Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

The first few weeks of practice of the season are rough.

Nastya hasn’t been skating like a maniac as she normally would have on the off-season, because she’s been dealing with, well, becoming Nastya.

She’s trying to figure out how much of her life is safe to live as she wants – that is, as a girl—and what she needs to do to keep her identities separate.

She’s been spending inordinate amounts of time at Viktor and Yuuri’s place, if she’s honest. She loves her apartment, but she’s testing out how it feels to be around other people who know that she’s a girl.

Nastya is there now, sitting on their couch, waiting for Otabek to connect for a Skype call.

Their relationship has been confusing lately, too.

It’s been a month since Nastya came out to Otabek, and they agreed to try a long distance, but romantic, relationship. But Nastya doesn’t really get what’s different about their time together. When they were simply friends, they would Skype, text, snap, and gossip.

Now that they’re “dating”, they Skype, text, snap, and gossip.

Sure, sometimes they get a little sappy with the “I miss you”s and Nastya might have started a count down on her phone to the first meet of the season that they might get to see each other at, but other than that, it’s all the same.

Otabek has been more than supportive with Nastya’s transition, at least. Not that Nastya ever really thought he wouldn’t, but it must be at least a little challenging to suddenly change names, pronouns, and social perceptions of someone who was your best friend. And on top of that, Otabek has to pretend like he didn’t make all those changes when they’re in front of other people.

Nastya always waits to turn her video on when they Skype, just to be sure that no one is around by accident on Otabek’s end. (It’s not that she doesn’t trust him, it’s just that she’s paranoid.)

Speaking of Skype, Otabek is finally online.

Hey, his message reads. You ready?

Nastya replies by clicking the call button, and waits a couple rings before Otabek picks up.

“Hi Beka,” she says, smiling.

“Hi Nastya. How was practice today?”

Satisfied that there’s no one lurking in Otabek’s apartment where he lives alone, she turns on her video. “Practice was ass; I don’t want to talk about it,” she says.

“Ah, there you are,” Otabek says as her video finally loads. Viktor and Yuuri have really got to spring for better internet, Nastya thinks. Sure, she could be at home and have much faster connection speeds, but then she wouldn’t get a free meal.

“Sorry practice was ass,” Otabek continues. “Want to hear what I did today? It’s very exciting, I assure you.”

“Something tells me it was boring as fuck,” Nastya laughs.

“Conditioning. All day,” he whines. “Coach didn’t even let me on the ice. Said I had to earn it.”

“Ouch, what’d you do to get knocked down like that?”

“Who says I did anything?” Otabek defends.

Nastya just gives him a withering look.

“Okay, so yesterday’s practice was… bad. I was trying out some new choreo and Coach basically told me it was garbage and to redo it. I should’ve just let him choreograph everything…”

“No, you can do this!” Nastya insists. “Did he give you specific feedback, or just a general pan? Because actual feedback is something you can work with.”

“Oh, he was very specific about what he didn’t like.”

“Well then use that. Don’t let it knock you down, fight back! Mix things up!”

“I love when you get all fired up,” Otabek says distractedly.

“Not the point, Beka.”

“I know. It’s just, I spent most of my off-season coming up with that, and he hates it! I’m never going to medal like this.”

“That’s why you just have to keep pushing. Try again. Take his critiques to heart, find a new path.”

“A new path… I like that,” Otabek mumbles. “That actually gave me an idea. Hang on, I’m gonna write it down so I don’t forget.”

“Sure,” Nastya says, and leans back into the couch while Otabek scribbles something on scratch paper.

“So,” Otabek says when he’s done, “how are Viktor and Yuuri?”

“Eh, same old same old. Disgustingly married, horrifically in love.”

“Jealousy is a bad look on you, Nastya.”

“I’m not jealous of their gross relationship!”

Otabek crosses his arms, lets the silence draw out.

“You don’t get it, they’re all over each other. They have sex like, twice a day. It’s insane.”

“They’re in love; you can’t fault them that. And besides, you have your own home you can go to if it’s really that bad.”

“But I… I need to spend time around people as myself, you know? Not just going to random coffee shops and talking to Yasha the barista about the latest midterm exam he’s failed.”

“Aww, you’re friends with Yasha the barista,” Otabek teases.

“He’s an idiot. An actual idiot: I don’t even know how he got into college.”

“Says the high school dropout.”

“Oi, I could’ve finished high school no problem. Or college. Just, not right now. Not when I have my career to think about.”

“Do you think you’ll go back to school when you retire?”

“What for? I’m never leaving the skating world,” Nastya says with a shrug.

“I dunno. Just, seems like school is one of those things that everyone does?”

“Meh. I think I’ve got enough going on in my life. I guess when I retire I’ll see what happens. If I need it, I’ll go back to school. Otherwise, I’m not going to do it just to say I did.”

“That’s fair I guess.”

Yuuri opens the front door of the apartment, carrying a couple bags of groceries.

“Oh, Nastya, you’re here,” Yuuri says pleasantly. He should probably just expect her at this point, though she isn’t normally here by herself.

But Viktor is out walking Makkachin, and Yuuri was grocery shopping, so whatever.

“Hey Katsudon,” she replies.

“Hello, Yuuri,” Otabek greets over the computer.

“Is that Otabek? Hello!” Yuuri calls, setting down the groceries and walking over to the couch to give a proper greeting to Otabek.

“Everything going well in Kazakhstan?” Yuuri asks.

“It’s early yet. I’ll let you know,” Otabek says seriously. “Please pass my greetings along to Viktor when he arrives, too.”

“Of course.”

Yuuri returns to the kitchen, and Nastya rolls her eyes at Otabek.

“I’ll let you get going, Nastya. I’m sure Yuuri would like a hand with dinner, and it’s late here,” Otabek says, stifling a yawn.

“If you were tired you could have just told me,” Nastya grumbles.

“Alright: I’m tired. Goodnight, Nastya. Men seni jaqsy köremin.”

“Wait, what’s that mean? You haven’t taught me that one.”

 Otabek just smiles and ends the call.

“Gah! Beka!” Nastya yells, though he can’t hear her anymore.

“Everything okay, Nastya?” Yuuri calls from the Kitchen.

“Beka said something in Kazakh and I don’t know what it means, and that look he gave me tells me it wasn’t good. I feel like I’ve been insulted or something.”

“I’m sure it wasn’t an insult,” Yuuri chides. “Want to come help me prepare dinner? I could use some help with the knife.”

Nastya smiles. She doesn’t really like cooking, but cutting stuff is okay, and she’s totally mooching anyway. The least she can do is be helpful.

By the time everything is ready for dinner, Viktor is back with Makkachin, and he sets the table.

“Lovely to have you join us again, Nastya-chan,” Viktor smiles.

“Why are you calling me ‘chan’?” Nastya grumbles.

“I’m practicing my Japanese! Don’t want it to get rusty just because we’re not living in Japan.”

“Calling me ‘chan’ is hardly helping you practice Japanese, baka. It’s tacky; cut it out.”

“Hai, hai!” Viktor says, and Nastya rolls her eyes again.

They sit down to eat, Viktor talking about the rink, Nastya growling quietly when he dares mention her performance today.

“I’m sure Nastya is doing her best,” Yuuri says when Viktor really starts to lay into her. The tone in his voice is clear enough, and Viktor mumbles an apology and talks about his walk with Makkachin instead.

After dinner, Viktor clears the dishes, and Yuuri and Nastya head to the living room with tea for everyone.

“Nastya, I’d like to ask you something about your skating,” Yuuri says carefully.

“Okay,” Nastya says warily.

“It’s just that a lot of the concerns Viktor seems to have with your skating today are the interpretation element. I’m just wondering if you’re doing okay balancing your, uh, identities with your skating.”

When Nastya says nothing, just stares into her teacup, Yuuri continues. “No one’s ever had a problem with male skaters channeling more feminine aspects for the sport. Viktor played with androgyny all the time as a younger man, and Yakov and Liliya basically told you to become a ballerina on ice, thinking of you as a boy. I don’t think it would be a bad idea if you were to let some of your natural femininity through.”

“But people are going to know and—”

“I really, really don’t think they will. And if you’re concerned about it, just make sure to pick a masculine costume. Trousers and a jacket or something. The juxtaposition could be beautiful.”

Viktor comes in, grabbing his own teacup and settling in next to his husband. “Yuuri is right, Nastya. And honestly, I don’t even really think of it as femininity or masculinity on the ice. You can, if that’s easier for you to conceptualize, but for me it’s about beauty pushing through strength. You look like you’re trying to muscle your way through your dance, when that’s not what it’s about. No matter your gender, you can be beautiful on the ice.”

Nastya worries her lip a little. “I guess. I mean, I know that, theoretically. It’s just now that I’m letting myself be a girl, but only in private, I just feel like it’s so obvious.”

“It’s only obvious because you know both sides, love,” Viktor says gently. “I promise you, no one we know suspects. You’re maybe even overdoing the whole toxic-masculinity thing, except for the misogyny part. And please don’t start that, even for show. I don’t want to see Mila eviscerate you.”

“I’m not going to be a misogynist just to cover my gender!” Nastya exclaims. “What the fuck is wrong with you?”

Yuuri shoots Viktor a look, and Viktor closes his mouth.

“What I think Viktor means, is there’s no need to completely ignore who you really are, even when you’re in public. You can give little nods to it here and there without outing yourself.”

“Thank you, Yuuri. You’ve always had a better way with words than I do,” Viktor says, kissing Yuuri briefly on the cheek.

“I’ll… think about it,” Nastya concedes.

“Good,” Yuuri says. “Now, finish your tea and get some sleep. You’ve got practice early tomorrow.”

“Yes mom,” Nastya groans.

“Love you, honey,” Yuuri laughs.

“Shut up.”

The next day at practice, Nastya tries to let her guard down just enough that she can get some more flow into her skating. She’s wary of Yakov’s keen eye, and Liliya’s stern glare isn’t helping either. She tries to channel her ballet, but when she feels her shoulders relax or her hips move too much, she immediately stiffens, fearing that she’s been discovered.

She flubs a jump, swears loud enough for the whole rink to pause for a second to stare, and picks herself up off the ice, all but flinging herself to the exit.

“I’m taking a break,” she yells at Yakov.

He comes over to where she’s sitting on a bench, angrily drinking water.

“Yuri, what’s going on with you?” Yakov demands. “This whole attitude, it’s just not like you. It’s like you’re fifteen again, and you’ve forgotten all your training.”

“I’m working on it,” Nastya growls.

Yakov hesitates, but then asks: “Is there anything I can do to help you get back to where you should be?”

“No,” Nastya grunts.

Yakov raises an eyebrow.

“If you don’t shape up soon, I’m siccing Viktor on you,” he warns.

Actually, that’s not a bad idea, Nastya thinks. She doesn’t reply to Yakov, just gets up and goes over to where Viktor is watching Yuuri.

“Watch that speed, Yuuri!” Viktor calls out.

“Viktor,” Nastya says.

“Ah, Yurio, what can I do for you?” Viktor says pleasantly.

They’re in public, so of course Viktor calls her Yurio. She still scrunches her face at it. “I still suck. I can’t… let go enough to be more—” she drops her voice low – “feminine, when I’m out there.”

“I noticed you were still very stiff and aggressive,” Viktor notes, “but this isn’t going to be easy. It won’t happen overnight. Just try to take it one move at a time; perhaps pick one step in particular that you’re going to make your ‘feminine’ moment. Don’t try to do it all at once.”

That is surprisingly good advice, Nastya thinks.

“Hmm,” she says, but she means thank you.

“What if you found a quiet space off ice to practice by yourself first? Loosen up a little, then try again on the ice.”

“Sure,” Nastya agrees.

“I can grab Yuuri in a moment if you’d like his help, too.”

“No, I’ll be alright. I’m gonna… go. Find somewhere quiet, like you said,” Nastya says, and leaves Viktor.

She wanders to the conditioning studio, but Georgi is there, even though he’s retired by now.

“Oi, get out,” Nastya says.

“You don’t own this room, Yuri,” Georgi scoffs.

“Yeah well, you’re not competing anymore, geezer, so get lost.”

“I’m giving you ten minutes, because it’s my break time,” Georgi says after a moment.

She’ll take it.

“Fifteen,” she bites, just to be petty.

Once Georgi clears out, Nastya rolls her shoulders and does a few simple stretches even though she’s already warmed up.

It’s hard to do any ballet in these shoes, so she takes them off and goes in socks. They’re a bit too slippery, but it’s not worth going back to her bag and getting her ballet shoes when she’s only going to take a few minutes.

She does a few warm ups, shifting through the basic positions smoothly and easily, but she can’t help but feel like someone’s still watching.

She shakes her head, as if that will lose the sensation, and tries something a bit more complex: a few arabesques, a pirouette, some fouettés. Finally, feeling a little more comfortable, she launches into a step sequence from her routine.

It still feels bad, and from the glimpses she catches of herself in the mirror it’s not great, but it’s getting there.

She does it again, the same sequence, and picks one particular moment that she is going to let her “feminine energy” flow. It feels like when you’re trying to test if the water in the shower is too hot, and you just know from the steam that it’s going to burn you, but you stick your hand in anyway.

She dips into the energy quickly, probably too quickly to really achieve anything, but she adjusts, and does it again. She isolates the step sequence to just the moment she’s chosen, and she does it two, three, four more times, until it finally starts to glow.

She lets her hair down from the ballerina bun, feels it whip around her face and shoulders. She closes her eyes, does the sequence again, letting her femininity flow more freely now. She feels her hips shift differently, her shoulders more liquid, even the angle of her elbows and wrists softens.

It feels incredible.

“Much better, Yuratchka,” Liliya calls from the doorway.

The stiffness returns immediately, so fast it’s like whiplash.

Don’t let her know, don’t let her know, don’t let her know!

Nastya coughs, makes sure her voice is as low as she can make it. “How long have you been standing there?”

“Long enough. Where has that been on the ice, Yuri?” she asks. “Your form has been awful since the season kicked back up.”

“I know,” Nastya grumbles. “I’m working on it. Obviously.”

“Come back out to the ice and do what you just did,” she instructs.

Reluctantly, Nastya follows, scooping her hair back up into a bun.

“Leave it,” Liliya says.

“What?”

“Leave your hair down. It helped you, did it not? Leave it down.”

Is that… too much? Will she give herself away? Viktor had long hair for years, and no one ever doubted his gender, but he still had a masculine energy to him, a certain presence.

If Nastya is going to be dancing like she just did, surely someone will notice?

As if he read her mind, Yuuri skates over to her when she gets back on the ice.

“Nastya,” he whispers. “You look like you’re panicking. Take a deep breath.”

Nastya follows Yuuri’s lead, and breathes with him.

“Good,” Yuuri says. “Can you talk to me?”

“Liliya caught me practicing in the conditioning room,” Nastya says quietly. “She saw me… being me.”

“I know you’re really worried about it, but for those who don’t know any better, you don’t look so different that you can tell,” Yuuri assures. “She just thought you were dancing. You’re safe, okay?”

Yuuri holds Nastya’s shoulders and looks directly into her eyes. “You’re safe, your secret is safe, and you’re going to be okay,” he continues.

“I’m safe, and no one knows,” Nastya whispers.

“Yes,” Yuuri confirms. “Do you think you can show me how you were dancing? Just for me. There’s no one else here, okay? Just you and me.”

Nastya runs a hand through her hair, fingers snagging on a tangle. “I… I can try.”

“That’s all I ask,” Yuuri says gently. “Whenever you’re ready.”

Nastya skates away a little to give herself space, and begins the step sequence. She keeps her eyes closed, because it’s easier to pretend that Yakov isn’t there, that Mila isn’t in the corner watching casually as she takes a breather, that the new skater Yakov took on this year, Ivan maybe?, isn’t biffing his triple flip again.

She doesn’t feel quite as free as she had in the studio, but it’s close. She tries it one more time, to see if she can let go just a little more, but the more she tries, the more aware of everyone around she is.

The wall comes back up, and she shakes her head. “Dammit,” she curses.

“That was much better,” Yuuri says, skating back over to join her. “I know it was hard, but you did it. Your skating looked so much freer and more expressive. Remember, men can have emotions, too. Being expressive and free doesn’t automatically mean everyone will think you’re a woman.”

“I feel so… naked,” Nastya whispers.

“Yuri!” Yakov yells. “Come here, please.”

“I can imagine,” Yuuri says, smiling softly. “But you looked great, and I think Yakov liked it too. Go talk to him; I promise he won’t think you’re a girl just because of that. You’re safe.”

Nastya nods and skates over to her coach.

“That was three hundred percent better,” Yakov exclaims. “Where has that been? More of that, more of that expression! Your presentation scores have always been your downfall. I want more of whatever you just did. Channel that. Run through the whole thing, please.”

Nastya doesn’t think there’s a chance in hell that she’ll be able to keep that up the whole routine, but it’s a start.

She runs through the routine, and while it’s by no means perfect, even she can tell that it’s better, warmer, more fluid. Yakov has her repeat a few sections before giving her a water break.

While she stands off to the side, Mila steps up to run through her free skate.

Nastya watches intently. How much of the way Mila moves on the ice is because she’s female? How much of it is uniquely feminine, and how much is just the nature of good ice skating?

She watches the way Mila’s wrists extend, the careful pose of her neck. In her corner, Nastya tries to copy the way Mila looks. She’s not sure if she’s achieving it, but it feels like it might be close.

Mila’s jumps even look feminine, Nastya thinks. How does she do that?

Nastya continues watching, adjusting her own posture as she watches Mila’s spine, the powerful push of her legs across the ice, the graceful arch of her arms.

When Mila finishes her routine, Nastya is suddenly aware of other people possibly watching her and she looks around frantically.

Luckily, Yakov was watching Mila attentively, and Viktor is watching Yuuri, and Ivan is doing fuck knows what over on his end of the rink, so she thinks she’s safe.

The rest of practice that day is spent trying desperately to allow Yuri to be feminine, without Nastya outing herself. It shouldn’t be this hard, but it’s emotionally draining and when Yakov finally dismisses her, she feels about ready to cry from relief.

She hurries off the ice, hurries home, and calls Otabek.

“Hey, beautiful,” he greets when he picks up the phone. “How’s my favorite girl?”

“God, today was horrible,” she sighs, but there’s a warmth in her chest at hearing from her boyfriend (and she’ll kill anyone who says this, but she loves the pet names Otabek gives her).

“What happened?”

Nastya tells him what happened at practice, and she’s disgusted to find that she’s crying about it.

“I know that this is the right thing, to not come out yet, but god, it’s so hard, Beka,” she sniffles.

“I’m sure it’s difficult, but you’re so strong, Nastya, and if you believe this is the right thing, then you just have to power through it. I do think Yuuri is right, though. No one is going to automatically know you’re a girl just because you have expression in your skating. Look at Christophe Giacometti,” Otabek suggests. “He’s very expressive, but the audience doesn’t ever doubt that he’s masculine. They won’t doubt you, either, if you don’t want them to.”

“Yeah, well Chris also has short hair and broad shoulders, so he can get away with that shit,” Nastya grumbles.

“We could give you shoulder pads in your costumes,” Otabek laughs.

“Oh my god.”

“And you could start wearing a wig and tell everyone you chopped your hair off,” Otabek continues.

“Stop,” Nastya laughs.

“Then you’d look just like Chris; problem solved, yeah?”

“Except then I’d look like Chris,” Nastya laughs again.

“Ah, yeah, I’m not a fan of that. Okay, you’ll just be you then.”

“But which me?” Nastya asks.

“Whichever version you feel best presenting to the world,” Otabek says more solemnly. “You don’t have to come out until you’re ready, and until that point all you can do is be strong. And Nastya, you’re the strongest person I know.”

 “Thanks, Beka,” Nastya says, not knowing what else to say.

They chat a few more minutes until they realise how late it’s gotten, and they wish each other goodnight. 

Otabek sends her a text, a Kazakh phrase that she recognizes as whatever he said at the end of their Skype call last time. Men seni jaqsy köremin.

She sends back a string of question marks in reply, but he never answers.

The next week at practice is more of the same: Nastya skates like garbage unless she is completely focused on remaining calm and relaxed and fluid. She watches Mila more, trying to copy the easy grace she seems to exude on the ice.

Even when they’re taking a lunch break, Nastya finds herself watching Mila’s posture and mannerisms, and imagines herself wearing a cute skirt with leggings like Mila gets to for practice.

Sometimes, she has to stop and reign in the jealousy that burns through her when she thinks about how lucky Mila was to be born a girl. For anyone to be born the gender they want to be, really. This double life is hard, and it’s getting harder by the day.

Nastya stands by her choice to remain in the closet, as it were, for the sake of her career as a men’s figure skating champion, but she can’t help but entertain fantasies of saying “fuck it” and coming out in a blaze of social media blasts.

They’re about three weeks into the season, and Mila and Nastya are doing their cool downs. Nastya is mimicking Mila again, and she’s so tired she doesn’t even realise how overt she’s being about it.

Mila skids to a stop. “Alright, why are you copying me, Yuri?”

Nastya stops, too. “What? I’m not copying you,” she stutters.

“Sure, you’re just doing the exact same thing as me,” Mila says, crossing her arms. “What’s going on with you?”

“Nothing,” Nastya says, trying to put as much bite as possible into it.

“You don’t scare me, little baby Ice Tiger,” Mila laughs. “Are you trying to make fun of me?”

“What? No.”

“Then why are you copying me? I’ve noticed it a couple of times, but I never seemed to catch you in the act.”

“I’m…” Nastya isn’t sure what else to say. Denial isn’t working. Partial truth, perhaps? “Yakov wants me to be more fluid, and uh, you’re a really graceful skater. I mean, your presentation scores are always high. So, I thought I’d watch you.”

“Yuuri gets good presentation scores too, but you’re not copying him.”

“Just trying to get some new input.”

“Uh huh,” Mila says, not entirely buying it, but Nastya thinks she might drop it.

“I’ll stop if it’s really bothering you,” Nastya grumbles.

“Do you have to do it off the ice, too?”

“I said I’ll stop if you don’t want me to,” Nastya repeats.

“Just… it’s weird off the ice. You don’t need to copy me in real life, too.”

“Fine.”

“Alright.”

They finish their workout in silence.

Not even a week later, Nastya is doing warm up stretches next to the ice, where Mila is practicing spins.

Nastya notes that even her facial expression plays into her performance; she’s seen Yuuri do this, too, so she decides to practice that.

She makes a few faces while she stretches, but soon realizes that she probably looks like an idiot. She rummages around her bag and finds a compact mirror, and opens it up.

She frowns back at her reflection, the strict pull of her hair emphasizing her strong brow and sharp jaw. She wishes she were softer, rounder. She pinches and pulls at her face. If she had her makeup on, she could contour away some of the harsher lines.

Could she get away with wearing makeup to practice? Would people notice the change? Could she explain it away? Probably not. Best to just deal with it.

 “Hey Beauty Queen,” Mila taunts from the ice. “You gonna actually skate or just look at yourself all day?”

“Fuck off, Mila,” Nastya growls.

“I could always do your makeup again, like that one time for your birthday. Make you look real pretty,” she cackles.

“I can do my own makeup, baba,” Nastya bites. As soon as it’s out of her mouth, though, she realizes her mistake.

Mila laughs. “You do your own makeup?”

“I meant if I needed to wear makeup, I would do it myself. You don’t need to be anywhere near my face.”

“Sure,” Mila says.

“Fuck off,” Nastya complains. She closes the mirror, though, and decides she’ll just have to practice her expressions at home.

A week later, with the first qualifiers for the Grand Prix Final just over a month away, Nastya is once again in the conditioning room, trying to find the strength to be herself in front of other people.

Her routine is still spotty; she can’t consistently maintain the energy through the whole of her free skate, though her short program is almost there.

Nastya takes a break to watch Mila land a monster triple axel, the joy clear on her face. She does a little dance on the ice to celebrate.

Nastya barely even realizes she’s copying her again until Mila is skating over.

“What are you doing?”

Nastya freezes. “Nothing.”

Denial didn’t work last time, and she doubts it will work this time, but it’s worth a shot.

“Look, haven’t you gotten enough material? Why are you still copying me?”

“I’ll stop,” Nastya says instead of answering the question.

“I just want to know why,” Mila presses. “You know how to be fluid and expressive, you’re a fucking ballerino, or whatever they call boys who do ballet. Why are you watching me? I’m more like, sassy and flirty.”

“Maybe that’s what I want to incorporate,” Nastya says.

“You? Flirty and feminine? Why would you want that in your routine?”

“I can do whatever I want.”

“What’s your theme this year? Drag queen?”

Too fucking far, Nastya thinks.

“Fuck you,” Nastya spits venomously. Sure, she told Mila to fuck off rather frequently, but there was always an edge of laughter to it, a joking quality. None of that was here.

Mila at least seems to realise that something in the air has shifted.

“Whoa hey, I’m just teasing,” she says, hands up trying to placate her rinkmate.

“Well it wasn’t fucking funny.”

“I’m sorry; I took things too far,” Mila says seriously.

“You’re damn right you did. I can be flirty and feminine if I goddamn want to.” Nastya’s gaze is a thousand miles away, trying to ignore the fact that there are tears welling up in her eyes.

Mila fumbles for a moment, before she reaches out to Nastya. “Yeah, um, of course you can. You just usually aren’t. I mean, you kind of skate like you want to murder someone sometimes. But, if… If copying me helps, then go for it. I won’t tease you.”

Nastya glares at Mila, but doesn’t say anything.

“Just don’t steal my routines,” Mila adds, trying to lighten the atmosphere again. She looks worried, though, and Nastya is terrified that she just colossally messed up.

“Why would I want to steal your shitty routines,” Nastya grumbles, more for the show of returning to their usual dynamic than anything.

“Right. Of course. My shitty, medal-winning routines,” Mila smiles. “Whatever you need to tell yourself, Yuri.”

Nastya lets herself cry when she tells Beka about it that night on Skype.

“She called me a fucking drag queen,” Nastya wails. “Am I that bad at being a girl? Or at hiding it? Or… fuck, I don’t even know which is worse.”

“Hey, you’re not a drag queen. She was out of line to say that, whether she knows or not,” Otabek tells her. “And you’re not bad at being a girl. You’re just not out, so people who don’t know about you are going to have different, erm, interpretations.”

“Which is just a nice way of saying that I’m bad at this.”

“No, you’re not. What you’re doing is really hard. You’re like a double agent, maintaining two overlapping identities. It’s not easy.”

“Why did she have to say that to me?” Nastya says, scrubbing furiously at the tears that just won’t stop falling.

“Maybe think of it this way: in front of Mila, you’re trying very hard to not be a girl, so really, shouldn’t it be a good thing that Mila doesn’t think you’re very feminine? That you’re maintaining your cover well?”

“I mean, I guess? But right now, I’m trying to be more feminine in my skating, to be more expressive and open, and she basically told me that I was doing it wrong. She thinks I skate like I’m trying to murder someone. I’m supposed to be graceful and girly!”

“Women can be murderers, too,” Otabek says, cracking a smile.

“Not in the mood for jokes, Beka,” Nastya sighs.

“Sorry, babe,” Otabek says. “What do you think would help you feel better? I’d be happy to reassure you how wonderful and amazing you are, and what a beautiful and graceful young woman you are. Or how about how much I love to look at that selfie you sent me last week of that sexy little dress you bought—”

“Beka!” Nastya exclaims, blushing.

“Yes, my love?”

“Gah! Stop it! Stop being so sweet and smooth and perfect all the time!”

“But that’s all part of my charm,” Otabek smiles.

“Yeah, you charming bastard.”

“Excuse you, I am legitimate offspring.”

“You’re ridiculous, is what you are.”

“Mmm.”

They just smile at each other for a moment, and Nastya’s chest aches to hug Otabek. She’s really starting to warm up to this whole actually dating thing, and not just their usual friendship.

They’ll see each other soon; they had drawn different competitions, but Yuuri is competing against Otabek at Skate America, and Nastya convinced Yakov to let her go to the competition under the guise of “scoping things out” and “finding inspiration” and most importantly, adjusting to the time zone for Skate Canada.

In the meantime, though, the wait is killing her. Long distance relationships are stupid.

“I don’t know what to do with Mila. I mean, she apologized, like she realized that she crossed a line, but I don’t know how to tell her exactly why it was a line she crossed without outing myself.”

“You don’t have to tell her then, if you don’t want to. She apologized. Do you think that’s enough? Do you feel comfortable around her?”

“Yeah.”

“Then I think you should try to move past it. She doesn’t need to know the exact reason why, just that she shouldn’t joke about the femininity issue around you. If she does it again, we can re-evaluate, but for now, I think you should forgive and forget.”

“I’ll try, I guess. Thank you, Beka. You always know what to say.”

“I do my best.”

“I know. And I just want to tell you how much that means to me. Like, you’re so important to me. I couldn’t do this without you.”

“I’ll always be there for you,” Otabek promises.

I love you, Nastya thinks.

It catches her a little off-guard, but the thought isn’t unpleasant.

No way in hell is she going to say it yet, though.

They say their goodnights, and end the call.

Nastya lies back on her bed and sighs.

“FUCK!” Nastya screams when she does one of the sloppiest step sequences she’s done since she was what, thirteen?

She’s wearing purple zebra striped leggings and a loose fitting, off the shoulder white t-shirt. Her hair is down, flying around her face obnoxiously.

She thought that she was at a point where the clothes, as daringly feminine as she’s willing to wear to the rink, would be helpful for getting into the mindset, but it’s just set her back ten steps.

Mila skates over.

“Little tip for being ‘flirty’ and ‘feminine’,” Mila laughs. “Screaming expletives? Not the best way to achieve either.”

“Shut up, Baba,” Nastya grumbles.

“I like the aesthetic you’re working today, though,” Mila adds. “You just need some like, smudgy black eyeliner.”

Nastya rolls her eyes. “Yeah, because makeup is what my step sequences need.”

“Hey, you never know. I think eyeliner is empowering,” Mila replies. “I have some in my bag if you change your mind.”

Nastya considers it. She really does. But wouldn’t it just make her feel even more exposed? Is her discomfort stemming from the fact that she’s only partially embracing the feminine side of things, and that she’s still trying to act like a guy?

She considers going over to Yuuri and talking with him about it; something about him has been really comforting and helpful over the past few weeks as Nastya has come into her feminine self.

But then she decides that she doesn’t want to have to keep running to Yuuri every time she doubts herself. She needs to be able to toughen up and deal with shit on her own sometimes, too. Just because she’s a girl doesn’t mean she has to be a whiny baby. She’s never been that way, and she refuses to start now.

She wishes she could take the rest of the day off. She’s feeling a little nauseous with the added scrutiny from Mila, who is now almost in-on Nastya’s true identity, but not enough that she’s actually helpful.

Instead of quitting for the rest of the day, Nastya decides that she can take a short break, at the least. Yakov is working with the newbie Ivan, so he’s distracted enough that he probably won’t notice Nastya’s absence if she’s quick enough.

She puts her guards on and steps off the ice, just wandering over to a bench and laying down on it, uncomfortable though it may be.

She closes her eyes and allows herself to daydream. She imagines Otabek is there, clad in his leather jacket and bike helmet, and he’s ready to whisk her away.

She’s wearing a light blue dress with silvery glitter details, her makeup matches perfectly, and her hair is done up in a crown braid, so it doesn’t get ruined on the bike ride.

She throws a leg over Otabek’s bike, clinging to his broad back and smiling, not a care in the world.

They drive through the city until they get to the outskirts, and Otabek takes them out onto the highway. They have no destination, it’s just the two of them and the open road.

Nastya throws her head back and laughs, deep breaths letting her take in the fresh air.

It’s a nice day dream.

It’s her ‘happy place’.

Viktor and Yuuri thought it would be a good idea for her to have a safe place to go to in her mind when she’s feeling overwhelmed. It’s how Yuuri said he often handles his anxiety, and she has to say, though she scoffed at the idea at first, she really does find it helpful.

When she feels her heart beat calm, she lets her eyes flutter back open. She squints against the fluorescent lights of the rink, and sits up from the uncomfortable metal of the bench.

Maybe she will take that eyeliner.

“Oi! Mila!” She calls out.

“Yes, my darling Yuri?” Mila smiles as she skates over to the boards.

“I’m using your eyeliner,” she tells her.

“Ha!” Mila cheers. “Let me go grab my guards and I’ll help you.”

“I can do it myself.”

Mila makes a confused face. “Sure, if you want to look like a raccoon or something.”

“No, seriously. You keep practicing. It’s just in the outside pocket, right?”

Okay, maybe Nastya has been watching Mila a little too much lately.

“Yeah. Um, good luck? If it looks shitty I’m gonna laugh at you,” Mila promises.

“Whatever, Baba.”

Nastya finds the eyeliner—charcoal instead of her usual black, but it’ll do—and heads off to the bathroom.

She goes into the men’s room, because she’s not planning on fully outing herself, thank you very much, and after a couple minutes, she’s satisfied with the look. She wishes she had mascara, since her lashes are blonde and barely visible, but the feel of the eyeliner is enough.

She does her hair in a quick braid, mostly annoyed by how it’s getting all tangled and messy from hanging loose, and leaves the bathroom.

She returns the eyeliner to Mila’s bag, and steps back out onto the ice.

“Yurio!” Viktor calls.

With an eyeroll, Nastya skates over to him.

He drops his voice low. “What’s with the eyeliner? Are you… You’re not coming out right now, are you?”

“No!” Nastya snaps. “I just… I feel like I was half-assing the femininity thing, and Mila offered the eyeliner. I think she might have been joking, but whatever. I feel better, so…”

“Alright. Just wanted to make sure everything was alright,” Viktor says sincerely.

A few years ago, Nastya would have called him a geezer and told him she didn’t need his stupid support, but Nastya is older and wiser and in uncharted territory, and honestly Viktor’s understanding and care has been invaluable.

She skates away, flipping off Mila as she passes her.

“Where did you learn to do fucking wings?” Mila calls after her, disbelieving.

“Suck it, Baba,” Nastya cackles, and launches into a step sequence that has just the right amount of hip movement and sass.

Nastya kind of hates how much power her outward appearance is holding over her skating performance; she’s worried that her super masculine outfit she’s picked is going to completely derail her. Maybe she can wear makeup and try for a David Bowie kind of look, she thinks.

That’s a problem for Future-Nastya.

Skate America is nine days away, where both Yuuri and Otabek are competing; Nastya will compete at Skate Canada against JJ shortly thereafter.

Her theme this year feels a little flimsy: Yakov had suggested “passion” (perhaps as a joke, seeing as he brought it up after a particularly colorful swearing streak) and Nastya had been so caught up in her own personal turmoil of self-discovery that she had simply agreed.

Now she was stuck with it, for the rest of the season.

Her outfits, which she had chosen with help from Yuuri and Viktor, were about as masculine as you could go in figure skating, aside from Pluschenko’s muscle-man outfit.

Her short program was a black vest with some silver detailing over a white dress shirt and black pants. Her free skate was a little more interesting, with a cropped black jacket featuring red swirling patterns, a red-to-black ombre shirt underneath, and black pants.

Masculine, not flowy, not her.

She has to learn how to make them work.

But first, she had to learn how to skate the programs cleanly and with the right interpretation elements, or the outfit wouldn’t matter. If she can’t even do the routines when she’s feeling the most herself, there’s no way she’ll be able to do it in those stuffy, boring outfits.

After practice that day, Mila approaches Nastya.

“Hey, can I ask you something?” Mila asks.

Nastya sees Yuuri eye them carefully as he walks into the locker room, but he doesn’t say anything.

Nastya looks at Mila expectantly.

“I mean this in a totally positive, simply curious way,” she says. “But why the sudden interest in like, girly stuff and makeup?”

The blood drains from Nastya’s face.

The word “fuck” is on repeat in her mind. She can’t even think of a good lie right now.

“Are you, um, are you gay? And trying to appeal more to guys? Because like, the right guy will like you as you are; you don’t have to dress differently or act differently, you know?”

Nastya is stunned. Mila thinks she’s gay? Well she’s not wrong in that Nastya likes boys, but that doesn’t make her gay, actually.

Except that Mila thinks she’s Yuri, so Yuri liking boys would indeed mean that Yuri is gay.

Fuck, this is complicated.

But she definitely just provided the perfect excuse, so Nastya will take it.

She nods.

“Shit, really? First guess?” Mila smiles. “Thanks for telling me. Really, I won’t tell anyone if you’re keeping it quiet.”

“Yeah, um, quiet is better. I’m not about to go declaring my love on the ice like Viktor and Katsudon did.”

“Why not? Your theme is ‘passion’, it would totally fit,” she teases.

“Not happening.”

“Well, um, is it a recent thing? For you to realise that you’re gay?”

Nastya goes for partial truth. “I’ve always kind of known in the back of my head, but… only recently started letting myself um, be myself. If that makes sense.”

Mila’s eyes are wide and she nods. “Absolutely. No, totally.”

They stand in silence for a moment too long, and Nastya fidgets. She turns to go into the locker room, but Mila’s hand darts out.

“Hey, you wanna go grab a drink or something? I’d… I’d really like to talk to someone about… all this.”

“I don’t really want to talk about it more,” Nastya says uneasily.

“No, um, about me? Like, you don’t have to, but I’d love a sounding board. For myself.”

Nastya is a little confused what Mila means, but maybe it’s a good idea to hang out with Mila. She wouldn’t say they’re not friends, but Mila has always been more like an older sister than a friend to Nastya.

In any case, all of Nastya’s other friends are men; having a girl friend could be a very, very good idea.

“Yeah, okay,” Nastya says. “Meet me in ten?”

“Ten minutes? You think I can shower and get ready in ten minutes? Ugh, you’re such a man. Even with all that hair! Give me like, twenty-five.”

Nastya smiles. “Alright. Twenty-five.”

Once they’re both clean and ready to go, Mila links arms with Nastya and leads her to a nearby bar. It’s a fairly casual spot, the music isn’t too loud, and the drinks are a reasonable price.

They grab drinks and head to a booth.

After a long sip of her vodka cranberry, Nastya clears her throat.

“So…”

“Straight boys are awful,” Mila whines.

A laugh erupts from Nastya’s chest. “Obviously.”

“Why do I keep dating straight boys?”

“Because you’re straight?”

“Oh, honey,” Mila says, putting her hand over Nastya’s on the table. “Are you not aware of my torrid affair with Sara Crispino?”

“Your what.”

“Yeah, we kind of… hook up. At like, every competition we’re both at.”

“Damn, Mila,” Nastya says, impressed. “I honestly had no idea. How did you get past her creepy thing with her brother though?”

“Honestly, it was a little weird at first, but she’s mostly grown out of it. Mickey is still kind of a moron, but I’m not a dude, so he doesn’t really see me as a threat.”

“Does he know you’re sleeping with his sister, despite not being a dude?” Nastya smirks.

“Hah, um, no. And that’s honestly for the best.”

“Definitely.”

“So, if you’ve got something going on with Sara, why are you still dating straight boys? Why are you dating at all?”

“Sara isn’t interested in long distance,” Mila grumbles.

“I can’t say I entirely blame her. I was skeptical myself, but it’s… I mean, that’s what Skype is for, right?”

“Yuri Plisetsky do you have a long-distance boyfriend?!” Mila shrieks.

Shit. This was not part of the plan. Otabek is super private; and they had both agreed that they would keep it private until Nastya was ready to come out, to spare both of them coming out twice.

Okay, she can recover. She’ll say yes, that it’s private, and she’ll just have to be very, very strong and resist Mila’s sure to follow insistence that Nastya tell her who her boyfriend is.

“Yes, but it’s… I’m not out, obviously, so we’re keeping it private.”

“Who is he? What’s his name? Show me pictures!!”

“Not happening,” Nastya says, drinking her cocktail.

“Yuri you tell me this instant,” she squeals.

“No! We’re here for you and your fuckboy problems, remember?”

“But that was before I knew you had a boyfriend! Spill! What’s he like? Where’s he live? I need to know, Yuri!”

 “He’s a boy. He lives far from here. He’s very nice. Now, back to—”

“Yuri,” Mila whines. “Please! I’ll be good! I won’t stalk him on social media! I need to know that he’s good enough for you!”

“You’re not actually my sister, so your opinion doesn’t actually matter. I like him, and that’s what counts.”

“I have to protect you from fuckboys, Yuri!”

Nastya rolls her eyes. “I promise, he’s not a fuckboy.”

“But how do you know,” Mila insists.

“Trust me. I know. Viktor and Yuuri like him. That should be good enough for you.”

“Wait, why did they get to meet him, but you won’t even show me a picture? Unfair, Yuri!”

“Life’s unfair, Baba.”

“So rude to your sister,” Mila sniffles. She’s faking it, but Nastya still feels a little bad.

She sends off a quick text to Otabek, telling him what happened with Mila, and is he comfortable telling her that they’re together?

Nastya herself isn’t a hundred percent certain she wants to tell Mila, but she’s definitely not doing it without Otabek’s consent.

“We’re here to talk about you, dumbass. So talk,” Nastya says gruffly.

“Fine, but don’t think I’m giving up on finding your boyfriend.”

 “Ugh.” Nastya tries to kick Mila’s leg under the table, but she can’t find it.

“Okay, so I broke up with that guy, Sergei, and it just made me wonder like, what am I doing with these boys?”

“Of the ones I’ve met, they’ve all been jackasses, so I really have no idea.”

“I mean like, I don’t really enjoy their company, I feel like I have to pretend to think they’re funny or interesting.”

“Why bother dating them if you don’t even like them?”

“They’re hot.”

“That’s not a reason to date someone. That’s a reason to sleep with them.”

“And between you and me, the sex is only so-so.”

“Didn’t need to know.”

“Ugh, Yuri, what do I do?”

Nastya snorts. “Uh, stop dating fuckboys that you think have the personality of a dinner napkin? It won’t kill you to be single for a little while. You don’t have to be with someone all the time.”

“But I like being in a relationship. I like the emotional support, the physical comfort…”

“Okay, but are you even getting emotional support from these douchebags?”

“No…”

“Then wouldn’t it be better to just be single? Don’t you have like, regular friends for emotional support?”

“I have a couple of friends I made back in juniors, but we’re not that close. Sara’s the closest friend I have, and she’s all the way in Italy.”

“She doesn’t have to be right next to you to be emotionally supportive. Otabek is my best friend, and he lives in fucking Kazakhstan. I get plenty of emotional support from him without him being here.”

Mila sighs. “Yeah, you’re right. I just… I don’t know how to be single. I’ve been in a relationship for most of my life since age sixteen.”

“Well then maybe take some time to figure that out,” Nastya suggests. “Katsudon didn’t date anyone until Viktor. It can clearly be done.”

“And you didn’t date anyone until your mystery boyfriend,” Mila teases. “C’mon, give me a name. Something.”

“No.”

“Yuri,” Mila whines.

“Mila,” Nastya whines right back. Her phone buzzes with a text from Otabek that just says call me? “Hang on, I gotta make a quick phone call.”

“Fine, I’m getting another drink,” Mila says.

Nastya steps outside the bar and dials her boyfriend.

“Hey, babe,” he says when he picks up.

“Hey,” Nastya says.

“So your text was kind of confusing. Mila thinks you’re a gay man and somehow found out you’re seeing someone?”

“You know how I’ve been kind of experimenting around with being more feminine? Well she thought it was because I was trying to like, act gay or something. And then she was talking about her own relationship issues, and this is totally my fault, but I let slip that long-distance can be hard, and she was like ‘holy shit you have a boyfriend?’”

“Ah. And so you want to tell her about us?”

“I don’t know. I mean, she’s definitely going to be annoying if I don’t tell her. But like, that’s not a very good reason to tell her.”

“I agree. And last time we talked about telling people about our relationship, we had agreed that we wouldn’t say anything until after you were out.”

“I know.”

“Are you planning on coming out to Mila?” Otabek asks carefully. “Of course you can, if you feel comfortable. But I don’t want you do feel like you have to.”

“Yeah, you’re right. But like, wouldn’t it be kind of nice for me to have a girl friend? All my friends are dudes.”

“I think having a girl friend is great for you,” Otabek agrees. “But you can be friends with her even if you don’t want to come out to her yet. That’s still your decision.”

“I… I want to tell her. I trust her. She’s kind of like a sister to me, you know? And it’s weird if she thinks I’m a gay boy.”

“Alright. I support you, Nastya. I’ll always support you.”

“You’re amazing, Beka.”

I love you, Nastya thinks again; she can’t wait to kiss him and tell him that to his face.

“And as long as she agrees to keep our relationship quiet, you can tell her. Obviously if you’re trusting her with your gender identity, she can handle not talking about us publicly, either.”

“Yeah. I trust her. I think it’ll be okay. I’ll tell you how it goes, alright?”

“Alright. Just shoot me a text, because I’m going to sleep. Early practice tomorrow,” Otabek says.

“Sleep well. Tätti tüster kör,” Nastya says. Sweet dreams. Her accent is getting better, but she can still hear Otabek laugh a little.

“Thanks, Nastya.”

They hang up, and Nastya heads back inside.

Mila is back at their booth, but she’s talking to someone.

A guy in a backward snapback.

Is she kidding?

“Oi! Baba! Who’s this fuckboy?” Nastya asks harshly.

“You got a problem, bro?” Mr Fuckboy asks.

Dear god, he just called me ‘bro’. Nastya wants to face-palm, but just barely resists the urge.

“You were taking so long, Yuri, and Pasha here bought me a drink,” Mila giggles.

“Well thanks, Pavel, but you’re no longer needed here.”

“Aww, Yuri, don’t be a party pooper,” Mila whines.

“You were literally just complaining about how shitty guys are. Step away from the douche-bro, Baba.”

“I’m not a douche-bro,” Pavel complains.

Nastya rolls her eyes. “Sure you’re not. Look, we’re having a friends-only talk here, okay? So please leave.”

“Aww, Yuri, we’re friends?” Mila grins.

“Unfortunately,” Nastya grumbles.

“Okay, Pasha. Let me give you my number, and maybe we can meet up sometime, yeah?”

“Sure thing, babe,” Pavel says.

Nastya grimaces. Sure, Otabek called her ‘babe’, but they were actually in a relationship. This dude has known Mila for at most five minutes. It was a little creepy.

Pavel takes his leave once he has Mila’s number, and Nastya just stares at Mila with her arms crossed and a disapproving frown.

Mila doesn’t seem to see the problem. “What? He was cute! He bought me a drink!”

“Yeah, and then you flirted with him and gave him your number. Was he actually that interesting or are you just thirsty?”

“I’m not gonna date him,” Mila tries.

Nastya isn’t buying it. “Sure. Whatever. And here I was gonna tell you about my boyfriend, but clearly you’re not listening to anything I have to say.”

“WHAT?!” Mila screeches. “No no no no!! Tell me, tell me, tell me! Please, I’ll be good!”

“Finish your drink and let’s get out of here,” Nastya says, downing the rest of her own drink.

“Are you going to tell me?”

“Yes, but not here.”

“Eeee!” Mila squeals, and she chugs down the rest of her drink.

They head out of the bar, and Nastya tries to decide where they should go. Mila lives around here, she thinks, and that’s as good a place as any.

“Can we go to your apartment?” Nastya asks. “I’d rather talk somewhere… not public.”

“Ooh, Yuri Plisetsky wants to go back to my place,” Mila teases.

“Oh fuck, are you drunk? We’re not talking about this if you’re drunk.”

“You’re the one who made me chug my long island!” Mila accuses. “Besides, I’m not drunk. Just slightly tipsy. Let me get some water and I’ll be fine, I promise.”

Nastya weighs her options and decides that she’d rather get it over with, now that the idea is there.

“Fine.”

After a ten-minute walk, they arrive at Mila’s place. She has a modest, one-bedroom apartment, sparsely decorated, unless you count the laundry hanging from every available surface in the apartment as “decoration”.

“It’s all clean, I promise,” she says, though she starts snatching pieces off the back of the couch, out of the doorways, and off the door handles. She disappears into the bedroom, presumably throwing them on her bed, and returns to the main room.

“You want anything to drink?” she asks, pouring herself a glass of water.

“Nah, I’m good.”

Mila downs the first glass, refills it, and joins Nastya on the couch.

“So,” Mila prompts. “Do I get a name?”

“I’ll tell you about my boyfriend, but first I need to tell you something else. And you need to remember that I am not out, and you can’t talk about any of this in public. There are only… three other people who know. So you really have to keep it quiet. Can you do that?”

Mila can clearly sense how serious Nastya is, because she sits up a little straighter. “Of course, Yuri. You have my word.”

“So the first thing, is uh…” Nastya stalls. She’s never willingly come out to someone; so far, it’s been out of necessity. Does she ease into it? Does she drop the bomb? “I’m… I’m not actually gay, as it were.”

“Are you bi?” Mila asks.

“I don’t think so?” Nastya says. Her sexuality has definitely played second fiddle to her gender identity. She knows she at least likes boys, because she likes Otabek, but she’s never really been attracted to much of anyone in the past.

“But you have a boyfriend,” Mila says, confused.

“I know, I’m getting there. Just… hang on. This is kind of difficult.”

Mila purses her lips, but waits patiently.

Nastya takes a deep breath, lets it out slowly. “Okay. Um. I’m trans.”

Mila raises her eyebrows, but doesn’t speak.

“I’m a girl, Mila,” Nastya presses on.

“Oh.”

“Is that… are we cool?”

“I’m just surprised, of course we’re cool,” Mila says quickly. “Shit, but you’re in men’s figure skating!”

“No kidding,” Nastya says.

“I just meant like, you’re not going to come out because of your career, right? That has to be so tough. How does that work, though? Like, would they ever allow you to compete in women’s?”

“I don’t think so. I can do quads, unlike cis women. I don’t think it would be fair.”

“Oh, Yuri, I’m sorry. That means… shit, you won’t be able to come out until you retire then! Oh, Yuri,” Mila says, and she all but throws herself across the couch to hug Nastya.

Suddenly, Mila gasps and pulls back from the hug. “Are you still Yuri? Oh gosh, this is going to get confusing, isn’t it?”

“If you can’t handle switching names, then don’t. I’d rather you don’t accidentally out me.”

“No, no, I can do it. I’ll practice. What’s your name?”

Nastya hesitates, but she knows Mila is serious. “Anastasiya.”

“Oh, it’s perfect! Can I call you Nastya then?”

“Yeah. That’s what the others call me.”

“Do I know the others? Like, can I talk about you as a girl in front of anyone else?”

“Viktor and Yuuri know,” Nastya says. “And Otabek.”

“And your boyfriend? Does he know?”

Nastya smiles. “Otabek is my boyfriend.”

“Ahh!” Mila exclaims. “That’s adorable. You’re dating your best friend. You little minx!”

“How does that make me a minx?” Nastya says, confused.

“I don’t know, I just felt like calling you a minx. Oh my gosh, this is… this is so much information to process. I mean, in a good way! But still. Ah! This is so cool though, I need more gal pals.”

“Me too,” Nastya laughs.

“I’m honored to be the first girl you told, and I promise to initiate you into womanhood,” Mila says solemnly, gripping Nastya by the shoulders.

“Thanks?”

“I’m serious. If you ever have questions about girl stuff, please come to me. I am a girl guru.”

“Alright, I’ll remember that.”

“Good! Because all those gay boys you’re friends with don’t know shit.”

“Otabek’s not a gay boy. Well, I mean, he’s bi, but…”

“But he’s not a girl. Mama Mila knows best.”

“You’re way too crazy to be ‘Mama’,” Nastya snorts. “More like unruly older sister.”

“Aww, you really see me as an older sister?” Mila says, clutching her chest dramatically.

Nastya is blushing, but she nods.

“Nastya! Oh my god, I could cry. This is perfect. I’ve always wanted a little sister! My older sister was a bitch to me, I just know I can do a better job than she did.”

“Thanks, Mila.”

 “OH! Wait right here,” Mila says before she sprints into the kitchen. Nastya cranes around to see what she’s doing, and finds Mila pulling some paper off her fridge.

Mila comes back to the couch, bouncing slightly on the cushions. “Okay, so I have this spa coupon, and I was kind of saving it because I didn’t know which of my sort-of friends to invite, but this is perfect! Will you go with me?”

“Uh, is it like, a girls only spa or something?”

“No, it’s just that most boys don’t like the spa. It’s all about skin care and massages and mani-pedis. Any gender can go to the spa. But it’s totally a girls’ thing. So what do you say?”

“Uh, sure?” Nastya says, not entirely sure what she just agreed to.

“Great! Ah, we should go when we come back from Skate Canada! It’d be the perfect way to relax after a nice win.”

“Sounds like a plan.”