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“Vitya,” Yakov called out, his gruff voice echoing across the empty rink. “Vitya, stop.”
Victor screeched to a halt in the middle of a spin, ice spraying everywhere. “What?” he snapped.
“Time to go home. It’s late.”
Victor ran his fingers through his sweat-wet hair, a growl of frustration catching in his throat. “I’m not done,” he called back, piqued that his concentration had been interrupted. He was still having trouble with the transition from foot to foot in the middle of the spin, and he wanted to get it just right.
Yakov crossed his arms, staring daggers at him. Victor rolled his eyes, but he skated over to meet him at the boards.
“You do realize that practice ended three hours ago, don’t you?” Yakov grumbled.
“I want to keep working. You can go, I’ll lock up.” Victor took a sip of water from his bottle, then leaned down to wipe the ice shavings from his skates.
“If you keep going at this pace, you won’t get a fifth world title, let alone sixth or seventh.”
I don’t care.
The thought flitted through Victor’s head so quickly that it was like a whisper on the breeze, and then it was gone.
“You did very well at Nationals, and European Championships are still a long way out. It’s time to get some rest,” Yakov continued.
“I don’t need to rest,” Victor snapped. “I need to work.”
Yakov let out a long-suffering sigh.“You go through this every year on your birthday. You’re not that old, Vitya. You have several good years left if you take care of yourself, and don’t get injured.”
Victor clenched his teeth. “That’s not what this is.”
His coach’s eyes narrowed. Victor’s jaw tightened. They stared each other down for several seconds, neither of them blinking or backing down.
Eventually Yakov sighed, throwing his hands up. “You have your own keys. Just lock up when you’re finished.”
Victor turned his back and skated to the other end of the rink, starting his new step sequence over from the beginning.
The outer door of Yubileyny Sports Palace opened and closed with a clang, and then Victor was completely, utterly alone.
Two hours later, legs shaking with exhaustion, Victor finally had to admit defeat. He pulled his dark grey beanie down snugly over his ears, wrapping his scarf around his mouth and zipping up his heavy coat. He locked up the side door as promised and headed out into the subzero temperatures, gear bag slung over one shoulder.
Makka’s dog walker had texted to say that she’d fed him and let him out an hour ago, so Victor took the long way home, walking over the Tuchkov Bridge to Vasilyevsky Island. He wandered through the streets slowly, aimlessly, through the crowds of people on the sidewalk, keeping his eyes downcast. His hair was covered, so he hoped no one would spot him and ask for an autograph. Normally, he didn’t mind, but he just wasn’t in the mood to interact with fans today; he didn’t think he could even force his media smile.
As Victor neared the Neva River, he looked up at the winter-naked branches of trees lining the bank, reaching out like children for their mothers. His boots crunched on the gravel and ice of the sidewalk, his breath billowing upward in clouds toward the starless black sky.
Victor shoved his hands in his pockets. He knew he should go home, get some dinner and some rest, but for some reason the thought of going back his empty apartment made his chest clench and panic pump through his veins.
So instead he walked. He walked and walked.
Eventually, he heard a whispering melody on the wind, a Christmas song he hadn’t heard since childhood. Victor trudged in the direction of the music, until he saw lights in the distance.
Victor stepped out into a clearing, and huffed out a laugh. “Of course,” he muttered.
It was an outdoor skating rink, twinkle lights strung up along the railings, and old-fashioned Christmas music playing over the loudspeakers. Out on the ice were dozens of families with small children, some of whom were so bundled up in the puffy coats that they could barely move their limbs, their arms jutting out from their shoulders slightly.
Victor wandered over to the rink and leaned against the railing, watching the skaters go by.
A young woman wearing a bright red scarf moved slowly over the ice past him, holding hands with a curly-haired man. She stumbled on her feet, and her partner immediately pulled her upward, grinning, saying something teasing that Victor couldn’t hear. The girl giggled, punching him on the shoulder, and straightened the hat that had gone askew on her head. She took his hand, leading him forward again. They were laughing, smiling, joy radiating from each of them.
Victor watched them, a deep, queasy feeling in his gut, his throat constricting.
A few minutes later, a small child did a spin for his mother. He was slow, obviously new to skating, but he was able to do two full turns, and then put his arms up in a “ta-da” motion. The mother whooped with joy, the child beaming up at her, and she hugged him.
As he watched them, a realization hit Victor deep in the stomach.
He couldn’t remember the last time he’d enjoyed being on the ice like that.
He couldn’t remember the last time he’d enjoyed anything like that.
Victor slumped down onto a bench, elbows on his knees, staring down at his trainers.
He felt no joy in winning, in training, in any of it. He didn’t care about getting a fifth world title. All that was waiting for him at home was an empty apartment—with Makka, of course—his medals hung on the wall in a trophy case that slowly gathered dust. What was the point?
Every day, he woke up and went to the rink because that was all he knew. If he left skating, he would have nothing. Because skating had been his entire life, and he’d never cultivated any other part of himself. It was all he was, all anyone knew him to be.
I don’t want to skate anymore, he thought, trying it out, seeing how it stretched over his skin.
The shock of the thought was still coursing through his veins as his phone pinged with a text notification in his pocket. Victor fished it out, pulling off his mitten with his teeth so that he could unlock it.
It was a photo of Christophe kissing his Swiss Nationals gold medal, winking at the camera.
>>Can’t wait to beat you at the Worlds, darling!
>>Oh yeah, and happy birthday, old man ;)
Victor laughed bitterly, sniffling in the cold. He started typing, his hands already freezing.
<<Congrats!! And thank you <3
>>You’re welcome ma cher. What are you doing tonight?
<<Just got done training. I didn’t plan anything this year birthday-wise.
>>I hope you go out and get laid at least
Victor huffed, rolling his eyes.
<<I’m not in the mood.
>>What’s wrong? Are you worrying about your hair thinning again? I’ll send you some of my special stuff, it’ll thicken right up.
Victor growled under his breath. Why did everyone think he was having a crisis over his age? He paused, exhaling his air in a long stream. Chris was the closest friend he had, the only one he could truly ask for advice.
<<I don’t know if I want to do this anymore.
He sniffled, staring down at the screen, the cursor blinking innocuously, but he couldn’t bring himself to press send. It sounded overly dramatic over text, which wasn’t what he wanted. He backspaced quickly, deleting the words, and typed a new sentence.
<<Can we talk?
The response was almost immediate.
>>Presser in five, then a hot Italian is waiting for me immediately after.
>>But I can tell him I have something more important to do…
Victor quickly tapped out a response.
<<No no, I just want to talk about something, and it’s too hard to explain over text. Call me tomorrow?
>>Certo. Baci!
<<Sounds like you’re the one who’s going to be getting the baci, not me
>>;)))
Victor sighed, pocketing his phone again and putting his gloves back on.
He was restless, unmoored. He couldn’t bring himself to keep Chris from his celebrations, but the truth was, he really had no one else to talk to. There was no one else he trusted to give him advice.
How pathetic.
Victor sighed, leaning back against the bench, watching the skaters go by.
As the minutes dragged on, couples and families filtered out, the crowd on the rink thinning until it was mostly empty. The music continued to play in the distance, hauntingly, just a little off key.
Then a man stepped out onto the rink, apparently alone, and from the second he glided out Victor could tell he wasn’t a novice like the others. Victor cocked his head, watching him move over the ice, working on his edges one foot at a time. Strangely, he had a mask covering his nose and mouth, but Victor could see a shock of black hair poking out under his hat. Victor let his gaze rake down the man’s spandex-clad form; he had the body of an athlete, and he was wearing professional skates, so he was definitely no amateur.
Victor glanced around, hoping it wasn’t too obvious that he was staring, but the man probably couldn’t see him—the lights in the rink were bright and Victor was in a shadow.
Victor looked out again, watching the man skate in graceful circles. For some reason, his lone figure on the ice was arresting. He had a raw talent that most skaters could only dream of; his movements like ripples of water over pebbles, graceful yet peaceful. After warming up, the man went through a step sequence that seemed achingly familiar, yet Victor couldn’t quite put his finger on why.
Eventually the man stopped at center ice, stuck in his headphones, and then put his phone in his pocket, zipping it up securely. Victor felt his heart starting to pick up, waiting to see what the man would do next.
Then the man stood completely still, one leg slightly behind the other, his arms at his sides.
Victor’s breath caught in his throat. That opening.
The man lifted his head up, sweeping his hand down his face, kneeling, then standing up again, twirling in place.
Victor gasped, clutched the railing. No. It can’t be.
But after three or four moves, Victor was certain: the man was skating his Stammi Vicino routine.
Victor sat forward in his seat, captivated, as the man skated the entire program perfectly, move for move. In every graceful motion, he was exquisite, down to his fingertips. It was a dance of worship, of desire, longing, the scrape of his blades over the ice like a lover’s touch, effortless beauty in his every movement. And yet, in the inherent dichotomy of the piece, it was also a siren call of deep sorrow.
Electricity thrummed under Victor’s skin, because this man was skating his routine with such reverence, such...love.
The man started the final combo spin, the swell of the music echoing in his brain, Victor felt a shiver down his spine. He stopped in the final pose, panting, his arms wrapped around his shoulders.
The other skaters kept bumbling along, apparently completely oblivious that the skater had just graced them with a performance that could place him at the top of the world in any competition.
Who is he? Victor thought.
Directly on the heels of that thought, I have to meet him.
Victor looked down at his gear bag, chewing his bottom lip. If he skated out onto the ice in his custom gold-bladed skates, the man would know who he was in an instant. He was obviously a fan at the very least, if he had studied and replicated Victor’s routine that closely.
He could just go out and introduce himself, but long history of men only being interested in him because of his fame made him hesitate.
He glanced up again to watch the man skate over to the side, taking off his mask and taking a sip from a water bottle. The force of his yearning to meet the man was palpable.
Victor chewed his bottom lip for a moment, considering. Maybe I could just...pretend to be someone else. Just for a bit.
He stowed his gear bag safely under a bench and walked quickly over to the skate rental area. He told the attendant his skate size, threw a large bill on the counter, and strode over to a bench. Quickly pulling on the skates, he glanced up every few seconds to make sure that the man didn’t leave, lacing them up tight.
Victor pulled his scarf up around his mouth tightly, and pulled his beanie down over his hair snugly, tucking in any telltale silver strands, and then walked over to the gap between the boards, feeling off-kilter in the rental skates. As he ventured out onto the ice, he tried to be a little less graceful than usual, but it was difficult, since being on ice was second nature to him. As he skated in short, wobbly strokes, Victor glanced around carefully, and he spotted the man easily; he was going through a different step sequence, one that ended in a camel spin.
Victor tried to act nonchalant, skating in the man’s general direction, keeping his distance.
Well. Now what? Victor hummed, trying to decide how he should strike up a conversation. He couldn’t exactly do a quad flip, that would completely give himself away.
The man twirled out of the spin and gained speed, launching into a triple axel, landing it gorgeously.
The man stopped at the far end, back to Victor. He bent over to brush the ice from his skates, his sweats stretching over his sculpted ass in all the right ways.
Victor gasped and screeched to a halt, almost running into an older woman, who glared at him. “Watch where you’re going,” she snapped.
“Sorry, s—sorry,” Victor stuttered.
The man stood up again and started skating along in graceful glides, hands tucked behind his back.
Victor started skating behind him, and the near-collision he’d just had gave him an idea.
He sped up a little, pretending to be reckless on his skates, and bumped into the man from behind, sending him sprawling, tripping over his skates. The man swore in a language that Victor didn’t recognize, breaking his fall with the expertise of someone who had fallen many times. Victor windmilled his arms a bit, but kept himself upright.
“Oh god, I’m so sorry, are you alright?” Victor blurted out, skating over to him.
The man’s mask had gone askew, and he took it off all the way.
The man looked up at him, and…
Victor had always thought that the concept of one’s breath being stolen away was the worst of cliches, until that very moment. The man’s eyes were a deep, caramel brown, framed with a dark fringe of eyelashes. His cheeks were flushed, whether it be from the cold or from the exertion of skating, and his lips were pink, luscious, beautifully kissable.
In all, he was absolutely gorgeous.
He blinked at Victor, his brow creasing in confusion, probably because Victor had said absolutely nothing in the past several seconds and was staring at him with his mouth hanging open.
Victor clicked his jaw shut, clearing his throat. “A—are you alright?” Victor repeated, holding out a hand.
The man looked at his hand, and after a long pause, he took it, letting himself be pulled upright.
“Sorry, no Russian...English?” the man said haltingly in Russian.
“Oh—of course, yes,” Victor said, switching to English seamlessly. “I’m so sorry, are you alright?”
“Yeah, I’m okay.” The man straightened his hat, leaning down to brush the ice off his pants.
“That was so clumsy of me, I don’t know what I was thinking, I mean, I wasn’t thinking, obviously, I was just skating, and not very well, but I should have been more careful,” Victor chattered nervously. “Can I make it up to you? I think there’s a place that sells hot drinks over at the far end of the ice.”
“I, uh. No, I’m fine.”
“Please. Let me buy you a spiced wine. Or a hot chocolate?”
“You really don’t have to—”
“I insist.” Victor smiled his thousand-watt smile—the one that usually charmed the pants off any fan—before he remembered that his mouth was still covered by the scarf.
The man squinted at him, as if he were trying to figure something out, his eyebrows furrowed.
“Your eyes. They...they’re so familiar for some reason. Have we met before?”
Victor tensed. “I, uh. I don’t think so?”
Yuuri’s eyes narrowed a bit, but then he shrugged. “If you say so. Spiced wine would be...lovely, actually.”
Victor clapped his hands together in excitement. “Wonderful.” The man laughed, his eyes sparkling, and Victor felt a swoop in his stomach.
“I’m...um. Yuuri,” the man said, holding out his hand.
Yuuri. Why does that name seem familiar? Victor thought.
“I’m—” Victor stopped, realizing he was about to say his real name.
“I’m Misha,” Victor said, taking his hand, shaking it. “Nice to meet you. Shall we?” he gestured to Yuuri to skate ahead of him.
They skated over to the far edge, Victor attempting to appear unsteady on his feet. As Yuuri was changing into his sneakers, Victor went over to the small hut to the side of the rink and got them both cups of hot spiced wine.
“Here you go,” Victor said, handing him one and sitting down next to Yuuri on the bench.
“Thank you.” Yuuri curled his hands around the cup, inhaling the curling steam, and then took a long sip. “It’s so cold here, I need some warming up.”
When he lowered the cup, some wine clung to the curve of his mouth. When Yuuri’s pink tongue poked out to lick the drops of deep red from his lips, Victor’s jaw dropped, and he let out a startled whine.
Fuck.
Yuuri blinked at him, eyes wide. “Are...you alright?” he asked.
“I’m. I’m fine,” Victor stuttered, taking a long drink of his own wine, pushing his scarf up a little in order to do so. He was starting to think he was going to have a heart attack before the evening was over. He took some long, deep breaths, trying to calm down.
“So where are you from? Is it warmer there?” Victor asked, curling his hands around his own cup.
“I live in Detroit, which isn’t much warmer than this, honestly,” Yuuri said, taking another long sip. “But I’m originally from a town in southern Japan, a castle down by the sea. It’s a lot milder there.”
“That sounds lovely.”
“It is.” Yuuri looked up at him and grinned. “My family runs an onsen.”
“What is an onsen?” Victor asked, enthralled.
“Well, we run a restaurant and um, sort of hotel, and the entire back of the hotel is a hot spring.”
“That sounds wonderful,” Victor said honestly. “What brings you to St. Petersburg?”
“Ah. Um. I’m here for a job interview with a software company. I’m finishing up my degree this spring, and I have interviews in a few places for post-grad.”
Victor felt his heart pick up. “Oh, so you might move here!”
Yuuri hummed, taking another long pull from his wine. “Well, yeah, I suppose so. If I get the job, anyway.”
“You should move here, it’s a great city,” Victor said.
“Are you from here?”
Victor shook his head. “I was born in Moscow, but I have lived here since I was twelve.” Victor very carefully didn’t say why he’d moved there.
Victor took another long drink.
“You know, I have to say, I saw you out there…and I don’t know much about skating, but I think you’re very talented. I assumed you might skate professionally.”
“Oh, well, I skated in college, but it’s more just a hobby now,” Yuuri said, laughing, but there was a flash of hurt behind his eyes as he averted them.
Victor narrowed his eyes, skeptical. He’d skated Victor’s routine to perfection; it was a waste, at the very least, if he wasn’t an ISU skater.
“Well, um. Thanks for the wine, Misha. I should be getting back to my hotel. I have an early day tomorrow. Got to make a good impression.” Yuuri smiled.
Victor felt his heart pick up. No, he can’t leave, not yet....
“Wait,” he blurted out. Yuuri paused, raising his eyebrows. “Would--would you like to walk with me for a bit? Maybe I could show you some of St. Petersburg? If it’s your first time here, I’d like to show you some of the sights.”
Yuuri looked stunned for a moment. “I...no, I’m sure you have...things to be doing?”
“Not at all,” Victor said cheerfully. “I was just going to go home. Boring.”
“I’m not that interesting,” Yuuri countered.
“That’s not true at all,” Victor said quickly.
Yuuri met his gaze, his mouth dropping open just a little. His cheeks pinked, and he looked down at his feet, his eyelashes fanning out over his cheeks.
Beautiful, Victor thought.
“I, um.” Yuuri hesitated.
“Please?” Victor pleaded.
Yuuri’s gaze lifted and met Victor’s, holding for a long moment.
“Alright,” Yuuri acquiesced.
Victor nearly jumped up and down with glee, but he managed to restrain himself. “I’ll just go return my skates, and we can walk for a bit.”
They strolled along the street for a while, sipping from their paper cups in silence. There were twinkle lights everywhere, snow still on the ground from a recent storm, people bustling about.
“What do—” Yuuri started to say, after several minutes.
“How long—” Victor began at the same time.
They looked at each other, and both burst out laughing.
“You go,” Yuuri said.
“No, I insist, what were you going to say?”
Yuuri rolled his eyes. “Alright. I was going to ask what you normally do on Christmas? Don’t you have family to celebrate with?”
Victor blinked at Yuuri, surprised. “We don’t really celebrate here in Russia on the day. And no, I don’t have family, I’m an orphan,” he said, shrugging.
Yuuri’s eyes flicked to him, shock and concern flitting through his expression. “Oh god, I’m. I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to—”
Victor shook his head. “Don’t worry. My parents died a long time ago. I don’t even remember them. I’m used to being on my own.”
Yuuri’s brow furrowed. “That must be really lonely.”
“I...um.” Victor bit his lip, momentarily speechless. Yes, it really is, he didn’t say. It felt like too much, and too little, at the same time. “It’s not so bad. I have someone waiting at home, so I’m not completely alone. At least he cuddles with me at night.”
"Oh. That’s. Um.”Yuuri ducked his head, deflating visibly.
Victor nudged his shoulder with his own. “What, you don’t like poodles?”
Yuuri snapped to look at him, mouth opening and closing. “Oh, I—” Yuuri barked out a laugh. “No, I love them, actually.”
Victor brightened. “Do you have one too?”
Yuuri pressed his lips together, and his brow furrowed a bit. “No, I...I used to, but not anymore.”
“Oh, I’m...I’m sorry.”
Yuuri shrugged, and for a moment he was silent. Not wanting to pry, Victor changed the subject. “What about you? Do you celebrate Christmas?”
Yuuri didn’t respond at first, and Victor glanced over at him. His eyelashes were brushing against the glass of his slightly-fogged-up glasses, his chin tucked into his scarf, but his cheeks were a bit redder than before.
“I, uh. Not really. In Japan, Christmas is, uh, a romantic holiday. For couples. And I haven’t, um.” Yuuri cleared his throat, looking down at his shoes as they walked. “I haven’t dated anyone seriously enough to celebrate it with them.”
Victor nodded, soaking in this information. “So do you have a girlfriend now? Boyfriend?” he asked, after a lengthy pause.
Fishing, Victor. You’re so obviously fishing.
Yuuri bit his bottom lip, his nose pink. “No. Neither. I, uh. I’ve dated both men and women, but I’m not seeing anyone right now.”
Victor barely resisted the urge to do a fist pump into the air, and managed a (hopefully) nonchalant nod instead.
“Aren’t you going to ask about me?” Victor asked, looking down at the dregs of his cup.
Yuuri, who was in the middle of taking a sip of his wine, sputtered, choking.
Victor stopped in his tracks, putting a hand on Yuuri’s shoulder, patting his back. “Are you alright?”
Yuuri coughed again, and then looked down at the hand, eyes widening.
Victor snatched his hand back as if burned. “Sorry.”
“No, it’s...it’s okay.”
“Are you alright?”
“I’ll be fine.” Yuuri cleared his throat, taking another sip of his wine before throwing it in a garbage can, slipping his hands into his pockets.
They started walking again, slowly, Yuuri looking curiously into the storefronts as they passed. “I’m single,” Victor volunteered, after a few steps. “In case you were going to ask.”
Yuuri flushed deeply. “I uh. Oh. Okay.”
“My job keeps me busy and I have to travel a lot, so that’s part of it. But honestly, I just haven’t met anyone special lately.” Victor turned to look at Yuuri again, and their gazes met for a long second.
Yuuri hummed, pressing his lips together, a little smile curving them upward. He took his hands back out of his coat, and as they walked, their hands brushed against each other. Victor’s fingers tingled, and he longed to reach out and thread their hands together.
“What…” Yuuri cleared his throat. “What do you do? I don’t think you said before.”
Ah shit, Victor thought. He should have had an answer ready. He racked his brain, trying to think of something other than skating that would require a lot of travel.
“I’m a...coach.”
Yuuri looked at him dubiously. “In what?”
Panic. “Rhythmic dancing?” Victor said, grasping at straws.
Yuuri raised an eyebrow. “Is that a question?”
“Rhythmic gymnastics,” Victor said, with more certainty.
“Aren’t those different?” Yuuri laughed.
“Well, we in the trade sometimes call it either one,” Victor said, trying to sound authoritative.
“Ah.” Yuuri still looked skeptical, but he let it drop.
They walked a bit further, and eventually the Mariinsky theater came into view, the ornate green and white facade lit up against the dark velvet sky.
“Oh wow,” Yuuri crooned. “What is that?”
“The Mariinsky theater. It’s even more beautiful on the inside. They’re playing the Nutcracker now, I think. I live close to here, I see people flooding in every day.”
“Oh,” Yuuri breathed, looking over at the ornate facade again, eyes full of longing.
“Do you like ballet?” Victor prompted gently.
“I love ballet. I...er, dabbled in it, growing up.”
“Well, aren’t you full of surprises,” Victor said, nudging his shoulder again.
Yuuri’s cheeks flushed again, and Victor felt his chest bursting with joy at the sight.
Victor looked over at the theatre again, at the men and women flooding into the building in tasteful finery. “Would you like to go?” he asked.
“I...I don’t have the money for that. And I’m in workout clothes.” Yuuri gestured to his ensemble.
“So am I,” Victor said. “And anyway, I know someone who can get us in backstage.” He winked, opening his phone and scrolling to his contacts.
“No, no, you don’t have to—” Yuuri started to protest.
“Don’t be silly. It’ll be fun,” Victor said.
The phone picked up after a couple of rings.
“Vitya. What do you want? You know we have curtain in twenty minutes,” a stern female voice said over the line.
Victor smiled. “Hello, Lilia. I have a favor to ask.”
Twenty minutes later, they were in the dark wings of the stage, watching the ballerinas do their final preparations before the performance. The orchestra was warming up in the background, the calming sounds of flutes doing scales and violins tuning their instruments against the backdrop of ballet-goers chatting away in the audience, finding their seats.
“I can’t believe you got us in here,” Yuuri whispered, leaning in close to Victor’s body to look out at the theatre itself, all ornate gold and opulent finery. Victor bit his bottom lip, barely resisting the urge to lean into Yuuri, slide his hand around Yuuri’s back.
“Why are you whispering?” he asked instead.
“I don’t know, I just feel like I should be,” Yuuri whispered back.
Victor giggled, and Yuuri mock-glared at him.
The lights went down, and the conductor emerged into the orchestra pit to massive applause. After a few moments of silence, he lifted his arms and the overture began. The curtain pulled back to reveal the stage, the backdrop of a quiet snow-covered town emerging as lights slowly went up.
The dancers lined up in the wings, their Victorian costumes catching the light from the stage. Beside him, Yuuri stood up straighter, elongating his neck, and Victor smiled, recognizing the posture. It was the stance of a long-time dancer; Yuuri must have done more than dabble in ballet.
The music swelled, and the first dancers started prancing out onto the stage, holding prop christmas packages.
Victor sighed, watching. It was a dance he’d seen a thousand times, and many thought that Tchaikovsky was over-done and saccharine, but there was something comforting in its soft beauty. The first act wasn’t his favorite, as it was mostly the party scene, but seeing it this close was another thing entirely, as he could see the athleticism of the dancers. It wasn’t far from figure skating, in a lot of ways.
Yuuri watched, his mouth slightly parted, as the Nutcracker Prince danced his sword fight with the Rat King, his eyes dark and dilated in the low light. Though the music from the orchestra reverberated through his body, Victor could hear Yuuri’s gentle breaths in and out.
It was incredibly intimate, ethereal. Being backstage, cloaked in the darkness, it was as though the performance was for them alone.
Victor’s gaze trailed down at Yuuri’s mouth, and Yuuri’s pink tongue darted out to wet his bottom lip. Victor sunk his teeth into his own bottom lip in sympathetic response.
Yuuri glanced at him, as if he could tell Victor was staring, and he smiled. Victor smiled back, once again forgetting that he was still wearing the scarf around his mouth.
Toward the end of the act, the ballerinas had changed into their snowflake costumes and lined up in the wings again, glittering and fae-like. Clara and the Prince danced in front of snow covered trees, a dance of love, of hopeful promise.
Small pieces of paper, which served as fake snow, started to drift down from the ceiling in sheets, and the ballerina snowflakes started to twirl out onto the stage in quick pirouettes.
Some of the falling snow filtered down into their secluded spot, settling onto Yuuri’s hair, but Yuuri was still so entranced by the performance, he didn’t notice.
“Yuuri,” Victor whispered, and Yuuri turned toward him. Victor reached up and brushed some of the bits of plastic from Yuuri’s hair, letting his fingertips trail down his face, lingering on Yuuri’s cheek.
Yuuri’s breath caught in his throat, but he didn’t step back.
Victor couldn’t even see him clearly, other than his outline, as it was so dark in their corner. Which meant that Yuuri couldn’t see his face either.
Feeling bold, Victor pushed his scarf down, and moved close enough that he could cup Yuuri’s cheek.
“Yuuri,” he breathed, thumbing his lip. Yuuri’s sharp, short intake of breath was arresting.
“Y—yes?” Yuuri stuttered.
Victor’s heart began beating faster in his chest, blood pounding in his ears. “Can I…can I kiss you?” He’d never asked someone if he could kiss them before, not someone he wanted this much. It usually just happened; either he took charge or the other man did.
Yuuri opened his mouth, half-closed it, hesitation creasing the half-lit features Victor could see… but then he moved into Victor’s space, turning his face upward until they were only inches apart.
Yuuri pressed his palms into Victor’s coat, his fingertips digging into the thick material.
“I,” he whispered. His eyes were hooded, and they traced from Victor’s lips up to his eyes. “We barely know each other,” he breathed.
Victor laughed softly. “I’ve kissed men I’ve known far less.”
Yuuri huffed out a laugh. “I don’t even know your last name.”
“Is that a yes?” Victor asked hopefully.
Yuuri laughed again, paused for a moment, biting his lip, then nodded.
Elation trilled through his body. His heart in his throat, Victor sunk his other hand into Yuuri’s soft hair, and he leaned in.
The second their lips touched, thrumming excitement sang through his body, the same kind of joy and wonder he’d felt when he’d seen Yuuri skate.
He’d always been a romantic at heart, but he had never experienced a kiss that seemed to light him up from the inside, as if he were waking from a long slumber. He slid a hand around Yuuri’s waist, pulling him closer, needing to touch more of him, feel more of him.
Yuuri whimpered, tilting his head to the side to deepen the kiss, his tongue flicking into Victor’s mouth and all the blood rushed out of Victor’s head. He cradled the back of Yuuri’s head, his body trembling, because of all the things that could have possibly happened today, he had never expected this. Expected Yuuri.
Yuuri broke the kiss, but didn’t move back.
“Holy shit,” Yuuri breathed, his breath coming in short bursts, eyes wide and dark.
Victor giggled, biting his bottom lip. “I’ll say.”
Yuuri curled his hands into the lapels of Victor’s coat, pulling him into another long kiss, even more heated than before. He raised up onto his toes slightly so that he could go on the offensive, pushing Victor into the wall behind him, pressing into him bodily.
Victor let out a low moan, deep in his throat. Luckily, the first act was ending and the audience was thundering with applause, so the sound was drowned out.
When they finally broke apart, panting, sharing each other’s air, Victor leaned his forehead against Yuuri’s.
“Yuuri.” He slid his hands around Yuuri’s waist, a thrill running down his spine at Yuuri’s resulting shiver.
Yuuri’s eyes blinked open, a shadow of the lights from the stage falling across his face, his skin glowing in the light. “Misha,” he murmured.
Guilt dropped into his stomach like lead. Victor licked his lips. “Yuuri, I...there’s something...I should…tell you.”
“What is it?”
“I…” Victor winced, but before he could finish the sentence, the lights came up over their heads.
Victor froze, as Yuuri’s eyes widened, his body immediately turning to stone.
“Victor?” he gaped. “You’re Victor. Nikiforov.”
Victor couldn’t seem to form a sentence. “I, um.”
“Oh my god, I can’t believe this,” Yuuri started backing away, pushing Victor away from him. “Are you kidding me? No wonder you wouldn’t take off your scarf, I’m so stupid.”
“Yuuri, I…I can explain.”
Yuuri stepped back, shaking his head. “I’ve made an absolute fool of myself, fuck, I can’t...you acted like you couldn’t even skate. What the hell were…” his eyes widened. “You saw me skate your routine, didn’t you?”
“I,” Victor flushed, rubbing the back of his neck.
“I can’t believe I thought…” Yuuri shook his head, his mouth tight. “Idiot,” he muttered.
“Yuuri, please—” Victor stepped forward, hand outstretched.
“No.” Yuuri shook his head, putting more distance between them. At that moment, the corps of snowflakes flooded off the stage, a river of bodies between them.
“Yuuri, wait, please!” Victor called out.
“No,” Yuuri said again, turning his back and striding away quickly.
“Yuuri,” Victor called out, trying to get to him, but he was caught in a flurry of tulle and glittering tiaras. By the time he could fully extricate himself, Yuuri was gone.
Victor searched the theatre to find Yuuri for most of the second act, but he must have slipped out through one of the side doors. Eventually, he had to admit defeat, and he left just as the brass section started to play the Waltz of the Flowers.
Victor trudged the ten minutes to his flat, slowly, unlocking the door to an excited Makkachin bouncing on the other side.
“Hey, Makka,” Victor said tiredly, slinging his gear bag to the ground. He knelt, ruffling Makkachin behind the ears. “How’s my best boy?”
Makkachin panted his hello, wagging his tail, humid waves of doggy breath wafting into Victor’s face.
Victor sighed, burying his face in the fur of Makkachin’s neck, a tickling feeling in the back of his throat, tears starting to prick at his eyes. “I met a beautiful man today, Makka. He was wonderful. But I messed it up.”
He sniffled, and let a few tears escape. After all, no one would ever know if he cried over a man he’d only known for a couple of hours.
“We do okay, just the two of us, don’t we?” he whispered.
Makkachin yipped, wrestling out of his grip and licking him on the mouth with a slobbery kiss.
He yipped again, bouncing on his feet.
Victor sighed, patting his head. “Okay, okay, we’ll go for a short walk,” he said, wiping his eyes on his sleeve and grabbing a leash from the coat rack.
Once they were outside, he called and ordered pizza from his favorite place—after all, it was his birthday, he could afford to splurge a little food-wise. As soon as Makkachin relieved himself, he was starting to shiver, so Victor took him back inside.
Once he was back in the apartment, Victor showered quickly, threw on some comfortable sweatpants and a soft shirt. He took one of his fancier bottles of wine out of the cooler and opened it, pouring a healthy portion into one of his goblet wine glasses.
After he switched on the gas fireplace he sat down on the couch, Makkachin jumping up to settle at his feet.
He sipped from the glass, watching the flames licking upward, casting shadows on the rug on the floor.
He didn’t even try to stop thinking about Yuuri. The way his body moved when he skated, every spin on his blade like a glorious symphony. The way he’d learned Victor’s routine from start to finish, a labor that had to have been from devotion, if not love.
The way his lips looked, wet with wine.
The sound of his laugh, the way it had lit Victor up inside.
The wonder with which he’d watched the ballet, his entire being radiating wonder and excitement.
The full press of his body into Victor’s; the way he’d gasped into Victor’s mouth.
Victor swirled the wine glass. He’d fucked up massively. But he had truly wanted to find out if Yuuri liked him for him...rather than the fame surrounding him, the hero-worship that many people seemed to hold for him.
For a couple of brief hours, he had thought...that maybe, just maybe, life could hold something for him other than skating.
But when Yuuri had seen his face, the pain he’d seen there had been more than just hurt at Victor holding back his identity.
Victor sighed, and took another long drink of wine, scratching Makkachin behind the ears. The dog yawned, settling his head between his paws, his little tongue poking out a little.
It was almost as if Yuuri had known him somehow.
Victor froze in the middle of petting Makkachin.
“I skated in college,” Yuuri had said.
Victor stood quickly and strode over to the desk, opening his computer. Once the screen blinked to life, he opened a browser and typed in “Yuuri,” “Japan,” and “figure skating.”
The first thing that popped up on the search result was the wikipedia page of Katsuki Yuuri, an internationally-ranked figure skater. Heart pounding, Victor clicked on the link and scanned the page, glancing at the pictures to make sure it was the same Yuuri. He trained in Detroit with Celestino Cialdini for the past four years while he went to school. Victor scrolled down to the competition summaries, and he felt lightheaded the more he read...because Yuuri wasn’t just a professional skater. He was Japan’s ace the previous year. Not only that, Yuuri had been in the Grand Prix final—his first, at the age of twenty-three. Though he had excellent PCS scores, Yuuri had fallen in several of his jumps, and placed sixth. And then he’d placed eleventh at Japanese Nationals, a result which had apparently been surprising to local fans. A few short days later, he’d quietly published a press release with little fanfare, announcing his retirement from the sport.
Victor sat back in his chair, stunned.
Had he really been so wrapped up in himself this past season, in his own dwindling inspiration, that he hadn’t even noticed Yuuri at all? How was that even possible?
Victor rubbed his bottom lip.
He opened a new tab, and searched for videos of Yuuri’s routines. The more he watched, the more enthralled he was with the way Yuuri skated, especially his step sequences and spins.
As he was watching Yuuri do an exquisite combo spin, the doorbell rang. Makkachin jumped off the couch, barking, and Victor stared at the front door as if it had personally offended him. Who…?
The doorbell rang again, and he jumped slightly, then relaxed. “Pizza,” he muttered under his breath. He’d completely forgotten about it.
He paid the delivery man handsomely, and brought the box back over to his desk, eating directly out of the box as he clicked “play” on the routine again.
Eventually he had watched every major competition in the past few years in which Yuuri had competed.
And there were a few things of which Victor was now certain: one, Yuuri could be the best skater in the world, bar none. Two: he had never reached his highest potential, often flubbing jumps in the most pressured situations, which meant it was most likely just nerves or lack of confidence, not lack of capability.
Three: Victor was insulted as an artist, as an athlete, that Yuuri had retired when he was so obviously entering his prime.
Four: Victor was absolutely, completely smitten with him.
Victor glanced over at Makkachin, who was now curled up on his doggy bed in front of the fire. He had to apologize, somehow...he had to find Yuuri. He just had to.
The problem was, he didn’t know which company Yuuri was interviewing for, or how to find him. He hadn’t even gotten Yuuri’s number, though Yuuri probably wouldn’t have accepted his calls at this point anyway.
He poured himself another healthy glass of wine, and opened a new tab.
He found Yuuri’s public Instagram easily, but it was mostly photos of food and dogs, not of Yuuri himself, and there wasn’t much information. Same with his Twitter; it was mostly tweets that had been required by sponsorships, or polite replies to fans’ fawning praise. Victor frowned, but he wasn’t going to give up that easily.
He went back to Instagram and search the posts Yuuri was tagged in, and there were many by a Thai skater Victor had seen once or twice around the circuit named Phichit Chulanont. They seemed to be rink mates, given the number of pictures of them both on and off the ice together.
There was a post from two days ago, in which Phichit was hugging Yuuri, and Yuuri was laughing. The caption read:
My boy is interviewing in St. Petersburg for a job with 4xxi!! So proud but so sad he might be moving so far away!!!! :’(
“Thank you, Phichit Chulanont,” Victor whispered.
He did a few more searches before he checked the hour; it was almost midnight.
Victor stored the rest of the pizza in the fridge and went to bed. He had an early morning ahead of him.
Victor was waiting in front of the doors of the large office building at 9 AM, unsure what time Yuuri would be having his interview.
After about an hour, Yuuri emerged from the building, wearing a dark suit and light blue tie, a nice blue peacoat over the ensemble. His hair was slicked back, the way he wore it for competitions, which was an extremely attractive combination with his glasses. Tough he looked tired, drained even, Victor’s heartbeat picked up at the sight of him.
The second he saw Victor, he stopped in his tracks, eyes widening.
“Yuuri,” Victor breathed. “Please, let me—”
But before Victor could finish the sentence, Yuuri turned and walked quickly in the opposite direction.
“Yuuri, wait!” Victor chased after him, catching up with him in a few long strides.
“So you’re stalking me now,” Yuuri grumbled, pulling his coat collar up around his neck.
“No, I...I just had to find you, to apologize. I can’t believe I didn’t recognize you before, realize that we had competed against each other in Sochi. I have no excuse, other than the fact that...I was stupid, and self-centered, and my hubris got the better of me.”
Yuuri snorted, sticking his hands in his pockets. “Is that how you found me at the rink yesterday, too? You heard that a washed-up never-has-been was in town, and you thought you’d have a few laughs at my expense?”
Victor felt his jaw drop. “Yuuri, no, I never. I didn’t know who you were, I—”
Yuuri laughed bitterly. “Of course you didn’t. That’s even worse.”
Shit. This was not going the way Victor had wanted it to go, not at all.
He stepped in front of Yuuri, causing him to halt in place. “Yuuri, please, just let me explain. Once you hear me out, if you still want to go, I won’t stop you. I’ll never search you out again. I promise. Please?”
Yuuri, who was looking at his shoes, raised his chin to meet Victor’s gaze. His beautiful brown eyes were tinged with hurt, a hurt that was physically painful for Victor to see.
“Fine,” Yuuri said, his breath billowing out in the cold air. “What do you want to say?”
Victor looked around at the throngs of people walking past them, suddenly at a loss for words. This was too public a place, too noisy for the conversation he wanted to have.
“Can we sit somewhere? Maybe get some coffee?” He smiled, trying to look hopeful.
Yuuri looked like he was about to argue, but then the fight went out of his shoulders, and he sighed. “Fine.”
They found a small cafe nearby, Yuuri ordering black tea, Victor a latte. Yuuri sat in a booth with his shoulders slightly hunched, his gaze fixed on his cup.
Victor took a deep breath. “First, I just want to say how sorry I am that I lied to you. It wasn’t my intention to hurt you, in any way.”
Yuuri’s jaw worked, but he remained silent.
Victor wet his lips, and continued. “I was walking home from practice when I saw the rink on New Holland yesterday. I saw you go out on the ice, and I couldn’t see your face—but I noticed your skating immediately.”
Yuuri’s brow creased, and his hands tensed around his cup.
“Then I saw you skate stammi vicino and...you skated it even better than I could.”
Yuuri scoffed. “That’s ridiculous.”
Victor felt his brow crease. “I’m serious. Yes, you downgraded a couple of the jumps, but...the way you moved was exquisite. You have a rare talent, Yuuri. The way you move, it’s like your body is creating music. I…” he licked his lips. “You're sublimely beautiful.”
“No I’m not,” Yuuri mumbled.
“You are,” Victor insisted. “And I knew from the moment you finished my routine that I had to meet you.”
He paused, because this was the part that was hardest to explain. He took a long sip of his latte, steeling himself, before he continued.
“But I didn’t...there have been so many times when I met someone, someone I was interested in, and they didn’t see the real me, they only saw...Victor Nikiforov. The star, the playboy millionaire, or whatever they thought I was, and not...not me. For some reason—I can’t explain why, I just wanted you to meet me. Not...not the person that everyone else sees.”
Yuuri blinked up at him, surprise crossing his features.
“So yes, I hid who I was, because I wanted to know you, Yuuri. I was about to tell you who I really was when the lights came up. I know I was wrong to keep who I was from you, but...can we start over?”
Yuuri stared at him for a long moment before pushing his cup away from himself. “Why?"
Because you made me realize what I was missing...life and love. Victor pressed his lips together. “Please,” Victor hesitated, then reached out to grab Yuuri’s hand. Yuuri took a shuddering breath, but he didn’t pull back. “The person you met last night—that was me, the real me. I just gave you a different name.”
Yuuri chewed his bottom lip, still looking uncertain. “Even if I wanted to start over, I already found out that I didn’t get the job, Victor. I’m going back to the States tomorrow.”
“Not if I become your coach.” The words left his mouth before Victor even realized it.
Yuuri gaped at him. “What?” he squawked. “Victor, no. I...I retired.”
“I know, I know you did. But I watched all your routines last night—”
“Oh god,” Yuuri groaned, pressing his palms to his face, but Victor moved over to the booth next to him and peeled them away, holding them.
“I watched you, your technique, and I think you are good enough to be a world champion. Even a world record holder, if you reach your true potential.”
“If you saw my routines, you saw how horribly I messed up in Sochi,” Yuuri said, his voice cracking, deep pain written in his features.
“I didn’t see that. I saw an excellent skater whose nerves got the best of them, but that happens to all skaters once in a while. Even me.”
Yuuri shook his head in disbelief, and Victor caught his chin with one hand. “Before I saw you yesterday, I was ready to quit skating completely too.”
“What? No, you—you couldn’t.”
“Nothing in life held joy, or promise, and I couldn’t surprise myself or the audience anymore. But from the first moment you skated out onto the ice, it’s been one surprise after another. Can you blame me for wanting to keep seeing you?”
Yuuri’s eyes darted around his face searchingly. “You’re serious.”
Victor nodded. “Be my student, Yuuri,” he said softly. And hopefully, soon, much more than that.
Yuuri searched his expression, and whatever he saw there, it must have been enough to convince him of Victor’s sincerity. “Me. You want to coach...me.”
“Yes,” Victor said honestly. “I really, really do.”
Yuuri looked down at the table, then back up at Victor. Victor could feel his heart pounding, but he forced himself to be patient. To wait.
Yuuri took a deep breath, and let it out in a slow exhale. “Okay, let’s say we were going to start over. How would we do that?”
Joy flooding his system, Victor beamed. Yuuri’s cheeks flushed prettily, and Victor had to hold himself back from leaning in for a kiss. “Well, first, I’d like to take you out on a real date.”
“A date?” Yuuri squeaked.
Victor smiled at him. “Is that a yes?”
Yuuri chewed his bottom lip for a moment, drawing out the moment. “To being my coach, or going on a date?”
Victor tapped his mouth with his index finger. “Both.”
Yuuri laughed, and the sound was gorgeous. He glanced around at the room, and leaned in to slide his hand into Victor’s hair, then sip from his lips softly, tentatively. Victor had to restrain himself from leaning into it too much. “Yes,” he said against Victor’s lips.
“Really?” Victor murmured.
Yuuri nodded, and his lips slowly curled upward into a smile. "Maybe it's foolish of me, or impulsive, but...how could I say no to that?"
Victor grinned, and leaned in to kiss Yuuri again, even though they were in public, and people were probably staring. He didn't care. For the first time in as long as he could remember, he had found someone he wanted to hold on to.