Chapter Text
~~Yuuri: 12, Viktor: 16~~
At twelve years old, Yuuri’s been to enough parties that he’s surprised it took so long for his father to approve him attending the one Madame Lilia’s good friend throws every year. He doesn’t get to attend many balls outside of Akitsushima, the small island nation his family rules off the eastern coast of Japan, but he’s been allowed to more often as he’s gotten older. For the very first time, though, he’s here, and if he’s being honest it’s not as special as he thought it would be. There are very few people Yuuri’s age and a great many adults who all discuss very adult things that Yuuri doesn’t quite understand (and doesn’t have much interest in.) Regardless, he manages to look friendly as they make their way around the room, greeting the people they know.
“Your Majesty,” Yuuri hears a familiar voice say. He turns around, smiling when he sees Madame Lilia standing just a few feet away. His father turns as well, nodding as Madame Lilia gives a slight curtsy. She takes his father’s hand as he holds it out.
“A pleasure to see you again, Madame Baranovskaya,” Toshiya replies, giving a shake.
Madame Lilia looks down. “Your Royal Highness,” she says with the hint of a smile and a small bow.
“Madame Lilia,” Yuuri replies, holding his hand out first like he’s supposed to for anyone who isn't a King or Queen. He smiles, it's nice to see a friendly face. Shaking it, she returns his smile, before turning around. She says something in Russian, and an older boy in a nice suit with the longest, most beautiful starlight hair Yuuri’s ever seen peeks around her, smiling as he comes to stand in front of them. There’s a moment where she whispers in his ear and he nods, brushing a piece of hair out of his face.
“Vitya, this is His Royal Majesty, King Toshiya of Akitsushima, and his son, Crown Prince Yuuri.” Viktor bows a little too deeply and his hair cascades over his shoulder, coming to rest there as he straightens up, takes Toshiya’s offered hand and shakes. Yuuri offers his own, and when Viktor takes it it’s gentle. His fingers are very soft, and a little cold. Gripping like he was taught, Yuuri gives a firm shake and a nod, pleased when Viktor’s fingers tighten around his.
When he looks up, his father nods, smiling with approval. Proud, Yuuri puffs his chest up just a little bit, happy that he’s proving himself mature enough to be by his father’s side.
“Your Majesty, Your Highness,” Madame Lilia says, pulling Yuuri’s attention back to her, “This is Viktor Nikiforov. He’s currently training with my husband, Yakov, and recently won the Junior World Championships with the highest score in the history of the competition. He has a very promising career ahead of him.”
“World Championships of what?” Yuuri asks, a little too bluntly. The pretty boy, Viktor, looks at him.
“Figure skating!” He says in a strong Russian accent. He has the happiest heart-shaped smile and the bluest sparkling eyes Yuuri’s ever seen and Yuuri smiles shyly in return.
He makes a mental note to ask about watching some figure skating programs when they get home.
~*~
~~Yuuri: 14, Viktor: 18~~
At eighteen years old, Viktor has been to enough parties that he wonders why he still feels awkward sometimes, why he feels like no matter how deeply he buries himself under his ever-improving public persona, they can see straight through him.
Viktor smiles at Yakov as he disappears through the door. The night air is cool on his face, refreshing, and he comes to stand on the balcony, leaning against the railing. There are far fewer people out here, early fall in St Petersburg being reasonably cold, but he still feels their eyes on him. His recent gold at World’s has focused everyone’s attention in his direction, and the pressure is starting to settle itself on his shoulders as whispers spread . Shivering, only partially from the cold, he turns towards the nearest staircase.
He wanders the ornate gardens, shoving his hands into his suit pockets for what little warmth is available. Hair in a tightly-wound bun, the back of Viktor’s neck is cold in the breeze. Coming to stand near a fountain, sparkling in the moonlight, his eye is drawn by movement on a bench nearby. There’s a teen sitting there, he sees, in a tuxedo with a black cummerbund. It’s hard to pick out detail but it looks like he rubs his face, takes a deep breath as he stares at his shoes. One hand is clasped gently around a large silver ring. The boy looks to the side as Viktor draws close. His face is familiar but at the same time it’s hard to place him.
“May I sit?” he asks in English, and the teen shifts over without looking at him, gesturing at the bench. Viktor sits down (the stone is so cold, how long has this kid been out here?) and with a sigh, looks out across the gardens. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine,” is the quiet response. It’s almost convincing, if not for the slight tremor punctuating the end.
“There are a lot of people here, don’t you think?” Perhaps he dislikes crowds.
“It’s about what I expected,” the boy says. “These parties are always the same.”
So he’s used to this. He must be from an upper-class family. Viktor shifts uncomfortably. His family’s never been poor, but they’ve never been anything you wouldn’t classify as middle class, and despite doing this for a few years, Viktor still finds it difficult to navigate the fancier events. He’d much rather be at the rink, skating, or home, curled up with Makkachin reading a book. He wishes he could have brought Makkachin, she loves meeting new people and gives him an excuse to talk about something other than his career. The boy doesn’t insist on any sort of formality though, so Viktor does his best to pretend it’s any other conversation.
“You don’t like parties?”
“Not really,” he says. “You?”
“I like them well enough,” Viktor responds, “but they get boring after a while. All anyone talks about is my achievements and what they expect in the future.”
There’s a wry laugh from Viktor’s left. “Expectations suck,” he says. “That’s all anyone ever talks about with me, too. It’s like… they don’t want you to forget you’re supposed to do great things but it just makes it worse. I know what people expect of me, they don’t have to say it over and over and over again.”
“Yeah, exactly. I know how you feel. My name is Viktor!” Holding his hand out, Viktor does his best to flash a smile.
“For now… for now you can call me Yuuri,” the boy says, taking it and giving a firm shake.
The name rings another bell in Viktor’s mind, but the vague impressions he’s getting aren’t solid enough to go on. He looks back out at the gardens. “I wish I could have brought my dog,” he says.
“You have a dog?!” The teenager— Yuuri— sits up with a smile.
“I do! Her name is Makkachin and she’s two years old and she’s adorable!!!”
“Do you have any pictures?”
Viktor nods, pulling out his phone. Flipping it open, he navigates to photo storage, pulling up a picture of Makka taken just last week. He holds the phone out. Yuuri takes it happily, looking at the small screen. “She’s adorable!! A poodle?”
“Yep! Standard,” Viktor replies.
With a sigh, Yuuri hands the phone back. “I’ve always wanted a dog,” he says, “but it’s never been allowed.” The shakiness of his voice says he’s been out here for a while, and when Viktor looks closely, he can see him shivering.
“I could send you some pictures, if you wanted,” Viktor offers, scrolling through his photos. Most of them are blurry, but he finds another of Makka curled up on the foot of his bed and he smiles.
“I need to ask my dad if I can give you my email but that would be nice,” Yuuri responds. When Viktor holds the phone out again, he takes it. “She’s so pretty,” he says.
“I love her. She’s… not well-behaved,” Viktor laughs, taking the phone back and closing it smoothly, “but she’s sweet. Very loving.”
“Give her scratches for me?” This kid is absolutely adorable.
“I will!” Yuuri’s shivering harder now, and Viktor glances back at the mansion. “We should go inside,” he says, “since it’s so cold out here.”
With a noise of displeasure, Yuuri glances back as well. “I guess,” he replies. “My dad wanted to leave soon, anyway, and we’re supposed to go see a museum tomorrow or something.”
Standing, they take a moment to brush any potential dirt off their pants, looking at the fountain in front of them before sharing a smile. There’s a gasp, and Viktor looks over to see Yuuri staring at him. “You’re Viktor Nikiforov,” he says. “I didn’t recognize you in the shadow, my apologies.”
“Have we met before?” Guilt surfaces in the back of Viktor’s mind. If they haven’t met, then Yuuri’s just a fan and not someone he’s completelyforgotten about like an ass. Yakov’s right, he needs to figure out a method for remembering names and faces.
“It was a few years ago,” Yuuri replies, “and very brief. You don’t… recognize me?”
“Should I?” It’s out of Viktor’s mouth before he can think about what he’s about to say, and his eyes widen as Yuuri laughs, clear as a bell.
“Most people at these things do,” Yuuri says, still chuckling as they make their way back to the party.
“Well, who are you, then?”
Flashing him a grin, Yuuri’s eyes glint. “I’m not telling.” The kid’s cheeky, Viktor will give him that.
“Are you a figure skater?” Yuuri’s clearly not Russian, and Viktor doesn’t know why a foreign figure skater would be invited, but it’s the first question that came to mind.
“Nope,” Yuuri says, “but I did a little when I was a kid.”
“A celebrity?” Child actors aren’t completely unheard of at these parties, but Yuuri’d also mentioned his father was here, which begs the question; was it Yuuri that was invited, or his dad?
“No.” Yuuri grins, skipping forward a few steps before turning to walk backward. “Guess again!” He’s taking particular delight in his apparently newfound anonymity, and Viktor smiles.
“The child of a celebrity?”
“Not even cl—” Yuuri’s heel catches a paving stone and he falls backwards, landing flat on his back and staring at the stars, stunned. The metal ring he was holding is clutched to his chest, and as he sits up he takes a deep breath.
Viktor just leans over him. “You alright there?”
“Y-yeah,” Yuuri responds, holding his hand out expectantly. Viktor takes it, pulling him to his feet. “Don’t tell anyone?”
“That the random kid I met at the party fell on his ass in the middle of the gardens? No one’ll believe me, your secret’s safe.” Yuuri smiles at him.
“Thanks.”
“Are you an athlete at all?”
“I do some dance, but not professionally. That’s not why I’m here.”
They turn back towards the mansion. “So are you a child prodigy of some sort?”
“No,” Yuuri replies, spinning the metal ring in his hands. It’s too dark to get a good look, only the glimmer of moonlight letting Viktor know it’s metal at all.
“Friend of the family?” Viktor gestures at the mansion in front of them.
“My family knows them, yes,” Yuuri replies. The person throwing this affair is one of the higher-ups of St. Petersburg’s government, the kind of man who likes to gather his best and brightest in one place and show them off to the people he deems his peers. Viktor likes this party less now than he had the year before, and he hadn’t liked it at all, then.
“Is your dad some sort of government official?”
There’s a moment of hesitation. “Of a sort,” Yuuri replies, “yeah.” Viktor wracks his brain. There’re very few politicians at the party, mostly a few Russian officials, some delegates from a few friendly countries, and… the King of Akitsushima. Who, Viktor remembers now, has a son who’d be about fifteen at this point. “For now, you can call me Yuuri,” Yuuri had said, and it makes more sense if he usually goes by a title. Which, he does, now that Viktor remembers meeting him at his first big party, held by a good friend and former troupe mate of Lilia’s. Viktor grins.
“Don’t worry, I won’t tell Akitsushima’s government that their Crown Prince fell on his ass, either.”
Yuuri chokes, looking at Viktor with wide eyes. Viktor just smiles. “Your secret is safe, Yuuri,” he says quietly, glancing towards the balcony. They’re far enough away he supposes use of Yuuri’s name is still alright. “It was fun talking with you, and I’ll send those pictures if you still want them.”
“I do,” Yuuri says quietly as they approach the stairs. “I’ll ask my dad about giving you my email.” He stops before they head up, letting out a heavy sigh. “Thanks,” he whispers. He looks at the ring in his hands, and as he moves it towards his head, Viktor sees it for what it is; a silver circlet, intricate metalwork twisting around and through itself and it glimmers against the black of Yuuri’s hair once it’s in place.
A woman standing near the doors catches sight of Yuuri and hurriedly makes her way over. “Your Highness,” she says, “your father’s starting to worry. I was just coming out to look for you.”
“I’m fine, Minako-sensei,” he says.
“Where were you?” she asks, brushing his back off with her hand.
“I took a walk,” he replies, hanging his head and twisting his fingers in and around each other.
“Alone?” she asks sternly. “Your Highness, I thought—”
“I was with him, ma’am,” Viktor interjects. “He was at the bottom of the stairs, said he wasn’t supposed to go alone. I offered to… to go with him,” he says. Yuuri looks at him with wide eyes.
“Is this true?” Brushing Yuuri’s hair out of his face, Minako levels him with a look that rivals Lilia’s.
Nodding quickly, Yuuri flashes a small smile in Viktor’s direction. “Mr. Nikiforov was very nice about it, even when I tripped.”
“Thank you, then, for accompanying His Royal Highness,” she says, “I hope it wasn’t an inconvenience.”
“Not at all!” Viktor replies, grinning.
“Minako Okukawa,” she says, holding out her hand. “Tutor to His Royal Highness.”
“Viktor Nikiforov, figure skater.”
“Oh, I know,” she says, with a glance at the young prince. He must be a fan, having recognized Viktor by the dim light of the moon.
She smiles at Viktor, and as she guides Yuuri back into the building Viktor sees him turn around, flashing a smile of his own before waving and mouthing “thank you.”
Viktor only has time to nod in response and he doesn’t see Yuuri again, but just before he leaves for the night, a man in a suit approaches. Notepad in hand, he gives a shallow bow. “Mr. Nikiforov,” he says, “I am here to ask for your email on behalf of the Crown Prince of Akitsushima.”
Holding his hand out, Viktor takes the pad of paper when it’s offered, writing his name on top and his email underneath. He draws a heart-mouthed smiley face with long, flowing hair, and hands the notepad back to the man.
Two weeks later, an email pops into his inbox. “About those dog pictures…” the subject line reads, and Viktor grins to himself as he finishes putting his hair in a messy bun and clicks over to his Makkachin folder.