

“Yes,” Honda says, and it’s not impossible, because Minako-sensei looks about two decades younger than her actual age, but from the sounds of it Honda should be older than her and yet he looks much younger, and what are the odds of two people in Yuuri’s orbit having some kind of amazing anti-aging regimen? “I’d explain further, but this isn’t the right time or place for this conversation.”

“But there will be a conversation,” Minako-sensei cuts in. Yuuri glances at her in surprise – there was a fierce intentness in her voice.

“After the competition. Yes,” Honda says, and suddenly they’re both staring at Yuuri, who feels distinctly caged, although he simply tucks his hands into his jacket pocket and stares right back.

Yuuri’s gotten a lot of practice at ignoring pointed glares, after competing in Russia.

Honda reaches out, slowly enough that Yuuri could stop him if he wanted to, and runs light, light fingers over the flag emblazoned on the front of Yuuri’s Japan national team jacket.

“You’ve made your country proud, Katsuki-san.” Honda’s voice is soft but compelling, and something in Yuuri straightens at the sound of it. “It will be wonderful watching Yuri on Ice in person today.”

It’s nothing Yuuri hasn’t heard a dozen times over the past few days, since his return to Japan, but this one—

—this one sounds like a benediction, somehow.

---

This time, it’s Minako-sensei in the kiss and cry with him as they wait for Yuuri’s free skate scores. As the last to perform, his results will determine the line-up for the podium.

This part never gets better – Yuuri is sweat-drenched and he’s starting to feel the crash from the adrenaline-high of performance, and the jitteriness of his nerves has transmuted into something long and sustained, like a single note held out perpetually until Yuuri feels like he should go half-mad from the lack of oxygen. He clutches his water bottle, waves a little to the camera, and then tries to blank everything out except for Minako-sensei’s presence at his side.

It was almost a given that she would be here, acting as a member of Yuuri’s team in his coach’s absence. Subconsciously, Yuuri knows Victor and Minako-sensei are friends, from long hours of drinking at Minako-sensei’s snack bar and bonding over their one fervent and mutual interest – Yuuri himself. Victor asks Minako all the questions he can’t ask anyone else – thanks to the perfect trifecta of Minako’s mastery of English, her love and interest in figure skating and her long history with Yuuri – and Minako gets updates on Yuuri’s progress and the opportunity to calmly and cheerfully threaten grievous harm on Victor if he doesn’t take care with Yuuri (those are Victor’s words; Yuuri had stared at him in disbelief for long moments before he admitted that it’s very in-character for Minako-sensei).

So, the moment Victor counted up the dates and concluded that there was no way he could be in Japan for Yuuri’s Nationals if he wanted to participate in his own, he’d planned to make sure someone would be there for Yuuri. Minako-sensei did her best to attend Yuuri’s international competitions; that she would be there for a domestic one is a given, and when Victor had asked Yuuri about it, whether he wanted anyone there and anyone in particular it all fell easily into place: Yuuri wanted someone, Victor definitely wanted someone, and Minako-sensei was willing to be that someone.

Overhead, the speakers crackle to life, and Yuuri almost misses the announcement in the noise of the audience – he hears his free skate score but not the combined. But Minako-sensei folds her hand around his and squeezes, and they both look up at the screens as the scoreboard updates. Yuuri’s name is at the very top – first place.

He’s won the gold.

In a daze, Yuuri looks out into the ice, the stands, his fellow competitors standing at the rinkside – Minami is so beside himself, he still hasn’t stopped crying from watching Yuuri perform Yuri on Ice—

—and there Honda is, clapping along with the crowd, and the pride and approval in his gaze is evident even from a distance, as well as something more: power and gravitas, in a way no human’s eyes can contain.

Minako-sensei pitches her voice low so she can be heard over the enthusiastic audience.

“He’s proud of you,” she says, and Yuuri—Yuuri thinks he gets it. She squeezes his hand again; her smile is very brilliant under the bright rink lights. “We all are.”

---

The personification of a country: a secret that is revealed only to the royal family, if the nation has one, the top-most tier of the current government, and whomever the nations themselves choose, although most of the nations’ superiors ask that they consider only individuals who are trustworthy and with merit.

Somewhere towards the end of the explanation, Minako-sensei says something – a turn of phrase, or maybe a particular clarification – that reminds Yuuri of the odd questions Victor has asked him over the last few weeks, especially after the decision to move their training base to St. Petersburg. With Honda’s revelation and the benefit of hindsight, they sound suspiciously like Victor was trying to ask if Yuuri knows about the nations without asking just that directly.

Well then.

---

Yuuri should be exhausted, but the rush from winning gold together with the knowledge that living manifestations of nations exist keeps his mind abuzz, and Honda ends up accompanying him down to the hotel café.

Honda – Japan – doesn’t say a thing, just lets Yuuri relax into his cup of tea, and the silence that falls between them is surprisingly comforting. It’s snowing outside, little white flurries illuminated by the café lights against the pitch blackness of the night and Yuuri feels like he’s in a snowglobe, warm and protected behind a pane of glass, isolated from the rest of the world.

“Honda-san.” Yuuri finally murmurs, trying not to break the fragile silence, and Honda’s eyes flick up, focused. “Why me?”

Honda is quiet for a moment. “Why not?”

Yuuri’s been thinking about this the past few hours, although he hadn’t dared to ask the question in Minako-sensei’s hearing. “‘Individuals who are trustworthy, and with merit.’ I understand why you choose Minako-sensei; she’s an amazing person, and she was awarded the Prix Benois de la Danse for a reason. I’d like to think that I’m trustworthy, but merit – surely there are others who are more—qualified.”

“You have set a new world record, breaking one that has stood for more than half a decade. That’s certainly merit enough.”

Yuuri sighs into his tea. “Minako-sensei said you wanted to meet me last year. Even after I crashed and burned at the Grand Prix Final.” He looks up, meets Honda’s eyes, which are dark and placid and almost normal, at the moment. “I don’t understand why. I mean, I followed it up with my best season yet, but back then, I was just—in such a major slump.”

“There were a few decades or maybe a century or so where I’d isolated myself, barely leaving my home for most of that time. Sometimes, we need time and space, to cope.” Honda gives a quiet laugh. “By my standards, you managed quite well indeed. You skated a beautiful and heartfelt rendition of Stammi Vicino, after all, before your would-be coach showed up in Hasetsu.’

“Okukawa-san – Minako-chan – spoke of you frequently. For a while, I thought you would become her most successful protégé, a distinguished danseur on the stage. She was always so proud of you. A few years later, after she convinced you to take up figure skating, she told me I would one day greet you as one of Japan’s top figure skaters.” Honda smiles. “She wasn’t wrong. I’ve wanted to meet you for a long time; your achievements on the ice simply gave me the best excuse to do so. You weren’t quite ready last year, but this year—you are.”  

There isn’t much Yuuri can say to that – he’s half squirming and half glowing from how much faith Minako-sensei has always had in him, that apparently his nation has in him too. Honda is right – he wouldn’t have been able to appreciate it the year before.

“Thank you” is what Yuuri ends up saying, and Honda inclines his head, accepts it and lets that particular topic go.  

Silence falls back between them but it’s charged this time, simply a lull in a conversation.

"How does it feel to make history?" Honda asks, but not the way the reporters ask it, looking for a soundbite, a story, a confession. There's a tinge of concern, of care, and Honda’s expression tells Yuuri that there is no right or wrong answer; he simply wants to know, and if Yuuri won't – or can't – say, that's all right too.

Yuuri gives the question some serious thought.

He's happy and grateful but also worried, because of the expectations – normal enough reactions for Yuuri, since he goes through the same rollercoaster of emotions after every accomplishment. But it's so much bigger this time, the scale grander, the emotions deeper. No one has been able to beat Victor's world records in years, and Yuuri's done it – he and Yurio both. It's a redemption story, last year's GPF crash and burn turned into a phoenix rising, stronger and brighter than before.

Making history is like free fall, chaotic and unpredictable, Yuuri's world turned upside down. Mostly, however, Yuuri thinks of the tears in Victor's eyes, sparkling and bright with joy this time, and the strength of Victor's arm around his neck as he whispered his intentions to return to the competitive circuit into Yuuri's ear.

Yuuri twists the golden ring on his finger, the weight of it already such a part of him that it feels stranger not to wear it, the rare few times he has to take it off.

"It's a lot like falling in love," he says.

“And love always wins,” Honda says, smiling. “You choose a wonderful motto.”

Yuuri smiles back, because he has plenty of reasons to: not just the gold medal he’d won tonight but the opportunity to skate on the ice, when he had almost given it up; Minako-sensei and Yu-chan and his friends and family, the solid foundation of their support; his nation, sitting in front of him, the implicit trust in that simple act; and Victor, always.

“I suppose I did,” he says.