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Then:
Victor Nikiforov claims his first Junior Grand Prix Final gold at age fifteen, less than two weeks away from his sixteenth birthday. I did it, he thinks giddily, unable to completely wrap his mind around the reality of it just yet. Exhilaration fills his chest, but he tries not to smile too widely for the cameras, holding up his medal and—overcome with joy—giving it a kiss. Now what?
Now:
Victor Nikiforov claims his fifth straight Grand Prix Final gold at twenty-six, less than two weeks away from his twenty-seventh birthday. Well, I did it, he thinks numbly, not quite sure how he did, after a performance like that. He's tired, but he manages a smile for the cameras, duly showing off his medal and giving it his customary kiss. So what?
Sochi, Mid-December
An hour, Victor decides, walking into the well-lit hotel ballroom and putting on his best publicity photo smile. He'll stay for an hour—give or take a quarter of—and then he'll leave.
With any luck (i.e., Chris making yet another attempt to 'liven up the party', so to speak, to the chagrin of certain ISU officials), Victor may not even need to make up an excuse before quietly taking his exit. The tall metal pole he sees gleaming from the far end of the room is a promising sign, at least.
He's given three handshakes, two photos, and a toast to his fifth consecutive GPF gold when Yuri Plisetsky manages to accost him.
“You're late,” the two-time men's singles junior gold medallist says, looking every inch the moody fourteen-year-old in a blue suit perhaps a size too big. “And what's with that smile? It's creepy.”
“Is it?” Victor rhetorically asks back. He must be losing his touch, he muses wryly, if even a teenager could tell he's faking it. Victor keeps on smiling anyway.
Yuri scowls. “Tch,” the youth scoffs after a beat, turning away in disgust, “Forget it.”
It's much the same response Victor's been getting from Yakov of late, come to think of it; like they've got something to say to him, wanted to say to him, except somewhere along the line they've apparently decided that doing so would be useless. You're Victor, those looks conveyed. There's no point.
(Not unlike most other things in Victor's life right now, actually.)
(And not as if there is much of anything going on in said life, besides skating, more skating, and Makkachin.)
“Yuri,” Victor says gently, if only for the sake of trying again, “You can always tell me what's on your mind, you know. I'll listen.”
“I just did,” Yuri points out, green eyes glancing—very briefly—his way. “And I don't really give a crap if you listen to me or not, as long as you remember—”
“Yuuri! Over here!” a baritone voice bellows brightly in English from somewhere behind Victor.
Both Victor and Yuri turn to see who it is (not Yakov; Yakov is at one of the tables right then, grimacing as Mila and a gaggle of other younger skaters made him “Smile, coach! Smile!” for a group pic). It's the Italian-American coach—Cialdini, if memory serves—calling to that quiet, baby-faced (already twenty-three, seriously?) skater from Japan, the one whose first name also happens to be 'Yuri'.
“So it's the lame-ass,” Team Russia's very own Yuratchka sneers.
Victor frowns slightly. “That's not very nice.”
“It's the truth,” Yuri volleys back, casting a baleful eye at his namesake, as if the fact that the other man exists is in itself an insult.
Victor doesn't quite know what to say to that. 'Everyone has a bad day or two' would sound too patronizing, coming from him (because he and Yuri both know that his 'everyone' in this case would mean 'everyone but the Victor Nikiforov, living legend'). Besides, from what little he'd seen of Japanese Yuri ('Yuuri'?) during the competition, the younger skater hadn't just been having 'a bad day'. 'Terrible' would have been more on point; even 'soul-crushing', if the man's demeanor at the kiss and cry were anything to go by. It had been all Cialdini could do to try and console his student, who'd looked far too lost in his own little hell to notice much of anything.
As the Italian-American coach appears to also be attempting at the moment, affecting an air of casual cheer with one hand clapped comfortingly over Japanese Yuuri's shoulder. “What's wrong, Yuuri? You look so glum. Have you had anything to drink? To eat? There's pizza—”
For all the good it does either of them, with his bespectacled charge remaining hunched-over and unresponsive.
At least he's not giving you the brush-off, or walking away without a word, Victor imagines telling Coach Cialdini. It had stung—still does, a little bit, a day later—when Yuuri had responded with just that to Victor's offer of a commemorative photo. And the stricken, devastated look on the younger skater's face right before he left—like Victor had hurt him somehow, merely for assuming that that's what he wanted—well, Victor didn't get that very often. Or at all.
Maybe I did offend him, Victor concedes. It wasn't what he himself had intended; Victor had noticed someone's eyes on him, the kind he's come to automatically associate with fans hoping for an autograph or a picture, and his mouth and his body had simply moved on their own, pasting on a smile and a friendly little wave and saying, sure, why not, let's take that photo.
But then Yuuri's face had crumpled, and it had finally occurred to Victor that he was addressing a fellow figure skater. And not just any figure skater, but one who competed in the same division as he, no less—and who'd bombed his first GPF. And that maybe his offer to take a picture together would come off less as 'It's all right, you're still young, let's see you redeem yourself next time,' and more like 'Let's have a memento of you being dead last, because I doubt I'll ever see you again!'
And people say that he's good to his fans.
“That's an interesting face you're making right now,” observes another voice, deep and resonant, off to Victor's left. “It's like you're curious and annoyed and embarrassed at the same time, and can't quite figure out what you're feeling.”
“Chris.” Victor raises the champagne flute he's almost forgotten he's been holding, turning to regard his friend. “It's good to see you.”
“When is it not?” is Christophe Giacometti's arch reply, barely batting a single curly eyelash. With a nod to where Victor's gaze had strayed, he appends, “Eh, this time, I'd wager,” and mock-bows. “A thousand pardons for interrupting your ogling, my friend. Please be gentle with our dear Monsieur Katsuki; it's his first time.”
So 'Katsuki' is his last name. “I wasn't ogling him,” Victor denies. (He tells himself that this isn't strictly a lie; there wasn't much to 'ogle', seeing Japanese Yuuri from behind, save for his behind, and his dejected pose and generic dark grey business suit had distracted Victor from that—)
“So you weren't,” deadpans Chris, looking entirely too amused at his expense. “Perhaps my contacts need cleaning, then.”
Yuri Plisetsky, who'd been oddly silent during this exchange, mutters something suspiciously sounding like “'Not ogling', my foot,” in Russian. He warily accepts Christophe's belated 'Salut' and congratulations, gruffly congratulates the Swiss skater in turn, and demands, right before heading to the buffet tables for food, that Chris 'better beat the hell out of Victor at Europeans'.
“Charming kid,” Chris remarks with a smile.
“Ssh,” Victor says, finger to mouth. “Don't let him hear you.”
~o~
This year's banquet is pretty typical, as these affairs go. There is the usual mix of people: young and old, familiar faces and new, the famous and the infamous and all those aspiring to be either, neither, or both. There is the usual ballroom, all gleaming floors and chandeliers and tasteful, understated opulence. There are the usual hors d'oeuvres—caviar, pelmeni, and petits fours, and then there's pizza (tomato and basil, and at least three different cheeses), and a mountain of champagne flutes artfully stacked beside a Swarovski-studded ice sculpture of Aquarius. There's the usual music—something by Chopin, not so loud as to be intrusive—the usual speeches, the usual Hellos and It's been so longs and How do you dos. It's dazzling and glamorous and elegant and everything Vitya's teenage heart could have dreamed, once upon a time; and now here he is, over a decade later, quietly observing the latest batch of bright-eyed hopefuls who look like they actually are having fun, and thinking, Oh, that's right, I used to be like that; I used to feel that way, once.
“Thank you!” gushes the new champion for women's singles, a petite brown-haired girl a year or so younger than Mila, happily showing Victor the group photo they've just finished taking with him. There are five of them crammed in the shot, including the Crispino twin, Sara, in the foreground, everyone holding aloft slices of pizza and making peace signs and grinning 'Cheese!' into the camera.
Victor himself looks... stiff in the picture, not unlike a mannequin: his smile a tad too frozen, his posture a bit too tense. Were it up to him he would have asked for a re-shoot (they deserve better than this, truly), but the girls are ecstatic regardless, so he tells them it's fine to share the pic online, and he'd definitely be delighted if they tagged him in it. They promise they will (“Ohmigod, everyone's going to freak!”) and they part ways with well wishes all around.
Victor does try to be good to his fans, no matter what, and it lightens his heart a little that at least this time, he succeeds.
His own smartphone smartly informs him that it's already nine-thirty-four in the evening.
He could leave now, Victor supposes. His gaze drops to the still-uneaten slice of pizza in his hand. He'll finish this first, of course, and maybe chase it down with one last glass of champagne before heading back up to his suite.
He's on his third bite when the swaying, swerving, unmistakably drunk figure catches his eye. In the interval between Victor not-ogling the man earlier and this very instant, it would appear that Japan's Yuuri Katsuki has struck up a spirited friendship with Monsieur Brut—sixteen flutes (Sixteen? Surely he must have counted wrong) and a good-sized bottle of it—with his coach nowhere in sight. (Victor vaguely recalls seeing the older man being carted off for medical help after suffering an allergic reaction to the pelmeni.)
The skater's face is flushed, evident even from where Victor stood, some twenty paces away; and if you looked hard enough (which Victor is certainly not doing), you could see that Yuuri's eyes are glazed and heavy-lidded beneath his glasses. And as Victor not-watches the dark-haired man take a hearty swig of champagne straight from the bottle, long, pale throat bobbing sensuously in the process, he persists to insist that no, he's totally not ogling Yuuri Katsuki at all, of course not, whatever gave anyone that idea.
Until the thing with the tie, that is.
See, Yuuri's wearing this tie—a hideous pale blue off-the-rack—along with the generic business suit. As Victor continues not to watch, the man shambles foward, handing the bottle of Brut Champagne to a random waiter passing by (who wordlessly accepts it with wide, wide eyes), and proceeding, with a shaky breath, to undo the knot of said tie in a manner best described by Yuuri himself:
“So hot...”
How Victor could hear Yuuri Katsuki say this, let alone understand it, he has no clue (one alternative, that it may be Victor's own thoughts doing some selective dubbing, is much too mortifying to contemplate). But hear it he does, with Victor's eyes widening just the slightest bit as Yuuri's fingers slowly tug that utter waste of fabric loose, letting it trail along the clothed expanse of the Japanese skater's chest, his stomach, the hem of his coat, all while his other hand worked to free the top two buttons of his white shirt.
Overhead, Victor becomes dimly aware that the music has changed to a waltz—some sappy instrumental piece from an old romantic movie, and that not a few couples have moved to a cleared-off section of the hall to dance to it. They are in a ballroom, after all, and the night is however young they choose to make it.
Sentiments seemingly shared by Yuuri Katsuki as well, if the way the man perks up at the sight is any indication. Tie fluttering in one hand, Yuuri staggers towards the dance floor—
And Victor finds himself swallowing the last of his pizza along with his pride.
All right, he admits, his mouth strangely dry, so Victor's not-ogling of one Yuuri Katsuki may have been—may have been—a truckload of merde.
Because Yuuri Katsuki has taken off his glasses, shoving them (along with that abominable tie) into his left jacket pocket. Shortly after which Yuuri then begins to dance—hips canted to the side, arms sweeping down and up and over and around his upper body—and Victor frankly cannot look away. Not when Yuuri turns and tilts his head just so, a sultry glance tossed over one well-muscled shoulder. And not when said sultry head-tilt is made all the more scintillating by the saucy, impossibly sexy smirk on the man's face.
A smirk that may have been—just may have been—thrown, deliberately, Victor's way.
Victor would like to think so, in any case. Victor would like to think a great many other things, incidentally, but he's lost at the first sensual swivel of Yuuri's hips, both arms spread; enthralled at the first jaunty half-step. Yuuri's body doesn't flow with the music so much as it flows through him, every note expressed by each exquisite movement of every limb, the arch of his neck, his back, the slope of his shoulders. He dances as naturally as one breathes; as giddily as one drunk with joy as much as champagne. He dances as if he couldn't care less that he's alone out there, the odd one out among a sea of pairs; as one who doesn't have a single care in the world, for that matter, who revels in the here and now, alone but not alone, not really, not when the music itself is his partner.
Yuuri dances as if he's having the time of his life, in short, and what Victor wouldn't give to join him.
“Someone's cheered up a bit.”
It's Christophe again, of course (it only figures), this time walking arm in arm with his boyfriend.
Victor briefly trades pleasantries with the gentleman before acknowledging Chris' observation. “He's a happy drunk, it seems,” Victor agrees, looking back to where Yuuri is still dancing.
Chris quirks an eyebrow at him. “I meant you, actually.”
Victor lifts an eyebrow back. “I'm not drunk.”
“You're being wilfully obtuse,” Chris huffs. It sounds like an accusation.
“I'm not,” Victor rejoins, blinking slowly. “Not the 'wilful' part, anyway.”
A snort.
“He's as dumb as he looks, is what Victor's saying,” Yuri—angry fourteen-year-old Yuri—cuts in, stomping over with a glass of lime soda in one hand and a half-eaten petit four in the other. His green eyes narrow when he sees the Japanese Yuuri on the dance floor. “Ugh. What is he doing?”
“Having fun,” Victor couldn't resist quipping. “Maybe you should try it sometime, Yuratchka.”
“I am having fun,” Yuri asserts, glowering. “Also, that's rich, coming from you.”
Chris chuckles. “Oh, aren't you two just precious.” Winking at his boyfriend, who shrugs and murmurs something about “getting things set up” before excusing himself, Chris then saunters right behind Victor and shouts “Allez, Yuuri!” with a clap and a cheerful wave.
And Yuuri Katsuki hears this. (Victor momentarily forgets how to breathe.) The Japanese skater stills, right arm raised, left leg extended forward; and then Yuuri's turning, and blinking, and squinting—
And yes, definitely looking Victor's way, now.
The first thing that comes to Victor's mind right then is: Yuuri squints so adorably without his glasses. The second would be: Bozhe.
The third could very well have been: Is he heading this way? Yes, Gospodi, yes he is; but to be honest, between Chris' parting whisper of “Bonne chance; do remember to thank me later, yes?” (thereafter abandoning Victor to follow his beloved to places unknown) and Victor's own racing heartbeat, he himself is not quite sure. What Victor is sure of is that he's currently being peered at by the most beautiful pair of brown eyes he's ever seen.
Oh, and that the owner of those beautiful brown eyes now stands less than two meters away from him, and—
Oh. Just— oh.
Because as beautiful as those eyes are on their own, nothing compares to the way they sparkle and shine when paired with Yuuri Katsuki's smile.
“Victor! Victor~!” the Japanese skater calls out in a singsong voice, accent thick from all that alcohol. “Com—” He hiccups, “Commemorative photo? Sure. I'd love to.” Yuuri lurches a few steps closer, scarcely missing a beat as he grabs yet another open champagne bottle from another waiter passing by (“It's always the quiet ones,” sighs the poor fellow in Russian, shaking his head and trudging back to the service cart). “That's what I should have said,” Yuuri continues, smile fading just a little at the memory of it. “Yessir, that's what I should have answered.”
“So why didn't you?” Victor asks before he could stop himself. Stupid, he mentally chides. Of all the stupid things to say, Vitya.
Yuuri Katsuki appears to mull it over, at any rate. “I dunno,” the man says after a pause, frowning down at his ill-gotten champagne, “because I'm lame, I guess? I let everyone down, you know. Everyone. Even—” Yuuri sniffles, and blinks rapidly a number of times, “—Vicchan.” He wipes at his eyes and rasps, “Vicchan, gomen.”
“Who the hell is 'Vicchan'?” grumbles Yuri Plisetsky.
“How should I know?” Victor returns. (It's really neither his nor Yuratchka's business, but Victor finds himself wondering all the same. Family? A close friend, perhaps? Maybe a lover, even, like Chris and his beau, or that Canadian skater and his girlfriend? And yet, presently non-present coach aside, Yuuri had come to the banquet alone.)
“Hm?” Yuuri Katsuki curiously regards them both. “Well, Vicchan is Victor, of course. But not you, Victor,” the Japanese skater qualifies, stepping forward to poke a finger at Victor's chest. “'Cause you're Victor. Of course.”
“Wonderful.” Russian Yuri's voice drips sarcasm. “That makes a whole lot of sense now, thanks.”
Yuuri beams at the blond-haired teen. “You're welcome.”
Yuri facepalms. “We should really take your dumb commemorative photo,” snarks the teenager. “It'll make for an awesome PSA to not get drunk at parties.”
“But I'm not drunk, nope,” Yuuri denies. “I can dance just fine—” Taking Victor's hand, the Japanese skater leads him through an impromptu twirl to illustrate, ending with their faces far, far too close, “—see?”
Wow.
Victor does see.
Before he could respond, or do anything other than gape, however, Yuuri Katsuki goes on talking.
“But yeah,” Yuuri releases Victor from his grasp, but doesn't step away, “commemo—er, we should take that photo first. I want it.” The Japanese skater gazes up at Victor then, eyes at half-mast, a blush suffusing his features, and drags a thumb, featherlight, over Victor's lips. “You'll give it to me, won't you, Victor?”
“Uh,” Victor intelligently replies.
Yuuri looks thoughtful. “Thing is, I might've left my phone elsewhere; where is it... where...” Yuuri's hands now wander south, haphazardly patting down his and Victor's bodies, until: “Oh! Here we go!” With a triumphant smile, the man fishes out the smartphone from Victor's pants pocket, only to look confused when he holds it up to the light. “Wait, s'not mine, is it?”
“It's, um, mine.” Victor clears his throat. “What I mean is, that's my phone.”
“Oh.” Yuuri's shoulders slump in dejection. “So I s'pose we can't—”
“We can,” offers Victor before the Japanese skater could look more forlorn. “I, I'll take your photo. Your commemorative photo, I mean. With me.”
Yuuri brightens. “You will?”
“Yes,” Victor says, not really sure what he's agreeing to any more. (The photo; just the photo—he thinks.) Around them people are beginning to stare; Yuri—Russian Yuri—doing so with a look that's equal parts stupefied and aggrieved. Victor plucks his phone from Yuuri Katsuki's hand and takes a measured step back, somehow managing a polite, perfectly composed smile. “So. Yes. Let's take it, shall we?”
“Great!” Yuuri exclaims, smiling—well, grinning, and hot damn, is it doing things to Victor's chest—back.
“Right.” Victor fumbles with his phone (Camera—yes, camera; that icon on the upper right corner of the screen), later presenting it to a squinting Yuuri for inspection. “How would you like—”
Click.
The shutter sound effect plays before he could finish the question.
“Whoops,” giggles Yuuri, backstepping lightly just out of Victor's reach, the bottle of Brut Champagne still secured in his left hand.
And leaving Victor to blink at the man's blurry, bleary-eyed, mouth-partially-open selfie while his phone patiently waits for him to pick a filter to use.
None, Victor eventually selects, decidedly not noting the whiteness of Yuuri's teeth in the picture, or how pink—and soft, and wet, and hot—the Japanese skater's tongue looked. No filter whatsoever. He's only just saved it when a champagne bottle is dangled in front of his face.
“Victor,” Yuuri chastises with a pout, “don't look at that; look at me instead.” The man's fingers fiddle fleetingly with the lower button of his suit jacket, a move that shouldn't look so erotic, damnit, and yet somehow is. All of a sudden he leans in close again, right hand grasping at the front of Victor's suit; and in a tone dancing somewhere between a demand and a plea, Yuuri breathes, “Don't ever take your eyes off me.”
Victor's breath catches in his throat. His mouth opens and closes, and then opens again, his tongue darting out to wet his lips. Yuuri's brown eyes track the motion with a heat that makes Victor shiver, pleasurably, even through the warmth in his cheeks. “Yuuri—”
“I like that,” Yuuri hums. “Say my name again, Victor.”
“Yuuri,” Victor repeats. “Yuuri, I—”
“Oh, for the love of— Stop,” snaps Yuri Plisetsky, having recovered enough of himself, apparently, to march towards them bristling like an angry cat. “You're seriously grossing me out, old man. And you—” He throws a scathing glare at Yuuri, “Stop doing— ergh, whatever it is you're doing. Just stop.”
Yuuri Katsuki calmly appraises the teen. “You're mad,” the Japanese skater says. “Why're you always so mad, little Yuri?”
“Yes, 'little Yuri',” Victor couldn't help but chime in, teasingly tilting his phone for a close-up of the boy's almost comically enraged face, “why, indeed?”
'Little Yuri' does not bother answering this. 'Little Yuri' simply snatches the phone from Victor instead, then steps away to train the camera on his namesake.
Yuuri Katsuki bends forward to examine the phone. “One more photo, huh? M'kay,” the man slurs, index finger held up, slyly smirking into the camera while it clicks yet again, his other hand waving his champagne bottle. “In fact, let's take lots of photos, yeah?”
“Oh, you bet your ass I will,” Yuri Plisetsky spitefully crows, quickly lining up for another shot as the Japanese skater turns around to perform a hopping, mincing sort of step sequence vaguely reminiscent of a butterfly. (A very drunk, slightly dishevelled butterfly, granted, given to random bouts of guzzling Brut Champagne.) By the time Victor manages to wrest his phone back, Yuri's taken two more rather unflattering pictures—
And ends up snapping another one entirely by accident when Yuuri Katsuki suddenly stumbles, near-empty champagne bottle-first, into the frame.
“Whoops,” giggles Yuuri again, steadying himself on Victor's shoulder, the mouth of said bottle just barely grazing Victor's cheek. It's cold and moist, and before the man could draw back, droplets of condensation spill down Victor's shirtfront. Yuuri's breath is hot against his neck in contrast. “Sorry, Victor. Sorry.”
“Don't be,” Victor returns.
The music has changed once again—techno-pop, brash and frenetic, with some guy rapping out the lyrics in English and French—and where most of the waltzers choose to sit this one out, Yuuri immediately bounces to his feet at the first few notes.
“Hold this for me?” the dark-haired man entreats, passing the bottle of Brut Champagne to Victor. And then Yuuri's stepping back, and unbuttoning his suit jacket, and then taking off said suit jacket with an elegant flourish.
It's so elegant, in fact, that it leaves Victor too distracted to catch the garment before its unceremonious landing on Yuri Plisetsky's head.
So elegant, that Victor doesn't notice Yuuri whipping out his atrocious blue necktie right before tossing said garment.
So elegant, that Victor doesn't quite scream in outrage as Yuuri swiftly puts said atrocious tie back on.
It's little Yuri who does it—but for the jacket, not the tie, yelling out an expletive probably best left untranslated from Russian and then shouting, “You are so going down, asshole!” at the top of his lungs. Japanese Yuuri's jacket is soon thrown forcefully aside, this time falling, as luck would have it, right at one Christophe Giacometti's feet.
“Right, so what did I miss?” the Swiss skater asks, daintily picking up the discarded clothing and giving it a quick dust-off.
“Shirtsleeves,” Victor is quick to reply, before biting his tongue and tearing his gaze away from where Yuuri was rolling up said shirtsleeves. Belatedly, smoothly, Victor appends, “Not much,” and shrugs as if he isn't lying through his teeth.
And as if he isn't holding concrete proof to the contrary.
“Évidemment,” Chris responds, hazel eyes twinkling pointedly at the champagne bottle Victor would like to pretend he isn't clutching.
Ah, well. Victor hefts the bottle and drinks it dry. “I was thirsty,” he declares right after, hailing a passing waiter (the same one Yuuri'd handed a bottle to before, come to think of it) to please collect the now-empty receptacle.
This seems to amuse Chris even more. “I'm sure you were.”
Just ahead, both Yuris have started a dance-off. A b-boy dance-off, their movements offbeat and raw and intensely kinetic; and of course it would figure that Yuuri Katsuki would be killing it, awful tie notwithstanding, even two sheets to the wind, his body seamlessly stitching together each staccato beat with seemingly effortless grace. It's all Yuri Plisetsky could do to keep up, the boy's ballet training hardly apparent in the way his body moves just a tad too jerkily, in the way his arms and legs tend to do 'just a lot of flailing around', as one of Victor's own ballet instructors had once put it. A loose circle of spectators have formed around the two—Mila, Sara, even the women's singles gold medallist among them—with Christophe soon joining the fray, taking out his smartphone and snapping away.
“He's wiping the floor with you, Yuratchka!” Mila gleefully hollers in Russian, trying not to laugh too hard as she records the dance-off on her own mobile. “Your Angels are going to have a fit!”
“Zatk'nis, baba!” little Yuri snarls back. Seething, the youth stomps through an aggressive toprock, fists clenched, scowling at the other Yuuri all the while.
Who's apparently quite forgotten that he's competing against anyone in the first place, pulling off an impressive handstand while obeying Chris' loud request to “Look this way, Yuuri!”
No, Victor thinks, unbidden, look here; look my way instead. The champagne must be getting to his head. He smiles and moves away from three well-dressed gentlemen—clothing company sponsors, naturally—attempting to strike up a conversation, holding up his own phone like a shield and explaining, regretfully, that he's got a video to take. (Said gentlemen soon move on to the Canadian, Jean-something, standing with his girlfriend not four paces away.)
It's only an excuse, of course. (At least, that's Victor's story and he's going to stick to it.) To be honest, between listening to the nth endorsement pitch this late in the evening and watching Yuuri Katsuki do hand hops, a flare, and then a headspin (and is that Yuri Plisetsky leaping into an arabesque, of all things?), he'd pick Yuuri Katsuki, no contest. Watching Yuuri Katsuki, and maybe actually recording the dance-off, which may or may not happen to focus almost exclusively on the Japanese skater (purely for his mad b-boying skills, and not for the man's smoking hot abs, although that's a plus).
The song ends all too soon, Yuuri scissoring his legs up for one last handstand before freezing, statue-like, as the last beat falls, to the cheers and applause of everyone around. Little Yuri... may have landed on his ass on purpose, then turned it into a leg sweep ending in a split. Going by the look on the teenager's face after the fact, however, Victor highly doubts it.
“Not one word,” Yuri Plisetsky growls at Victor as he stalks off, hackles visibly rising when Mila informs the teen that she's sent him “a few choice pics; check your phone!”
Victor just shrugs, waggles his own trusty smartphone, and wordlessly does a few quick hand gestures meant to express that Victor would also be sending him pics soon.
(Yuri flips him the bird. The death glare equivalent of one, anyway.)
(Not that Victor really sees this; not with the eminently more amiable Yuuri Katsuki now standing feet to the floor, waving at him enthusiastically.)
“Victor!” the Japanese skater calls, “That was great, right? I did well?”
“You were wonderful,” Victor affirms. (Is he grinning? Yes, he's grinning. They're both grinning—like idiots—and neither of them care.) “Amazing. I could never—”
Suddenly all of the lights in the room go dim.
For all of three seconds, and then a few chandeliers flare up again as a new song begins playing. It's jazz—a saxophone-laden rendition of Fever, in fact—the melody effusive, the beat erratic, and it accompanies the abrupt arrival of two butterfly-masked individuals wheeling in a tall, vertical, velvet-covered something.
A stage pole, as it turns out, unveiled in flagrantly flamboyant fashion by Christophe Giacometti and his deceptively mild-mannered partner in crime— to the absolute surprise of nobody. (Nobody over fifteen, that is.)
“The hell?” Yuri exclaims.
“I was wondering when he'd pull that out,” says Mila, checking her phone. “Damn, I'm almost out of space.”
A susurrus of other voices—some outraged, some delighted—soon follow.
“Giacometti!”
“Not again!”
“This is utterly—”
“Oh, let them have their fun,” one of the senior officials, clearly deep into her cups, cuts in. “We were all young once, no?”
“Merci, madame.” Chris gives her a sweeping bow, turning next to where Yuuri stood, eyes rapt. “Yuuri Katsuki,” the Swiss skater declares, “I hereby challenge you to a dance-off. You've proven you can break it,” Chris takes off his dinner jacket, then blithely tosses it to his boyfriend's waiting arms— “But can you work it?”
(Victor doesn't know whether to facepalm or laugh at this line. Chris, he groans, honestly—)
“I can!” is Yuuri's emphatic reply, right as the music's nearly interminable intro winds down.
“Very well, then,” Christophe returns, stepping back, “Prove it.”
And Yuuri Katsuki sets out to do just that.
(Oh, does he.)
He toes off his shoes in an instant, unbuckles his belt in the next, opens his fly—and there you go, there you have it, Yuuri Katsuki's stepping out of his trousers, everyone, revealing well-muscled legs, a nicely rounded ass, and the deep blue boxers currently encasing said ass just tight enough to have Victor consciously strive to clamp his mouth shut.
(Blue socks, Victor forces himself to note instead. He's wearing blue socks, which matches the color of his under—)
(—His tie.)
(Which is still objectively ugly, and should really be burned or buried someplace far, far away.)
Yuuri mounts the pole as the saxophone blares to a crescendo. He pulls himself up with both hands, his thighs grasping the metal shaft, then pivots, transferring sole support to one arm while extending the other forward and stretching his legs straight behind him, parallel to the floor. He twists, he turns, showing off the elegant arch of his back, the clench and curve of his buttocks, the sensual sweep and slide of his limbs. The music pulses through him, from him, passionate and primal, provocative yet pristine, a poignant promise of pleasure purveyed in one pliant, powerful package. Near the end of the chorus he performs something like a series of fouetté turns around the pole, but with his supporting leg bent for the most part, his arms cradling the chrome as every spin brings him ever closer to the ground. Cheers and camera clicks abound by the time he finally touches down in a front split, looking dazed and a touch more flushed than before.
Victor could sympathize.
“Most impressive,” remarks Christophe, now clad in nothing but an aubergine tie and purple bikini briefs, coming forward to help Yuuri stand. “However,” He blows a quick kiss at his boyfriend, who grins and catches it, “I believe it's my turn now.”
Yuuri gives him a fist-bump. “Ganba, Chris.”
Chris winks. “Doumo.” And so saying, Christophe Giacometti gets himself up on the pole with all the sleek, slinky grace of a cat. He proceeds to wow the audience right off the bat; gripping the pole tight with one hand high above the other, he kicks upward until he's practically hanging upside down, his legs crossed around the metal, arms now free to wave to an adoring crowd. Afterwards he bends forward at the waist, hands outstretched to help pull his torso up, and with a bit of maneuvering manages to lean upright against the pole, his head cocked, his arms spread out. With only one leg hooked over the pole he does what looks like a flurry of camel spins, his hands seeming to caress the shaft with each rotation. It's classic Chris: combining showmanship and ardent, unabashed sexuality with masterly technique— and it is glorious.
Maybe too glorious, or so Victor finds himself musing, chancing a glance at Yuuri Katsuki looking as captivated as the rest and feeling... well, not jealous, not at all, why would he even; just, perhaps, put out.
(But only a little, and only, surely, undoubtedly because of Victor's innate competitive streak.)
(Which was admittedly absent during the recent GPF, but still.)
Which is why when Yuuri goes, “Uwah, so cool!” as Chris executes a sort of cartwheel on the pole—all while holding aloft another bottle of Monsieur Brut, and spraying champagne to all and sundry—Victor definitely does not grit his teeth nor bite his tongue so as not to reply, “Meh, I could do better.”
So look at me instead, Yuuri Katsuki.
Victor purses his lips. This is getting ridiculous.
Yuuri Katsuki is ridiculous, choosing that exact moment to suddenly take off his shirt, leaving his chest and stomach and biceps bare and making a strangled sound issue from Victor's throat. Ridiculous.
And somehow Yuuri still has that abominable tie on.
Ridiculous, Victor goes on thinking, watching the Japanese skater climb right back up on the pole to join Chris as Fever gives way to Vogue by Madonna. Chris appears delighted by the company, boosting Yuuri up and giving the younger man some room to maneuver.
Ridiculously hot.
Ridiculously strong, too, judging by the ease with which Yuuri catches Chris by the waist, despite the latter being taller and a few kilos heavier and laying back with only Yuuri's arm and Yuuri's bent leg for support.
(Which naturally does not make Victor feel even the tiniest bit jealous. Naturally.)
The two skaters move differently but in perfect sync, surrendering to the heady beat of the music in ways both similar yet distinct. It's wanton and wild—at one point Yuuri gets to be the one to shower champagne down on everybody while standing on Chris' thighs; it's wonderful, and wreaks havoc on Victor's already waning self-control. Neither of them let up until the very end of it, Yuuri hoisting himself up with both hands for a final array of spins while Chris arches dramatically off his back, their ties hanging off their necks and the sheen of sweat visible on their near-naked bodies. The ballroom erupts to thunderous applause long before the last note is struck.
Ridiculous, Victor would once again insist, blinking as the lighting in the room is restored. Yuuri has safely alighted from the pole, along with Chris, with someone—wait, one of the waiters from before?—soon handing the Japanese skater his discarded clothes (Chris' boyfriend, of course, had safeguarded his). It's all ridiculous; there's no doubt about that, and yet—
And yet.
And yet Victor's heart still skips a beat when Yuuri Katsuki's brown eyes meet his.
They still are beautiful, even with the glasses. Yuuri is beautiful, even with his hair a mess, even with his shirt put on but still unbuttoned, even with that damn tie now somehow looped sideways around his head, even with his underwear (especially his underwear) being the only thing covering his nether regions.
And now Yuuri's grinning again, dopily, and leaping into Victor's arms, drunkenly, and everyone else is probably staring at them, phones at the ready; but Victor honestly couldn't bring himself to care about that right now, not with Yuuri Katsuki nuzzling into his chest (and grinding against his crotch).
“Victor~,” Yuuri slurs, “when this season ends, my family runs an onsen, so please come! If we have a dance-off, and I win,” the man babbles on, leaning back a little to gaze up at Victor in earnest, “you're gonna ask to become my coach, right?” And Yuuri's eyes positively sparkle at this, his smile blindingly bright, as if nothing in the world would make him happier. “Be my coach, Victor~!” Yuuri finishes, giving Victor another glomp just because he can.
And Victor lets out a little gasp, his cheeks warming all over again.
This man.
This wonderful, charming, absolutely ridiculous man.
“Yuuri,” Victor breathes. His next words—I'd love to, I'd be honored, we don't even need to hold a contest over it—are precluded by a startled “Ah!” from the Japanese skater himself, having only just registered his state of undress and scrambling to rectify it.
In no time flat Yuuri's trousers and shoes are put back on, his glasses off; ugly tie re-knotted below the collar of his open shirt. He would have started buttoning this up next, Victor supposes, but then the rousing opening chords of an acoustic guitar begin to play, and the next thing Victor knows, Yuuri's leading him towards the dance floor.
“Come on!” the Japanese skater says, beaming. Letting go of Victor's hand, he moves a couple of paces away before giving him a gallant bow.
Victor returns the gesture. Very well.
They dance the paso doble. The music is sporadic at first, short bursts of melody followed by a beat or so of silence. They alternate during this part: Yuuri clapping, arms up, as Victor stomps and gallops his way through a sequence of steps he only half-remembers; Yuuri mirroring the footwork on his turn but with his arms splayed differently, with little apparent regard to proper form. When the percussions trickle in they begin to slowly circle each other, their postures erect, their gazes imperious, two fighters sizing each other up in the arena; the impasse only broken when the music surges into one long, unrelenting climax, a sustained outpouring of passion compelling them to move, to surrender themselves to it, to feel it in their limbs and in their veins.
And move Victor does, dancing like he's never danced before, facing Yuuri Katsuki with a challenging, daring little smirk only to have it returned twofold. It's Yuuri's sultry head-tilt from way before, only this time there is no doubt Yuuri's looking at him and him alone, those brown eyes glinting dangerously, impishly, impossibly hot, quickening Victor's pulse even more. He twirls, lightning quick, and Yuuri's there to catch him, taking his hand in his and pulling him into his embrace. They dance together, cheek to cheek, separating briefly only to gravitate towards each other again, laughter bubbling from their lips.
Are they even doing the paso doble any more? Victor has no idea. It could be the tango—Yuuri's dipping him, one hand grasping Victor just above the knee while the other caresses his cheek—or the flamenco, or the Viennese waltz for that matter; he's having far too much fun to keep score. Never has Victor felt so unfettered, so alive, so light on his feet. Never has the music affected him so ardently.
And all thanks to this man who'd drunkenly danced into his life, and who'd—oh, just now, in fact—literally swept him off his feet.
It takes Victor a moment to realize that the song is done through the sound of everyone else in the room applauding. Yuuri Katsuki's face hovers inches above his own, those cheeks still flushed, that mouth parted ever so slightly, those eyes gazing at him with so much longing that it takes his breath away all over again.
He's going to kiss me, Victor thinks wildly, very much aware of Yuuri's hands on his back, on his hip, and of his heart hammering in eager anticipation.
He's going to kiss me, Victor repeats—
—And I'm going to let him.
But the Japanese skater isn't done surprising him yet, it seems.
“If this is a dream,” Yuuri whispers instead, his voice solemn, “I wouldn't ever want to wake up.”
Me, neither.
Victor swallows. “Well, it's not,” he breathlessly whispers back. “And a good thing, too. I mean—” Victor smiles and tilts his head up, subtly, “However can I coach you if you're asleep, Yuuri?”
A nice, witty comeback, that.
Too bad Yuuri Katsuki's far too busy nodding off to appreciate it.
~o~
Later, after Victor has managed to extricate himself from Yuuri (the man could doze off drunk while standing, who knew), and after Coach Cialdini's belated return and profuse apologies (Victor had tried to assure him there's nothing to apologize for, but the older man had left with his charge in a hurry)—
Later, Victor would lie awake in his hotel room, hugging a pillow to his chest. His heart's still pounding, his head replaying the night's dazzling, ultimately delightful series of events.
“Be my coach, Victor~!”
Ridiculous, Victor would think again. It's all so very ridiculous; there's no doubt about that, and yet—
And yet.
(And yet here he is, seriously considering that perhaps—if he could talk to Yuuri in the morning, then maybe—)
Victor throws an arm over his eyes, sighing softly. Sleep. He should really get some sleep already.
But first he needs to send Chris a thank-you text.
And maybe—just maybe—ask for a few pictures.
~o~
Postscript
One Year Later:
Yuuri Katsuki claims his first GPF medal at age twenty-four, less than two weeks away from Victor's twenty-eighth birthday. We did it, Victor thinks proudly, watching Yuuri smile, tired but triumphant, beside Yurio at the podium. Exhilaration fills his chest, and trepidation, too; the latter of which he tries to hide by teasing Yuuri mercilessly when his fiancé presents his silver medal. Now what?
~end~