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He repeats the name Yuuri Katsuki in his head five times, only moving his mouth with the sound on the fifth, and that’s the most memorization he can do in the minute before all of the lights in the room and the crowd of mildly alarmed onlookers become indistinct blurs.

Victor has had a few drinks and found himself on the dance floor at a Grand Prix banquet more than once, has tumbled into someone’s arms within minutes of meeting them more than once, has now won the Grand Prix itself more than once—five times, exactly, not that he’s counting (he definitely is counting, but not at this precise moment).

He’s never been this charmed.

He shouldn’t be this charmed.  Yuuri Katsuki is a barely-dressed mess in the aftermath of his pole dance-off with Chris, clothes sloppy where he'd stripped down to remarkably cute navy blue boxer briefs—and now his shirt is open, his tie is limp and knotted impossibly around his neck (it’s a horrible tie anyway, he should probably just burn it), and his hair sticks out in every direction, matted flat near his ears from the sweat trickling along the curve of his jaw and down his neck.  He was stumbling on his feet near the refreshment table but on the dance floor he’s light as a feather, moving with whatever unintrusive EDM the DJ at the back of the banquet hall is playing like he’s both born for it and making it all up as he goes at the same time.

Victor doesn’t remember when he started laughing but he is, he’s not sure why he’s so charmed but he is; he’s stopped counting medals, forgotten what gold feels like against his lips, knows only that he’s dipping back, a warm nose brushing against his and laughter puffing over his chin.  Somehow the warmth against his back and neck and palm and leg is collectively more real than any medal, and the boy from Japan whose name Victor only heard (and retained) for the first time yesterday as he walked miserably away, shoulders slumped, is suddenly, inexplicably, a greater prize than any championship.

The pulse in Victor’s ears that he’s no longer sure is the music or his heart shifts minutely and Yuuri straightens, wobbling dangerously.  There’s another pulse somewhere behind it that Victor dimly identifies as applause—something he’s normally attuned to, hungry for—but it sounds distant now, drowned out by the brilliant smile weaving back and forth in front of him.

“That,” Yuuri Katsuki declares, in his most dramatic skating announcer voice, one arm cutting across the air between them, “was a superb tango.  Bril—brilliantly realized by,” hiccup, “five time Grand Prix g-gold medalist Victor Nikivub.  Forf.  Forbuv.”

“That’s not correct,” Victor says around a titter and grabs Yuuri by the shoulder before he lists too far to the side.  “When you announce pair skaters you have to use both of their surnames.”

Yuuri spreads both arms wide, the grinning saint of drunk benevolence.  “Nikivobref and Katsudon.  Katsu.  Ki.”

No, that’s definitely his heart pounding in his ears.

There are tables and chairs lining the edges of the banquet hall, coats resting on a few but otherwise largely deserted in favor of the commotion happening on the dance floor, and as soon as the crowd starts to mingle again Victor makes a beeline for the nearest one, pretty sure he can hear Yakov somewhere behind him and staunchly pretending that he’s suddenly forgotten how to speak Russian.  Yuuri stumbles along with him until he’s near enough to a chair that Victor can insist that he sit down and drink some water.  Victor sinks into a chair himself, absently checking his jacket pockets for his phone—he'd had it earlier, he’d been taking videos while Yuuri was dancing against a very angry Yuri Plisetsky (standard, for him, but notable nonetheless).

He shouldn’t be surprised when Yuuri plops down to sit, not in a chair, but directly on Victor’s lap, one arm slung over his shoulder and the other across the white-clothed table.  He stays there for several moments, catching his breath, staring blearily in the general direction of the refreshments table and mumbling something in Japanese, and Victor realizes that Yuuri’s glasses are just as MIA as Victor’s phone.

Yuuri smells like booze and sweat and skin, like something vaguely fruity that might have been cologne or shampoo.  At length he looks down at Victor as if he’s surprised to find him there, clinging to Yuuri’s waist like he might spontaneously tumble to the floor at any moment (and considering how he was wobbling on his feet it’s not an irrational fear.)

Yuuri’s eyes light up and he twists enough on Victor’s lap to wrap both of his arms around his shoulders.  “Wait, wait!  One minute!  Did I win?”

“I’m not going anywhere,” Victor says, because Yuuri is literally on top of him—though he’s not sure Yuuri realizes that.

“But did I win?”  Yuuri shoves his forehead against Victor’s, mouth puckered into a suspicious frown, and Victor sighs, patting him indulgently on the shoulder.

“You won.”

If Yuuri’s eyes were alight before now they’re positively sparkling, stars bursting to life in their brown depths, leaving Victor too stunned to do anything but stare, open-mouthed, while Yuuri flails and hugs him tight, stumbling over cheers and promises and half-formed plans that stop making sense where they're muffled against Victor’s neck and shoulder.

But: “I’m going to be the best,” Yuuri says like it’s a secret meant only for him, pulling back enough to meet Victor’s eyes again, and there’s color high on his cheeks, pink and sincere, fingers curling in Victor’s hair.  “I’ll be the best skater in the world for you.”

There’s breath on his mouth and Victor leans up into it, not questioning, not hesitating, knowing there’s no end for him now except watching Yuuri Katsuki’s eyes flutter closed and the salt and alcohol taste of his lips, the warm skin and sweat-damp hair under Victor’s hands.

But it’s just a brush, quiet and brief; warm, not even enough to taste, and then suddenly Yuuri’s weight is gone and Victor is blinking at empty space.

It’s probably for the best, he thinks, looking around until he spots Celestino holding Yuuri by the shoulders to keep him steady as he tries to wedge him back into his jacket.  It’s probably for the best because Yuuri is drunk on expensive champagne and Victor is drunk on Yuuri.  Left to their own devices they’ll end up doing something profoundly stupid, like taking the elevator up to the top floor of the hotel and sneaking onto the roof, yelling out their affection for each other to the night sky, dancing in the moonlight until dancing becomes kissing and kissing becomes wandering hands and bare skin and taking the elevator back down to find an empty room and a soft bed.  Kissing every inch of Yuuri’s skin until he writhes, making love to him slowly until he can’t do anything but shudder and whimper Victor, please, Victor, yes.

Which means, in short, that it’s not for the best at all and once his mental faculties return from the aborted kiss Victor bolts to his feet and stumbles into the crowd after Celestino, frantically trying his pockets again for his phone and where the hell is it anyway, especially now when he needs it most, when he needs more than anything in the world to get Yuuri Katsuki of Japan’s phone number before his coach whisks him away to sleep it off.

“Oi!”

He almost steps on Yuri Plisetsky before realizing there’s a diminutive angry blond teenager in his path; Victor, being himself, regains his balance with aplomb and both hands genially raised.  “Yuratchka!  Hi!”  He sticks to a deliberate sing-song English just long enough for the greeting and for Yuri to hiss at his nickname.  “Have you seen my phone?”

“Yakov says to stop fooling around with your stripper boytoy, he’s got some bigshot or other he wants you to suck up to.”

“Yuuri isn’t a stripper.”

Yuri’s mouth is curved into an exaggerated frown, eyes narrowed in a way that tries very hard to be dangerous but Victor is far beyond the point of being intimidated by a tiny blond kitten in leopard print.  “He’s a better stripper than a skater.  Probably time to switch careers.”

Victor’s smile is bright and doesn’t reach his eyes, the hand still in his pocket flexing into a fist once and then relaxing.  “I don’t suppose you’ve seen my phone?”

“I’m not responsible for your crap!  Find it yourself.”  Yuri stalks away, hackles up, possibly just as irritated at being sent to fetch Victor as he is at being unable to strike home with any of his jabs.  At any other time Victor might humor him, but not now when Yuri is simply vying for his attention, when somewhere in this room there’s another boy by the same name who has stars in his eyes and sweet promises on his lips, and if Victor is going to make good on the deal and coach him he damn well has to be able to actually find him after tonight.

Victor eventually finds his phone, discarded in a corner of the room he doesn’t remember ever being in, but he doesn’t find Celestino or Yuuri and by the time the crowd thins enough that he can see through it they’re both long gone.  Like Cinderella disappearing from the ball at midnight, and all Victor has to prove that any kind of magic happened is a handful of blurry pictures on his phone, the ghost of sensation on his hands and mouth, and an unsettling but profound excitement buzzing under his skin for the first time he can remember, possibly ever.

The first thing Victor does, at his first available sober opportunity during which he’s not in the middle of a press and/or airport-related whirlwind or being scolded by Yakov, is unlock his phone and open Google.

Yuuri Katsuki yields a long string of results, mostly news articles and a swath of YouTube links.  Victor taps at all of them systematically, one after the other.   Japan’s representative places last at Grand Prix Finals.  Katsuki likely to retire after disastrous season.  There are videos of the short program and free skate Victor hadn’t seen, and watching them in succession is less the trainwreck the articles describe and more like watching someone at the barest edge of keeping himself together slowly break down into tears.

He’s asking me to save him, Victor thinks, and isn’t sure that he can.

At least, he isn’t sure until he scrolls back far enough to see the praise.  Yuuri is Japan’s pride and joy, their top contender, a favorite to place at the Finals.  He watches the free skate program that won gold at Japan’s nationals and Yuuri is poetry, living and breathing music on ice, and Victor is falling all over again, one hand over his mouth, thinking about the acrid smell of champagne and warm arms around his shoulders, Yuuri’s voice murmuring I’ll be the best skater in the world for you, and now Victor believes it.

He watches the video five times.  (At that precise moment, anyway; he loses track of how many times he watches it overall.)

He also starts keeping notes over the next month while he goes through everything the internet has to offer him about Yuuri Katsuki.  There are places where his form is off, other places where it’s phenomenally good—and he could definitely land harder quads if he practiced, could skate better programs if he didn’t get distracted, could blossom into greatness if he would just challenge himself.

When practice starts eating too far into Victor’s time with Worlds fast approaching he starts making notes about Yakov’s coaching style instead, falling asleep with his face buried in Makkachin’s fur and leaving the internet to languish.  Social media has already failed him; all he finds after weeks of searching is an abandoned Instagram account and a few pictures of Yuuri uploaded by a Thai skater that Victor vaguely recognizes.  He considers whether or not he’d look like a creep if he stalked Yuuri’s friend to try and get his contact info, but before he can decide there isn’t any time left to worry about it.  Worlds are in Tokyo, Yuuri’s home turf.  He’ll get his chance then.

Victor has plans, of course.  First he’ll have to find a way to ditch Yakov, then track down Yuuri and convince him to take Victor sightseeing.  It will be an easy pitch, since it’s Yuuri’s homeland and naturally he’ll know the best places to go.  (In a pinch, Victor is ready with his own suggestion; one of his fans on Twitter mentioned that there was a famous statue of a dog near a train station that he should visit since he loves dogs so much.  Perfect!)  They can spend the day wandering the city together while Victor peppers Yuuri with questions about all of the things he doesn’t know after months of researching Yuuri’s skating career.  What is his family like?  What does he do during the off-season?  What is he studying in college?  What was his last relationship like?  What’s his favorite song?  His favorite movie?  What’s his favorite place in Tokyo because Victor thinks they should go there, immediately.

Then he’ll offer to pay for dinner and have Yuuri pick a place that serves his favorite dish so Victor can try it.  Over dinner he’ll talk about all of the notes he made, prove to Yuuri that he’s going to be a great coach, and start making plans for the end of the season.  After dinner they’ll go shopping—under different circumstances Victor would suggest dancing but they’ll have to get up the next day and compete so it’s best to not get too wild.  He’ll find some small token that Yuuri likes, a simple gift (a good luck charm) and find a quiet, softly lit place with a nice view so he can present it to him.  Yuuri will probably argue that Victor shouldn’t do that and he can’t possibly accept it when they’re supposed to be competing against each other.

And then, and then—Victor is particularly pleased with this part, because he spent a lot of time coming up with the best possible line to deliver while Yakov yelled at him for not paying attention during practice—being the suavest of the suave, he’ll pull Yuuri close enough that maybe he can identify the fruity smell he remembers from the night at the banquet, one palm cupped over his cheek, and say, “In that case, consider it a promise: that in a few days the season will be over, and I’ll be completely yours.”

And then the stars in Yuuri’s eyes will sparkle and their combined feelings will culminate in that one most perfect moment and Victor will be the one sweeping Yuuri Katsuki off his feet with a sweet kiss that will hopefully become a more passionate kiss that will hopefully result in them returning to Victor’s hotel room for the night.

“And that’s exactly how it’s going to happen,” Victor tells Makkachin while he’s packing for his flight.  The poodle just whines, chin resting on the edge of the bed, eyeing the suitcase sadly.  Victor climbs down onto the floor with her and Makkachin makes a much happier noise in response to the cuddles and ear scratches.  “Don’t worry,” Victor says, cheek rubbing on top of the old dog’s head.  “I’m sure he’ll like you, too.”

Victor’s stomach starts fluttering somewhere during the cab ride to the airport and by the time he lands in Tokyo his pulse rate is high and his head feels suspiciously light, nervous energy jittering through his limbs.  It’s hard not to fidget, hard to keep his eyes from darting around as soon as he’s off the plane on the remote possibility that Yuuri might be at the airport, too.  It’s much easier to simply ignore the disapproving slant of Yakov’s eyebrows and the stern frown directed at Victor each time he stops paying attention or wanders off.  It doesn’t escape his coach’s notice that Victor is practically vibrating, unusually eager to get to the venue instead of procrastinating in favor of a nap or room service or a dip in the pool.  Victor isn’t sure if that frown is concern or frustration or a combination of both, but he’s too giddy to care.

I’m going to see him.

It’s the only thought in his head, pulsing along with his heart, humming through all of his nerves, and Victor is pretty sure Yakov is ready to strangle him by the time they arrive at Meiji Jingu.  I’m going to see him I’m going to see him I’m going to see him oh shit what do I say when I see him?  Victor pauses for the first time in the last two hours, just as they’re approaching the front doors.  Would it be too forward to just run up and hug him?  Maybe he should play it smooth and just take Yuuri’s hands and say, “I missed you.”  Or maybe he should consider that Yuuri might be embarrassed about the banquet, in which case Victor should lead by reassuring that it’s all completely fine and he wants to be… friends.  No.  Well, yes, but also… other things.  Coach, confidant, boyfriend, (lover,) etc.  But they’d get to that later; what he should probably say is something like,  “It’s good to see you again!  I want to spend some more time with you.  How about taking me sightseeing later?”  (Yes, good, leading directly into the date.  Nicely played.)

Yuuri isn’t in the foyer; instead there are a lot of reporters who want his attention and don’t get very much of it, to Yakov’s chagrin.  Victor keeps looking away anytime the doors open, craning his neck to see who’s coming and going.  Yuuri isn’t in the green room either, and Victor checks thoroughly because it’s buzzing with activity and constantly moving bodies, the changeover between practice blocks filling the space with skaters and their retinues.  He greets the people he knows absently, muttering a constant string of linguistic variations on “pardon me” as he winds through the room until Yakov finally gets hold of him again and frowns him into his practice gear and out onto the ice.

Yuuri isn’t in the rink, either, or on the sidelines, and Victor starts to feel his energy drop, reassuring himself through a few practice jumps that maybe Yuuri is just late, or maybe he was here for an earlier practice block and Victor just missed him.  Maybe Victor can find him at the hotel later, or maybe he’ll just have to be patient until the SP block tomorrow.

He keeps stopping to look, though, eyes darting around the stands and the sidelines, making wide loops around the rink so he doesn’t miss anything.  Yakov’s expression grows progressively more irritated each time Victor passes by, and finally he barks his name from across the rink, waving a piece of paper.  Victor glides to a stop alongside the boards and takes the page.  It’s an English language copy of the men’s skating roster.

Yakov’s frown is dark.  “What are you doing here, Vitya?”

Victor’s head jerks up from the page, blinking.  “What?”

“Are you here to win the World Championships?”

Victor sees immediately what’s not being said, not being asked.  He smiles his camera smile, picture perfect and sweet.  “Of course!”

Yakov makes a noise low in his throat like the warning growl of a particularly grumpy bear, and turns away with a scoff.  Victor reads over the roster quickly, then again more slowly, eyes stuttering over the schedule and the competitor list, looking.  Looking.  Katsuki.  Katsuki.  Where is it?  There’s a knot in the pit of his stomach, slowly sinking, and after the fifth time reading through it he lowers the paper and feels the rest of his body, his spirits, and the corners of his mouth sinking with it.

“He’s not here.”

“Who’s not?”  Chris is propped on the boards next to him drinking from a water bottle, cheeks flushed with cold, and Victor can’t remember noticing him arrive.  Chris waits for an answer that Victor doesn’t give, staring down at the ice and the criss-cross of ruts left by skates, suddenly tired.  “Oho, your dream boy from the GPF banquet?  I wouldn’t mind seeing him again myself.”

Victor’s memory is helpfully recounting all of the plans he made, all of the things he wanted to say, and pointing out how impossible they are now—which just makes the sinking feeling worse, sharper.  Darker.  “I wanted to talk to him.”

“Didn’t you check the news?”  Chris is slouched on his elbows, water bottle swaying between his fingers, continuing when Victor doesn’t respond.  “He bombed his nationals.  That loss at the Finals must have really shaken him.”

“He seemed fine at the banquet.”

“Liquid courage.”  Chris winks and straightens, using the momentum to slide away from the barrier.  “Speaking of, if you want to drown your sorrows over your lost love, there’s this great izakaya in the Shibuya ward.  First round’s on me.”

Victor gives a noncommittal grunt and skates away to the sidelines, slips on his guards and winds back through the mull of bodies to the green room.  The knot in his stomach starts twisting, coiling tendrils up into his throat, around his heart, squeezing each time he thinks about starry brown eyes and warm hands on his cheeks.

That promise had been so close and hot.  I’ll be the best skater in the world for you.  And Victor thought, if he could make this boy shine, if he could help him find that poetry and the confidence Victor knew was still there, lurking just under Yuuri’s skin, then maybe Victor would be able to love skating again.  To keep loving it through Yuuri’s heart, instead of slowly growing tired and bitter.

But it occurs to him that maybe he was being silly, assuming Yuuri was even going to be here to begin with.  It occurs to him that Yuuri has had months to try to contact him, if he’d been serious about wanting Victor to coach him.  If he’d been serious about Victor.  It occurs to him that maybe it had all been alcohol-induced frivolity after all.

This is what it’s like to be stood up, Victor thinks.

A little over eighteen months ago Phichit shoved an advertisement under Yuuri Katsuki’s nose with a grin and watched him read over it, blinking behind his glasses at first, then wide-eyed with interest.  Phichit gave it about twenty minutes to settle in, watched Yuuri curl up against the rink barrier, protein bar stuck in his mouth, green-guarded skates tucked under his thighs, tapping the web address from the brochure into his phone.

Then, “Let’s enroll together!” Phichit said, rocking back and forth on the bench, and Yuuri’s expression shifted from curiosity to vague horror.

“N-no, I’d rather not.”

Two days later Phichit tried again, but his roommate shuffled away from him, waffling with, “It’s really not me, you know?” and pretending to study until Phichit dropped the topic.

But he’d seemed intrigued at first, Phichit thought, and then after another two days of frowning to himself he realized the problem and tried again after draining his water bottle mid-practice, this time holding up his pinkie when Yuuri came to a stop at his side.

“If you enroll with me, I solemnly swear to put my phone away, not take a single picture, and never tweet a word about it.”

Yuuri wasn’t wearing his glasses, so his squint might have looked more suspicious than it actually was.  “Really?”

“Of course!”

There are probably people who think Phichit is genuinely incorrigible and unscrupulous when it comes to social media, but he does actually recognize that boundary between teasing your friends in ways that are harmless and actually hurting their feelings.  So when Yuuri smiled and linked his pinkie with Phichit’s and said, “Deal,” he made sure his word was as good as the gold he’ll one day wear around his neck.

He sets his phone to vibrate and tucks it away in his duffle bag as soon as they enter the studio, stretching on the mats in the back in silence because Phichit isn’t sure how to broach any sort of conversation.  Yuuri has been quiet since he got back from Sochi—downcast, irritable, and distant—but the last couple of months have been such a whirlwind of coming and going from one competition to the next that Phichit hasn’t had time to do much other than notice.  Yuuri’s skipping workouts and meals, sleeping too much or not at all, and it’s February before they’re both back in Detroit at the same time for more than a handful of days.

Phichit isn’t sure Yuuri will even want to go to the lesson when he asks; he’d come in late a few weeks before, dragging his books back from the library, and snapped something biting in Japanese when Phichit gently nagged him about missing practice.  Yuuri apologized later—he was tired, he was stressed, he knew he shouldn’t take it out on Phichit and it won’t happen again.  Phichit forgives him easily, more concerned than hurt, but minor as the conflict seemed to him it must have been some sort of breaking point for Yuuri, because he stops missing practice and even shows up at the gym sometimes, late and bleary-eyed but present .  He’s on the ice more often than not, now, during every spare moment he has outside of his last month of classes before graduation, earbuds in and nose buried in something on his phone.  Phichit hasn’t asked about whatever is motivating him yet because it seems deeply personal, the choreography echoing whatever sadness has been eating away at him.

He tries anyway, calling across the rink, steeling his smile to continue even if Yuuri says no, thanks, please go without me, but Yuuri actually perks up a bit, holding one earbud away from his head, turning with one toe buried in the ice, and says, “Oh, is that today?  Yeah, I’ll be right there.”

Phichit doesn’t realize just how worried he was and what a relief that is to hear until two seconds later, with a painful lump in his throat and tears forming in his eyes, thinking it’s okay, he’s okay, he’s not going to give up and fall apart and drift away.

The instructor comes through the door at 6pm sharp, twisting her hair into a knot and barking “Ten minutes for warmup,” to them and the stragglers coming in behind her, and they scramble off the floor and take their usual places in the back row (Yuuri’s preference) before the studio fills to capacity.  Phichit grabs the pole immediately and curls both legs around it, dropping back and stretching towards the floor until both hands are flat against the polished wood.  Yuuri is still on his feet, one hand on the pole in front of him, blinking at it like he’s forgotten where he is.

“What’s up?”

Yuuri’s frown is puzzled, but he shrugs off whatever is bothering him and hooks one leg around the pole, spinning idly.  “I just had the weirdest moment of deja vu.”

“Well, it’s been a while.  Maybe you’re just feeling nostalgic.”

Yuuri hums to himself, uncertain, spinning a few more times before drawing his other leg up and dropping back to mirror Phichit’s position.  The shirt he’s wearing is too loose and slides down to his armpits; there’s more pudge around his middle than there used to be, Phichit thinks.  It’s not unflattering but he wonders if Celestino has been scolding him about it or is just letting it slide for now.  Phichit hasn’t seen them interact much lately, in fact, now that he thinks about it.

Almost as though he can hear his friend’s train of thought, Yuuri pulls himself back upright and says, “After graduation, I think I’m gonna go home.”

Phichit makes a startled noise that turns into an indignant squawk halfway, and he just barely manages to not fall head-first off the pole, twisting around and landing mostly on his feet instead.  The instructor hears the telltale thump and calls for them to be careful and stop horsing around, so Phichit has to apologize before returning his attention to Yuuri, who is spinning idly again, faraway stare fixed on where his hands are clamped around the pole.

“Are you quitting?” Phichit asks quietly, staying safely on his feet for now and quickly assembling a list of reasons why Yuuri can’t retire yet, organizing them by relevance and emphasis.

Yuuri is smiling, though; most of his smiles lately have been kind of watery and insincere but this one is soft, small and still kind of sad, but at least it’s honest.  “No.  I just feel like I need to go back to the beginning, so I can figure out where I want to go next.  Does that make sense?”

Phichit lets out a breath and files his mental list away somewhere for safekeeping, in case he needs it again someday.  “Don’t scare me like that.”

Yuuri looks genuinely contrite, and Phichit can’t help feeling like he’s a bit of a showoff when he maintains his grip on the pole with just his legs so he can press his hands together in front of his nose to apologize.  “Sorry!  I’ll treat you to pho after the lesson.”

“Alright, I forgive you.”

“Thanks for understanding,” Yuuri says, and Phichit can’t respond because the instructor calls for attention just then and he doesn’t get another chance until later, toweling the sweat from his face and pulling his shoes back on.

“I do understand,” he says, resisting the urge to dig through his bag for his phone, just for a few more minutes.  Yuuri is polishing the smudges from his glasses, bangs plastered to his forehead, but the color in his cheeks is reassuring and so is the smile left on his face after the instructor passes them on her way out, quickly dropping some praise and that she was glad to see them both back in class.  He feels sad, just for a moment, before feeling grateful that Yuuri has found whatever it is he needs to keep himself going.  “But you know I’m going to miss you, right?”

“Me too,” Yuuri says.

A week or so later Phichit realizes that the choreography Yuuri has been painstakingly mimicking from his phone is the FS program of one Victor Nikiforov, not that that’s any surprise.  Phichit wonders, though, once he gets the chance to meet the Russian legend face to face, if telling him thank you for saving my best friend’s life will even make sense, or just leave him baffled at the reality of how art touches people without its creator ever knowing or intending the consequences.

Victor sulks.

At first he’s genuinely sad, sad enough that after practice he goes back to his hotel room and stays there for the rest of the day feeling foolish and heartbroken and wishing he could cuddle his dog.  (At one point he actually calls his sitter and has her put Makkachin on Facetime and leave the room so he can apologize; they’re not moving to a nice place in Japan with lots of beaches and a new special human for him to play with after all.)  He orders something forgettable off the room service menu that seems indulgent at the time, picks at it while flipping through the television offerings and finally succumbs to jet lag late in the afternoon.

Chris shows up at his door around 8pm with an ice dancer pair Victor remembers from the European Championship and two women he feels like he ought to know but doesn’t.  He hasn’t been paying attention to the new faces at competitions for a while now, hasn’t been following the up and coming Juniors the way he used to; maybe if he had he’d have recognized Yuuri’s face when he saw it, would have already known his career instead of scrambling to learn about it in a fever rush after the GPF banquet.  Maybe things would have been different.

He lets Chris wheedle him into going out for the night, but Victor’s charm battery runs down quickly and by the time they've eaten sushi dinner, parted ways with the ice dancer couple, and settled in at an establishment Victor gathers is some kind of bar (what’s a ‘hostoklab’? Oh well) he’s lost the ability to keep up appearances.  There are remarkably good-looking Japanese waiters pouring them sake and casually flirting in levels of English that range from stilted to nearly fluent; the girls are giggling and Chris is deep in his element and Victor doesn’t miss the furtive look in his direction and the extra bill Chris slips to one of the waiters.  Victor doesn’t even have to hear what he says over the white noise filling the room, because he can guess--my friend here got dumped, so take extra good care of him, okay?

He tries to appreciate that Chris is just trying to cheer him up in his own highly questionable way, but Victor doesn’t want a replacement or a warm body.  He doesn’t want anything, really, except maybe to go home to his flat and his dog and sleep until the season is over instead of having to maintain his rock star persona.  He manages to hold a conversation that he doesn't remember later, likewise doesn’t remember finally returning to the hotel and going to bed, but he remembers the headache in the morning and the bitter feeling in his chest for quite a while.

The competition goes as well as any; he’s been doing this for too long through too much for his performance to be anything but flawless.  He takes all of his feelings, packs them up, and shoves them into his programs, lets them fuel his performance for the handful of days until he’s flying home with yet another gold medal.  It feels heavy around his neck, more like shackles dragging him down than a badge of victory.

He alters the choreography a bit for his next short program, changes the story; instead of a disillusioned playboy being swept off his feet and falling in love for the first time, now it’s about a beautiful woman falling for a seductive playboy only to be cast aside.  He goes to practice and goes home with nothing but errands in between, and Makkachin follows him around the house whining for an extra walk.  The world is turning a joyless muted gray in a way that’s familiar and dangerous and his dog, at least, notices immediately.  Yuri Plisetsky notices maybe a day later and spends an egregious amount of time demanding Victor’s attention and opinion on his FS choreography with an uncharacteristic lack of scathing commentary, and the fact that Yuri of all people is treating him delicately is probably what provokes Victor to paw through his desk looking for the business card of his last therapist.

This is what he’s doing when his phone blows up.

By the time he gets back out to the living room Makkachin is barking at his phone as it buzzes across the coffee table under its own power.  There’s a cascade of tweets and texts spilling over the notifications when he thumbs it to life and everything is some variation on OMG VICTOR DID YOU SEE THE VIDEO except for a Facebook comment from Chris that just says nice of your dream boy to send you a love letter, maybe he didn’t dump you after all and a lone text from Yuri Plisetsky that consists solely of a YouTube link.

Victor is pretty sure that anything resembling hope had been sucked out of him that first day in Tokyo, but there’s something like it trembling in his thumb when he taps on the hyperlink.

The title of the video is in Japanese, but the thumbnail says enough on its own; Yuuri Katsuki in practice gear and black gloves, head turned just enough for a perfect profile, no glasses, lips slightly parted, messy hair floating with whatever movement the camera caught him in.  For an instant he feels close enough to touch and for an instant Victor almost closes the app and sets the phone aside, a clawed iron fist clenching around his heart.

If anyone but Yuri had sent him the link, Victor might have done just that, but the small angry kitten in leopard print shows his affection in ways that are harsh, uncompromising, and ultimately honest, so Victor presses play.

There isn’t a music track but Victor doesn’t need to hear the opening notes of Stammi Vicino to recognize that starting pose, for his heart to leap into his throat and stay there.  And Yuuri doesn’t need music; he creates it with his presence, with every move and gesture, an invisible mantle that flutters and twines around his body like a lover.

There’s more of him than Victor remembers and his technical eye can see the places where the added weight is slowing him down—but not by much, and not more than anyone but a coach or a judge would notice.  Aesthetically he’s softer, more vulnerable; in his best performances Yuuri draws the audience in with beauty and longing but this is different.  It’s bittersweet and lonely, and he clings to the performance like he can feel it slipping away from him, like it’s the last thing keeping him on the ice, and suddenly Victor understands.  It’s his program Yuuri is performing.  Yuuri hasn’t forgotten him, hasn’t cast him aside—Yuuri is reaching for him, calling out to him.  Hoping.  Waiting for Victor to remember his promise.

He’s asking me to save him.

Victor counts to ten after the video ends.  Not to give himself time to weigh his decision, because he already knows what he’s going to do before Yuuri even starts that last combination spin.  Not to give himself time to change his mind, because he knows he won’t.  He counts to ten just to appreciate the magnitude of what he’s about to do, the breadth and depth of what he’s about to cast aside in one fell swoop, to feel the expansive warmth that starts in the center of his chest and spreads out until his fingers and toes are tingling, until it’s an electric buzz of giddy static too large to contain in his own body that fizzles out into an aura strong enough that Makkachin hops off the couch and whines, pacing restlessly.

He counts to ten, and then he closes the app and scrolls through his contacts to the travel agent listed near the bottom.

“I need a flight and ground transportation to Hasetsu, Japan, as soon as possible.”  Victor is on his feet and pacing by this point, Makkachin hopping around him in circles, excited.  “No, one way.  And I’m taking my dog.  Email me the itinerary.  Thanks.”

His second call is to a moving company.  The third is to his sitter, because the itinerary came through and his flight leaves before the packing is done so he’ll have to brief her on what goes and what stays and decide the future of her employment while his flat is empty.

The fourth call is to Yakov.

“I’m taking the next season off,” Victor says without preamble.  By this point he’s nearly done packing the one suitcase he’ll take on the flight; everything else will be shipped.  Makkachin has been whining at the end of the bed as usual, but when Victor packs the leash and bacon treats her tail starts wagging, and the strangled noise Yakov makes over the line is counterpoint to Makkachin bounding around the room happily.

“What?! ”

“My plane leaves tonight at 6:30.  You should come see me off!”

“That’s in two hours!  Where are you right now?”

Victor hums to himself and checks the clock.  “Oh, the cab should be here soon then.”

“VITYA WHERE ARE YOU?  DON’T GO ANYWHERE I’LL—”

“See you at the airport, Yakov,” Victor coos in a sing-song, presses the end button and buckles the suitcase closed.  Makkachin comes to a halt at his feet, wriggling with the same excitement that’s humming through Victor, stuttering through his joints and trembling in his fingers.  Makkachin rears up on her hind legs and Victor catches both front paws in his hands, leading them in a little dance.  “We’re going to see him!”

Makkachin barks in agreement.

Victor watches the video again during the ride to the airport with Makkachin under one arm, alternately praising Yuuri’s performance and dissecting every minor flaw, pausing the video to give the old dog a better look so she understands what Victor is talking about.  I’m on my way, Yuuri, he thinks during those last few moments, when Yuuri draws himself inward into the final pose.  I’ll be in your arms soon.  I’ll be entirely yours, and you’ll become the best skater in the world.

The last thing Victor does before he leaves Russia is text a reply to Yuri Plisetsky.  It says thank you.

He turns off his phone.

The dark wood slats of the ceiling overhead feel heavy and oppressive, so Victor blocks them out by holding his phone above his face, scrolling through his pictures from the banquet and his video clips, digging through his downloads folder for the images Chris forwarded to him.  He knows Yuri has more, but he refuses to admit as much—let alone share any of them with Victor.  He could pester Yuri about it again, but his phone’s reception at the onsen is poor and he’s mostly given up on trying to use anything but the complimentary wifi.  It’s probably for the best; this way Yakov can’t call him and scold him.

Victor’s phone has been suspiciously void of text messages and missed calls, though.  He’s not sure what to make of that, but he has more pressing concerns on his mind, anyway.  He thumbs out of his photo folder and pulls up YouTube.

All of his recommended videos these days are of Yuuri Katsuki.  There’s just one in particular he wants to watch, though.

Makkachin whines and rolls over next to him and Victor absently scratches the old dog’s ear, watching Yuuri glide across the ice to nothing but the sound of his own skates, waiting for that one moment about halfway through the program where his eyes make contact with the camera, bittersweet and wistful, and the knot in Victor’s chest tightens.

“I don’t understand,” Victor murmurs to Makkachin, who just makes a sleepy huffing noise in response.  “Did he change his mind?”

He drops the phone back to his side and there’s the wood ceiling again, blurry in the dark, framed in peripheral by the stacked boxes of all his most relevant worldly possessions—proof that he’s serious, that this isn’t just a whim, that he’s more than prepared to leave everything behind and settle down here to coach Yuuri.  To be close to Yuuri.  To dance with him again, hold him again, continue that aborted kiss, to watch him come back to life on the ice and blossom into the champion he deserves to be.

But Yuuri ran from him.  Yuuri ran from Victor and Victor’s presence and Victor’s touch, shut Victor out of his room with a panicked No! and wouldn’t come out again.  He thought maybe Yuuri was shy around his family, maybe he needed more privacy, so why not cuddle up like they were teenagers at a Junior division sleepover and talk about their secrets until dawn.  (Or make out, they could do that, too; Victor isn’t picky.)

He thinks about Chris saying liquid courage and once again Victor considers that maybe that’s all it was.  Maybe what happened at the banquet was just alcohol-induced revelry, maybe Yuuri is ashamed of himself and regrets it.  Maybe Yuuri never really wanted him at all.  Maybe there’s someone else in his life.  Maybe Victor is just making a fool of himself.

The ceiling feels too heavy again so Victor rolls over, buries his nose in Makkachin’s fur, squeezes his eyes shut against the hot tears forming in the corners.  “What do I do now?”

The answer is obvious, and it will come to him once he feels less crushed about Yuuri’s lukewarm reception.  He’s Victor Nikiforov, five time Grand Prix gold medalist and world figure skating champion, and he’s not going to simply give up.  He might be frivolous, impulsive, and self-possessed, he might have a bad habit of making promises and failing to follow through, but Yuuri is a promise he wants to keep more than anything.  Yuuri is an effort he wants to make, even if it means giving up his rose-colored daydreams about beaches and sunsets and pretty clichéd words because the reality of love is imperfect.

Just like Victor is imperfect.  Just like anxious, petty, self-conscious Yuuri is imperfect.  When the dance is over, when the magic fades, and you’re faced with a person who is so much more complicated than you could extrapolate from a three minute video or a gleeful drunken encounter, you realize that everything from that point onward is going to be a negotiation of flaws and feelings and circumstance.

That’s what a relationship is.

Of course, Victor being the person he is, it takes less than two weeks for one of the promises he failed to keep to catch up with him.

Yuri Plisetsky is a righteous ball of indignation, alternately brimming with what is either poorly restrained fury or just as poorly disguised jealousy.  He spits and sparks and all of the attempted arson fails to catch on Victor’s person, too used to repelling the flares of his junior’s personality.  Yuuri picks up on how to deal with him quickly and without prompting, and even counterstrikes with a tentative friendship, much to Yurio’s insistant dismay.

But Yuri Plisetsky isn’t dismayed at all, and Victor knows it.  He’s hurt, somewhere underneath the animal print and obstinance, and the more comfortable he gets in Hasetsu the worse the hurt becomes, the more it manifests by combusting anytime Victor and Yuuri linger too long over each other.

Yuuri doesn’t run away anymore, but his eyes are still wide and spooked like maybe he wants to, like it’s only that confidence that Victor knows is still alive and well somewhere deep inside him that keeps him still and steady while Victor’s thumb drags over his lower lip.  He doesn’t smell like champagne and sweat now but that’s what Victor is thinking about, what he hopes Yuuri is thinking about, with nothing but Victor’s thumb and Victor’s hot words in between them, feeling the pulse of Yuuri’s breath over his lips.

He doesn’t run, but he doesn’t come closer, either.  Victor tries to be patient while Yuuri gets quieter and Yurio gets angrier and none of them come any closer to understanding what love is, anyway.

Then one night in the middle of dinner, somewhere in between tolerating Yurio’s grumbling and staring disdainfully at his boring, healthy, nutrient-rich dinner, Yuuri Katsuki sits bolt upright and slaps his hand on the low wood table in front of him.  “I get it now!  I understand my Eros!”

Yurio makes a noise that’s almost impressed and Victor hums with the interest he’s kept at a low simmer, somewhere deep and aching in his chest, burning hot just behind his navel.

“It’s katsudon!”

Victor’s soul promptly departs his body.

After an extended pause he hears himself saying something in agreement but his head is full of pole dancing, partial nudity, Yuuri braced against his thigh, arms dragging him down nearly to kissing distance, eyes wet and shimmering.

If I win this dance-off you’ll coach me, right?  Be my coach, Victor!

They’d been so close, that night, on the verge of tipping and tumbling down into the crevasse of poor judgment and mutual attraction together—all it would have taken was a tug on his tie and Victor would have followed wherever Yuuri led, his own personal god of love, whether that was back onto the dance floor or away to his bed and the hot embrace of his body for what remained of the evening.

How they’d gone from that precipice to Victor encouraging Yuuri to think about pork tenderloin and eggs over rice while he performed the sensual tale of their first meeting, Victor cannot fathom.  He can only handle it for a few more days before he snaps.

The buzz of his phone dialing out sounds unusually loud in his ear, and he’s not sure what part of the beach he’s sitting on and has no earthly clue what time it is in Switzerland anyway, but the swirling contents of the half-full sake bottle in his hand assure him that such details are unimportant.

Chris appears to disagree.  “Do you have any idea what time it is?”

“Chris,” Victor says emphatically, because he doesn’t have time for pleasantries or to answer hypothetical questions.  “He says that his Eros is katsudon .”

The phone is silent in his ear for a long moment.  “Okay, I’m not going to ask you how much you’ve had to drink, but you’re gonna have to explain that one.”

“Yuuri,” Victor clarifies, or thinks he’s clarified, anyway, “says that his idea of sexual love is a pork cutlet bowl.”

There’s another extended pause.  “Everyone has their kinks?”

“He doesn’t want me, Chris!”  Victor gestures broadly with his bottle, contents sloshing dangerously.  “I came all the way out here,” Victor makes a sound that might have been a hiccup or a restrained sob and even he isn’t sure which, “thinking that I had a chance with him, and—”

“To coach him?” Chris interrupts.

“Ye—yes, of course, I came here to coach him.  I’m coaching him!  I’m doing a good job, probably!  But—”

“But you’d rather just bone him and save yourself the trouble?”

Victor stops short, mouth moving around a few words that don’t have sound.  “What?  No, that’s not what I meant.  I like coaching him.  More than I thought I would, even.”

“Okay, good.”

“I just.”  Victor waves the bottle idly again and flops back onto the sand—it’s further down than he expects it to be but by some miracle he keeps the bottle from upending all over him.  “I thought he’d be happier to see me.  I thought he’d want us to be together.”

Chris makes a sleepy, thoughtful noise.  “Have you tried getting naked?”

“Yes.  Multiple times.  It’s not working.”

“If he’s seen you naked more than once and doesn’t want to climb you like a tree I don’t know what to tell you, boss.  Are you sure he’s gay?”

Victor makes a noise somewhere between a whine and a child throwing a tantrum.

There’s another silence, followed by a huge, lengthy yawn, and Chris sighs.  “I guess you could always try backing it off and see if he comes to you.  I mean, you are the great and sexy Victor Nikiforov, maybe he’s too starstruck to reciprocate.”

“It wasn’t a problem at the banquet!”

“He was drunk at the banquet.  And you are drunk currently, and I would like to go back to sleep.  So maybe give it a shot and call me back at a less ghastly hour and let me know how it goes.”

Victor arrives at the ice castle late the following morning, unkempt and unshowered and with a wicked (but not nearly his worst ever) hangover, just in time to see Yuuri and Yurio zip away from each other on the ice and proceed to act as though they hadn’t been getting along in his absence.  Victor lets them do as they like and mostly stays near the sideboards, leaning back on the heels of his hands, sleepily hyperfocused on Yuuri’s skates.

Normally he’d be out in the rink gliding around with him, finding excuses to get closer, invade Yuuri’s space with his presence and voice and as many casual touches as he can justify, but he’s too unsteady to risk falling—or worse, colliding with one of his students—and even when Yuuri stops near him he doesn’t bother sidling up closer.  He probably smells terrible, anyway.

And Chris might have been on to something after all, because after draining his water bottle and catching his breath, Yuuri’s eyes slide over him, brows drawn together, and suddenly Yuuri is the one slipping in closer, stopping right in the angle of Victor’s arm, free hand looping underneath to settle on his elbow.  “Are you feeling okay?  Maybe you should go back to the onsen and rest.”

Victor’s heart does a happy little jig in his chest at the same time that his train of thought derails and begins ricocheting around inside his skull with ever-increasing variations on wait what WHAT.  His temples are throbbing and he can’t decide whether he cares or not, a watery but joyful smile cracking over his face.  “Yuuri is worried about meeeeeee,” he croons aloud, absent of any kind of filter he might or might not have.

Yurio snaps, “Oh my god ,” in Russian somewhere on the other side of the rink.

Yuuri’s eyes curve up when he laughs and it’s the cutest thing Victor has ever witnessed in his life.  “Of course I am.”

“As your coach, I have to take such concerns seriously.”  Victor is pretty sure that’s how coaching works.  “We’ll have an extra long break for lunch and I’ll take a nap, okay?”

He does as he promises without much effort, collapsing in a small heap of humanity on one of the couches in the lobby.  When he wakes up an hour later, Yuuri is stripping off the track jacket he usually jogs in and stretching out on a floor mat, and there’s a bottle of sports water, two ibuprofen, and a steaming container of beef udon on the table next to Victor’s head.

It’s the first time Victor considers that maybe he’s misunderstood all along, that maybe he’s looking for evidence of Yuuri’s feelings in the wrong places.  That maybe they’d simply been invisible to him until he created a void in which they could comfortably manifest.

Victor texts Chris two days later to inform him that it was 8AM in Switzerland when he called and that even he, in his off-season state of semi-retirement, was awake at 8AM on weekdays.  Chris fails to see his point and asks how wooing his dream boy is going.

I think your idea is working, Victor tells him.  Hold off on opening your own matchmaking service for further confirmation.

Buying the URL now, Chris replies.

He’s still trying to figure out how to negotiate that middle ground between his feelings and Yuuri’s when the Hot Springs on Ice event happens.  There’s noise, people, cameras, interviews; Victor is in his element, glowing under the attention and eager to show off the results of his coaching.  He surprises himself, even, expecting to be thrilled at the prospect of proving to the world (or at least a small part of Japan) what a great coach he could be, but when the time comes he can’t find it in himself to care.  He wants everyone to see Yuuri—Yuuri’s beauty and poetry, the music he makes on the ice.  Whenever a reporter starts asking him about his plans and his career he brushes them off and talks about Yuuri instead, ignoring their perturbed expressions and attempts to redirect him.

Yurio is scowling nearby, most of the time.  His scowls grow progressively darker, and his performance falls somewhere in the tension between his agape, the righteous fury he’d arrived in, and sheer zenlike exhaustion.  It also falls short of mastery and maturity but Victor is confident he’ll arrive there, eventually.

He finds his second protégé tugging on his hair on the sidelines, halfway to huddling over his own knees, but Yuuri pops up to attention at the sound of his name, hands muffling an embarrassed yelp.  Victor isn’t sure if he should be concerned or not, but Yuuri’s eyes, when he looks up, are determined, sparks forming deep in the brown depths.

“I’m going to become a super tasty katsudon,” Yuuri says, and Victor feels something catch in his throat, feels like he’s seeing the boy who sat in his lap and said I’ll be the best skater in the world for you for the first time in five months.  “So please don’t take your eyes off me.”

And Yuuri hugs him, tightly, before Victor can so much as respond.  His shoulders are trembling.

“Promise you will.”  Yuuri’s voice is muffled in his scarf but Victor can hear how it cracks in the middle, can feel Yuuri’s fingers curling in his wool coat.

He thinks of the video, of bittersweet, lonely Yuuri skating like Victor’s program is the only thing keeping him on the ice.  Clinging like it might slip through his fingers and disappear.

He’s been right, all along.

“Of course I will,” Victor hears himself saying, and his voice feels less real than Yuuri trembling in his arms—finally in his arms after all this time, just as Victor’s been longing for all this time, but he’s not sure, now, how to deal with this vulnerability.  “I love katsudon.”

Was that the right thing to say?  Victor isn’t sure, he doesn’t know what the catalyst was for Yuuri’s transformation, but on the ice, under the lights, suddenly he’s alive with sex appeal—it’s playful, innocent in a way that feels deliberate and possibly misleading, warm and shivering like an insistent, demanding kiss.  Victor’s attention is caught from that first look, the whistle drawn from his lips, and Yuuri drags him in, makes Victor part of the music dancing around him, clinging to him.

Yuuri takes the program in both hands and makes it his own.

Victor imagines that this is why Yurio leaves before the award ceremony; that, or maybe he’s come to realize that he’ll never drag Victor’s attention away from Yuuri.  Victor fields as many questions as he can from the media until it’s a little too obvious that Yuuri’s energy level is bottoming out and graciously waves off the press.  The tiny locker room off the side of the rink feels blessedly quiet in comparison, and Yuuri’s shoulders sag in relief.  Victor almost expects him to just lie down on the floor and fall asleep.

“Ahh, I could sleep for a week,” Yuuri sighs, echoing Victor’s thoughts, and drags a jacket over his shoulders.  Victor can’t see his face.  “So other than the triple axel and the salchow, that was okay, right?”

Victor mentally runs over the program, ticking off a list in his head as he goes.  “Well…”

“This,” Yuuri interrupts suddenly, a little too loud, and then pauses, tugging at his track pants.  “This means you’re going to stay, right?”

Victor blinks.  “Of course.”

When Yuuri looks up there are stars bursting in his eyes, entire galaxies forming from shattered supernovas.  “Really?”

“Yes, really.”  Victor lifts his hand, presses it against the small of Yuuri’s back.  He’s starting to understand: Yuuri is full of doubts, about himself, about his abilities, about his career.  About Victor.  Of course those doubts had disappeared under sixteen flutes of champagne, as they would for anyone, and they’d disappeared just long enough for Yuuri’s temporary certainty to convince Victor.

And now Victor’s job as a coach—as himself so long as he’s in Yuuri’s life—will be to maintain the reality in which those doubts are baseless.  He doesn’t understand this completely, yet, but he will.

“And since you won, I guess that means we can have katsudon for dinner—if you think you can stay awake.”

“I can!”  Yuuri makes a fist, adorably determined, and pulls his phone out of his jacket pocket, presumably to call his mother and put in an advance order.  “It’s getting kind of late, though.  We’ll probably have to eat alone.”

“That’s fine,” Victor says, wistfully.  “It’ll be a date, then.”

When Yuuri looks up at him, his expression is strangely neutral.  There are still stars in his eyes but they’re quieter, shimmering.  He drops the phone to his side and his free hand reaches up, settles hot against Victor’s cheek.

Yuuri Katsuki kisses him softly, eyes fluttering closed, chapped lips catching against his.

Victor is frozen in place, and he’s not sure what kind of expression he’s wearing but it must have been shocked, because Yuuri starts to back away.  “S-sorry, should I not have…?”  But Victor’s hand is still on his back and it wraps around him easily, draws him back in until he meets Victor’s eyes, understands that Victor was just surprised, and his hand slides up from Victor’s cheek into his hair.

Yuuri’s mouth is warm and damp and Victor stops caring about anything else in the world instantly: there are fingers on his neck, in his hair, the warm arch of Yuuri’s body against his palms and a shiver of sound in Yuuri’s throat and the slow press and pull of lips—close, breaking apart, then closer, slower, longer.  Deeper.  Yuuri’s fingernails dragging through the short-cropped hairs on the back of his head.  Yuuri’s tongue brushing against his.

Victor makes a helpless, involuntary noise and presses Yuuri against the nearest vertical surface—some lockers, probably, not that it matters and not that he has any thought in his head other than yes, god, finally, yes, except maybe he’s getting ahead of himself.  He doesn’t know this but Yuuri does, and around the time Victor’s knee presses between his legs Yuuri’s hands are pushing at his shoulders and he’s saying something urgent in Japanese.

Too fast!  Too fast!

Victor blinks, dizzy, feeling horribly deprived now that he’s several inches away from Yuuri and Yuuri’s mouth and thinking that it’s been around five months since they first met and nearly but not quite kissed and that rather than going too fast, at this point the pace of their relationship is practically glacial.  Yuuri’s hands remain on his shoulders, though, so Victor takes a step back—and his knees give out.  His descent to sit on the bench behind him is nowhere near graceful enough for an international figure skating champion.

“Sorry,” Yuuri says, hovering for a moment before sitting beside him.  “I panicked a little.  You’re kind of… overwhelming.”

“I’m overwhelming,” Victor blurts out, reflexively, one hand over his mouth.  His knees are still trembling.

Yuuri shrugs, awkward but smiling softly, lips cherry red from kissing.  “You’re Victor Nikiforov.”

“Ah.  Right.”  Victor drops his hand, voice dropping with it.  “The superstar.  The living legend.”

“No,” Yuuri says, stutters and backtracks, “I-I mean yes, but the person you are, Victor, is just,” Yuuri gestures up and down to Victor’s entire being, “a lot.”

“A lot ,” Victor echoes, not sure how he feels about that or if he even fully understands it.  “Too much?”

“Not really, just…” Yuuri trails off, eyes turned upward, shuffling through languages in his head to find whatever words he needs.  “I wonder if there’s room for me.”

Victor lets out a breath, shoulders relaxing.  This is it—the middle ground he’s trying to figure out, the space that Yuuri needs for himself and his own feelings, where he can exist and not be buried under Victor.  The shimmer in Yuuri’s eyes is hopeful.

He reaches up, brushes his thumb over Yuuri’s cheekbone.  “There is.”

Yuri Plisetsky’s life is suffering.

The most frustrating things he’s discovered as a teen are 1) the world he’s grown up into is a massive disappointment, and also 2) the adults he used to admire turned out to be actual human beings capable of failure and emotion and being hopelessly pathetic and unreliable.  They do things like let him down, forget his existence, make promises they have no intention of keeping, and shut themselves away in bathroom stalls to cry.

Yuri hates it more than anything.  He hates that vulnerability because his idols and role-models are supposed to be past that—beyond fallibility, beyond breaking, beyond childishness.  But they’re not.  Yuri feels betrayed.

He stomps out of the bathroom and goes to find Victor, not because Victor will prove himself to be any more capable or reliable than the blubbering mess in the toilet stall but because at least he’s a familiar disappointment, and at least he’s capable of pretending otherwise.  Victor surrounded by flashing lights and microphones is the very incarnation of competence, oozing sound bites and sex appeal, another effortless success, a champion carved out of marble.  The moment Victor notes Yuri’s presence he’s dragged into the circle of attention and celebrity, grumbling until Victor’s blithe scolding convinces him to answer a few questions about his advancement to Seniors, cold but mostly genial.

He’s started to see the cracks in Victor’s mask, though, even at times like this.  At practice, when the only eyes on him are his coach and his rinkmates, Victor is as silent and cold as the Siberian tundra—on the ice he’s as refined and elegant as ever, but his mouth tilts down in frustration, eyes focused on something distant over Yuri’s shoulder whenever he tries to get Victor’s attention.

Yuri wants to stay mad at him, wants to wash his hands of the World Champion of Assholes and never speak to him again, but he can’t, and that just pisses him off more .

When Victor finally waves off the press and they make their way to the exit, he predictably starts criticizing the step sequence in Yuri’s FS program and Yuri groans through his teeth, head dropping back dramatically, more to ensure that Victor gets the full force of his grimace than for any other reason.  “Who cares?  I won.  Quit nagging me.”

Unfortunately Yakov is just close enough to hear him and launches into a lecture the moment they’re in earshot.  Yuri stops listening after less than a second, stare wandering past Victor’s shoulder—and there he is, the latest disappointment in Yuri’s life, staring at the three of them with a dumb expression behind his lame-ass nerd glasses.  Yuri scowls but he doesn’t seem to notice, and that just frustrates Yuri more.

Look at me!  Pay attention to me!  You’re a pathetic loser and the second I get home I’m taking all the posters of you off my wall and burning them.  I’ll never watch your YouTube videos again.  I hate your guts.  Look at me, Katsuki, stop staring at Victor like an idiot.  You failed me and I’ll never forgive you!

Japan’s Top Failure won’t look at Yuri, though; he just stares past him with that same limp, miserable posture and idiotic expression until Victor finally stirs, feeling eyes on him, and turns.

And Victor is the biggest idiot on the planet, because he immediately pulls up his movie star expression and says, graciously, “Commemorative photo?  Sure.”

Victor is still smiling when Katsuki curls into a ball of abject misery and slithers away without a word, and that smile gradually melts into a blank stare while Yuri feels enough rage build up in his stomach that he thinks he might literally explode.  He tries to pay attention to Yakov for a few seconds, just to distract himself, but Victor’s sense of self-preservation has never been in top form, so when he turns back he has the gall to mumble, “What was that about?” to himself, one finger curled against his lower lip.

And Yuri can’t take it anymore.

“Oh my GOD, what is your PROBLEM?  That was YUURI KATSUKI YOU DUMB FUCK!”

Victor stares down at him, mask summarily out of place, vague like he thinks he knows the name but can’t quite place it, and it’s like a microcosm of everything that’s been wrong with Victor since last season.  Distracted, listless, able to pretend he’s still inspired with his feet on the ice and cameras in front of him but fickle and directionless anywhere else.  Before now, Victor would have been the one telling Yuri the names and careers of every single competitor at every event they go to, right down to their Junior division base scores and personal training regimens.  But this Victor doesn’t seem to know anyone, doesn’t pay attention to anything, can’t keep any information in his head for more than a few hours.

Yakov has been making noises occasionally, mutterings that sounded like it’s happening again, and having long arguments with Victor behind closed doors that never seem to resolve anything.  Yuri doesn’t remember it very well because he was too young, but he knows there was a break, an undefinable period of absence after which Victor reappeared in St. Petersburg, hair cut short, tired and world-weary but smiling in a way that made eight-year-old Yuri feel relieved even though he wasn’t sure why.  Maybe just because it seemed to make Yakov feel relieved, in his own disgruntled way.

He assumes this is what those mutterings and arguments mean, but Yuri still doesn’t know why Victor was gone to begin with, and nothing pisses him off quite like his own ignorance.

“Yuuri Katsuki,” Victor echoes, eyes narrow and turned to the side like he can see into his own memory if he peers hard enough, and Yuri grinds his teeth.

“Japan’s top skater.  He wins his Nationals every year.  He came in 6th, weren’t you watching?”

“I was talking to the press.”

Victor can’t possibly understand the depths of Yuri’s feelings about this, how eager he’d been to see Katsuki perform in person only to watch him fall and stumble all over himself like a newborn foal.  Victor couldn’t understand how unfair that was, how Katsuki had let himself down, let his fans down, let Yuri down even though they’d never spoken before Yuri broke into his toilet stall and screamed his own disappointment in Katsuki’s face.  He was supposed to be better than this.  Victor was supposed to be better than this.  The adults in his life weren’t supposed to let him down.

And now Victor is lost in thought, somewhere out of reach for the rest of the day and then for all of the following day through the exhibition where he skates as flawlessly and beautifully as ever, right up until the banquet.

Yuri refuses to discuss the banquet.

He’ll discuss how idiotic Victor is during the banquet, how every time his conversation lapses into silence Yuri follows his line of sight and invariably sees Katsuki in his lame department store suit, sucking down yet another flute of champagne.  He’ll discuss how gross it all ends up being, because there’s a stripper pole and partial nudity involved and he can never, ever admit to how well Katsuki owns him at his own preferred style of dance even though he’s drunk enough that it’s deeply improbable how well he keeps on his feet.  He’ll discuss how appalled he is when Katsuki wraps his champagne-soaked, half-dressed self around Victor, babbling in a drunken mixture of Japanese and English, begging in a delighted sing-song for Victor to coach him.

What Yuri won’t discuss is later, after Victor dances with him, smiling like he hasn’t in more than a year or maybe ever, when Yuri catches a glimpse through a part in the crowd of Yuuri Katsuki in Victor’s lap and the two of them laughing, murmuring, arms sliding around each other.  Lips touching.

It’s not fair.

Yuri wonders, sometimes, if he knew what would happen after that—if he knew that one day he’d be in a backwater town somewhere in Japan on the ice with these two bumbling grownups, ready to stomp his feet and scream because they can’t take their eyes off each other, can’t stop clinging to each other, because I’m here, too!  Pay attention to me, too!  I need your love, too!

He wonders—if he knew that, knew how disgusting they would end up being, how unimportant he would end up being to them, if he would have sent Victor the link.

Yuri might have sensed the thread of fate starting in that moment when he’s watching the YouTube channel he swore he’d never look at again, curled on his bed surrounded by the posters he swore he was going to burn, when the internet suddenly explodes with Yuuri Katsuki.  Would Victor even notice?  Victor, who never notices anything anymore, especially not Yuri Plisetsky, even when Yuri Plisetsky is standing right in front of him, yelling in his face.

Without inspiration you’re as good as dead!

But maybe if Yuuri Katsuki is the only thing Victor will notice, the only thing he wants to notice, then maybe that’s better than him not noticing anything or anyone at all.

Yuri figures he’s going to regret it for the rest of his life if he copies the YouTube link into this text message to Victor.  He’s right.

He does it anyway.

And maybe one day he’ll admit to someone he trusts to never, ever repeat any such thing that he wouldn’t take it back, even if he had the chance.  Even if he had a million chances, he’d press the send button every time, teeth gritted in a scowl, ready to fling his phone into the sun as soon as it goes through.  It’s selfless and unconditional and what pisses him off the most is that Victor knows, weeks later.  He looks at Yuri and says agape like he’s already read everything in Yuri’s heart, like his love is an open book for Victor to peruse.

And Yuri will never, ever forgive either of them.

Except he does, this time and every time after.

Victor dreams about sunlight.

He used to dream about skating, most nights, especially during competition, ingrained muscle memory seeping into his subconscious and carrying him through an entire season before he woke jetlagged in an unfamiliar bed and spent the next hour trying to untangle dream from reality.  His senses were too attuned to the rink, to the lights and the chill and the sound of blades carving through the ice, so the dreams always felt far too real.

Now, though, he dreams about beaches and salt air, warm sunshine, the feel of Makkachin’s fur under his hands.  If he dreams about ice rinks then Yuuri is the one skating on them, alone in his practice gear or sparkling in the spotlight with a cheering audience all around, perfect and stunning and winning, every time.  Joy lighting up his face, every time.

Now if he dreams about skating Yuuri is with him, hands in his, on his arms, on his chest, around his shoulders when Victor lifts him off the ice and spins them around, close and warm, noses rubbing together.  There are always stars in Yuuri’s eyes in his dreams, softly glowing, warm like sunlight and kisses.  Victor wakes up in the morning and stares at the ceiling of his room at the onsen, scratching Makkachin’s ears, and wonders if Yuuri would want to try out some ice dancing moves, just for fun.

Victor dreams about sunlight, in this case, without any real story coalescing, shadowy figures dancing through the gold haze and the heavy warmth of summer.  It might have been another beach dream, or a pleasant childhood memory, or something else entirely, but Victor never finds out.  Suddenly the mattress jostles and Makkachin yelps and something heavy lands on his legs; Victor jerks up on his elbows, blinking in the dim light of his room, disoriented.

“Listen!” Yuuri’s voice is saying and he realizes it’s Yuuri who landed on him, straddling his legs, fumbling with a laptop and a set of earbuds.  Victor blinks, bleary and still halfway stuck in the warm hazy dream and by contrast Yuuri looks energized, eyes wide and excited.  Before Victor can comprehend whatever is running on the laptop Yuuri plugs the headphones into his ears and what Victor hears makes all of his thoughts and anything he might have said come to an abrupt halt.

It’s the same composer as the piece Yuuri had brought him before; the style of music is very similar but something else has changed, drastically and wonderfully.  He can feel the program rising up out of the notes, can imagine Yuuri skating to it, moving as though every sound is emanating directly from him.  The music is Yuuri—anxious and hopeful at first, interspersed with pangs of self-doubt, melting into a rush of passion and determination.  Near the middle the music quiets into a soft ache, longing and uncertain before dragging itself back up, slowly but steadily, into a triumphant finale that ends on a quiet, clear ringing note that tugs at the center of Victor’s chest, sweet and sincere.

Victor listens as the track loops five times, mentally constructing the program elements, lost in the vision of Yuuri dancing in his head.  When he finally pulls out the earbuds to say, “This is incredible; just what did you change the theme to?” Yuuri is no longer sitting on his thighs and has relocated to his spare pillow, curled up with Makkachin resettled against his back, both of them sound asleep.

He closes the laptop and carefully sets it aside on the nightstand, then gently pulls off the glasses sitting askew on Yuuri’s nose, folds them and sets them on top, next to the coiled headphones.  Tugging the blankets down from where they’re trapped under Yuuri’s body is more difficult, and Victor has to coil one arm under Yuuri’s hip to lift him up, chuckling at Yuuri’s sleepy protests.  “Come on, Sleeping Beauty, you don’t want to catch cold from being outside the covers.”

Yuuri makes a huffing noise and rolls closer to Victor’s chest, cuddling up under his chin.  The arm draped around Victor’s waist is heavy, and he smells like fruity shampoo and bath water from soaking in the onsen earlier.  It’s a familiar smell, now, one that Victor can appreciate to his heart’s content, rubbing his nose against Yuuri’s thick silky hair and breathing him in.

They’re not lovers, as of yet.  Their relationship isn’t fully defined in that way after the understanding they reached that day on the beach, but Yuuri is progressively more comfortable with him, more comfortable talking to him and opening up to him and both accepting and initiating this kind of affectionate intimacy.  Victor is progressively better at leaving him space, trying to follow Yuuri’s moods and feelings, trying not to be frustrated by the trains of thought that Yuuri will never voice.  Victor will probably never not be aggressively clingy and Yuuri will probably never not be maddeningly self-contained but they both seem to know that and accept it.

It’s not the relationship Victor expected, or the one he thought he wanted when he dropped his entire life and jumped on a plane to Japan.

It’s so, so much better than anything he could have imagined.

He thinks Yuuri is asleep, but after several long quiet minutes of breathing and rubbing his thumb over Yuuri’s shoulder he speaks, breath puffing warm against Victor’s chest.  “The music is good, right?”

Victor hums.  “I can’t wait to see you perform it.”

Yuuri’s expression is hidden, but there’s something pleased in his voice when he speaks again.  “You say that more like you’re a fan than a coach.”

“I am a fan.  Your biggest fan.”

Yuuri chuckles in a way that’s nervous on too many levels for Victor to unpack.  “I guess you have to be.”

“I want to be,” Victor corrects, tugging Yuuri’s chin up until he can see his eyes, glinting just a bit in the light from the window.  “You said you wanted me to just be Victor, right?  Well, Victor thinks you’re an amazing skater and can’t wait to see your new free program.”

Yuuri always kisses him like he can’t quite believe this is happening; sometimes shy, sometimes heated and demanding, but always with this sense of quiet amazement.  Victor lets it happen with a similar kind of disbelief, that after all these months since December and the banquet he still hasn’t stopped falling in love with Yuuri Katsuki, that there doesn’t seem to be any bottom for him to hit and he’ll just continue falling forever.

Yuuri draws back with a hot exhale that makes Victor’s stomach flip, acutely aware of all the places Yuuri’s body is pressed against his.  He wants to taste Yuuri’s skin, fit their bodies together just right, roll his hips until Yuuri moans and he can feel the vibration against his lips.  The want is a bright light in the back of his mind, and he lets it seep out into the hand pressing against Yuuri’s back, the way he nuzzles Yuuri’s cheek, but he’s still waiting for Yuuri to want back.  To say yes and more.  He hasn’t yet, but the moment is on its way.  Victor can feel it getting closer each time this happens, and he’s surprised to find that he doesn’t mind waiting.  That he’s excited to wait, to let the anticipation and desire stretch out deliciously, give in slowly and completely.

“I don’t regret anything,” Victor murmurs, because Yuuri seems to be hesitating, on the verge of asking something else.  “You know that, right?”

Yuuri doesn’t look convinced, eyes shifting in the dim light, soft lips pressed together in a flat line.  “Are you sure?  That’s a lot of things to not regret.  Don’t take them too lightly.”

Victor laughs, more pleased that Yuuri has the confidence to scold him than anything.  “You’re right, but I’m not saying that because I take them lightly.”  He traces his fingers down the curve of Yuuri’s cheek and back to card through his hair, admiring how the light from the window glimmers over the strands.  Yuuri probably doesn’t believe it right now, but he’s worth everything Victor gave up for him, ten times over.  There’s no gold medal in the world now that will satisfy him after kissing Yuuri Katsuki.

Yuuri’s eyebrows draw together and Victor can’t tell yet whether he’s confused or upset, so he kisses the furrow above Yuuri’s nose and then his lips again, just because he can.  “Don’t worry about it.  Just know that there’s nowhere else I want to be, right now.”

He’s still not sure whether Yuuri is convinced, but his expression smooths out and he cuddles back close against Victor’s chest, nose pressed against the hollow of his throat.  “Me too,” Yuuri mumbles, so softly Victor isn’t sure he was meant to hear it.  But he can’t stop the smile that tugs up his mouth, or the way his arms tighten around Yuuri, or how content he feels when Yuuri relaxes into a deep sleep wrapped up in and around Victor.

He thought once that Yuuri wanted Victor to save him, but Yuuri doesn’t need to be saved—or can’t be saved, at least not by anyone but himself.  The slump he fell into was a hole of his own making, one that he’s ascending from of his own will—Victor watches him dragging himself up every day at practice, one handhold at a time, eyes focused on the top, on the goal, clinging with everything he has even when doubts set in.  He’s a phenomenal athlete and a beautiful performer and he will be the best skater in the world; Victor refuses to settle for anything less.  Yuuri doesn’t deserve anything less.

What Yuuri needs isn’t salvation, it’s Victor—and it turns out, to his own surprise and delight, that Victor needs Yuuri, too.  Not as a pupil, not as a break, not as a one night stand or a god of love or a whirlwind romance or any of the other notions his imagination entertained since the banquet.

He just needs Yuuri, and everything that Yuuri is.