Chapter Text
The air in the Radisson Blu banquet hall was stifling as Viktor polished off his third glass of champagne. Third. Mamochka once said, “Three is becoming, four is brutish, and that’s only if you can hold it.” Viktor could definitely hold it. He couldn’t tell if he was tipsy or just exhausted. In any case, he wanted to get out of there as soon as he could manage. He’d already been dragged into the most nauseating of conversations with reps from two of his biggest sponsors. They’d been full of idle chatter and the same old pleasantries that always arose at this kind of event. Viktor accepted congratulations with grace, and in return he offered a few quips and memorable smiles—the kind he’d practiced to be private and pointed, meant to make their recipients feel like they genuinely have the interest of The Viktor Nikiforov.
It’d been a trick taught to him over a decade ago now by Lilia. That way, even as he was being dogged by reporters on his way out of practice or bombarded with interviews when his legs were threatening to give out after a free skate, he was always press-ready. The entire thing was humiliating, shameful in a way that only left room for him to turn his anger inward on himself. It was the knuckle digging into his last nerve, the inevitable truth of his success that he wished he could just escape.
God, he wished he could escape. Anywhere would be fine, even within the confines of this cookie-cutter hotel. There was an indoor swimming pool. Melting away into climate-controlled waters with that soft, intimate lighting hotel pools always seemed to have… that would be nice. That would feel good on aching muscles and provide some numbing white noise while Viktor tried to dissolve into something unrecognizable and loosely-defined.
Alcohol was honestly helping immensely in that endeavor. Forget ‘becoming’. Viktor was wandering over to the table in pursuit of his fourth glass of the slightly-too-sweet bubbly when something—some one —barreled into his side, knocking him off balance and just nearly managing not to spill their own drink on his second-favorite suit.
(The first-favorite was reserved for personal events only, but Viktor almost never found an occasion to wear it anymore.)
“I, uh… Oh.”
Brown eyes. Big. Beautiful. Made of chocolate and velvet and copper all at once. Viktor recognized those eyes, too. They’d burned on him for the past week, another case of his knack for falling under unfaltering scrutiny. But he… He was different. Because Viktor had been watching Katsuki Yuuri this week, too.
This whole season, actually.
See, something was eating away at Viktor’s sanity with Katsuki Yuuri—something he couldn’t quite place a finger on. It came out when he skated, this mystical instrument of a man painting music into the most graceful of shapes out on the ice. Katsuki was like the delicate little wind-up ballet dancer that spun atop Viktor’s jewelry box as a kid. If he didn’t know any better, he could almost believe that Japan’s Ace could command music with his very movements, and not the other way around.
What was even more, Yuuri seemingly practiced Viktor’s choreography obsessively, or so his step sequences seemed to suggest. He saw nods to his Prince Igor routine in this year’s free skate. Viktor had studied thirty skaters’ programs to make sure the moves he’d incorporated into that program were unique. They were so uncommon that he’d heard more than one commentator reference the connection. Viktor’s breath hadn’t caught in his throat for another skater like that in years.
His Prince Igor routine had been a part of his longing program. The plaintive, cathartic themes of both pieces had sprung from the loneliest year in Viktor’s life before this one. He’d moved to St. Petersburg, had gone from living among a loving family to living alone, throwing himself into his work, missing holidays and traditions. That year, all he’d wanted was to go home and be with his Mamochka and Mamulya, but they’d moved to Bulgaria, and he’d insisted on staying. Some of his favorite customs, like long Sunday breakfasts and Mamulya’s birthday tea-and-shopping, were left by the wayside. He didn’t even make it home for his their annual New Years’ First Light celebration.
He didn’t know what had drawn Yuuri to the Prince Igor choreography, but he had designed those moves out of desperation, grasping at thin air and hoping he could find in it some surrogate sense of warmth. He hated admitting that every program since then had been devoted to a comfort that never came, some grand other that he never seemed to get right. He’d tried everything, at some point or another, to fill the hole in his heart. He’d traveled the world, tried the most enviable foods in some of the most enviable cities, filled his closets with designer labels, all perfectly tailored and pristinely laundered. He’d frequented high-profile events and parties for a while, rubbing elbows with others who had achieved his level of celebrity, and had even become close with a few. It didn’t matter. That world was lonely. The few trysts it had landed him were one-sided and frustrating, ultimately dissipating into disappointment and self-loathing within a few weeks.
Viktor didn’t need to wonder if Katsuki Yuuri truly understood the pain and isolation that had given rise to Prince Igor. He knew, just watching Yuuri’s routines that they had more in common than a love for the ice. People who put on a show of emotions have a very different way of moving than those who feel them implicitly. Actors can summon emotion through a series of movements associated with a similar feeling, can waste fractions of a second conjuring something already found in those whose chests already burn. Yuuri’s expressions, the movements of his arms and his shoulders as he danced across the ice, the takeoffs into his jumps, they all burst from the same point in his chest. Viktor could see why a skater with such sloppy technical elements had come this far. When Yuuri danced, he commanded a crowd transfixed until the moment he stopped.
“I’m so sorry,” Yuuri stammered. “I was running away from a… well… okay, that doesn’t matter…” He mumbled something to himself that Viktor couldn’t quite decipher before shoving a drink into Viktor’s hands. “You need another one of these! You won! Not that that would surprise you, I guess, since you always win, but—”
A glass of room-temperature champagne was pressed into Viktor’s hand. It was strange; for what felt like a jab, Yuuri spoke with stars in his eyes. Viktor took the drink, peeking over his shoulder to make sure Yakov wasn’t watching.
“If I’m right in assuming you’re running from either your coach or your sponsors, that would make two of us,” he said, tipping the glass in Yuuri’s direction. “To laying low and getting through the evening?”
Yuuri clinked his glass against Viktor’s, sloshing a bit of his own champagne into Viktor’s cup in the process, and threw the rest of the glass back in two gulps. “It’d be pretty funny,” he sighed, setting his glass on the table a little haphazardly and sending it toppling sideways, “if the winner and the loser of the GPF went and danced together.”
Just as Viktor was about to argue that there was no such thing as a ‘loser’ in this kind of competition, Yuuri had him by the arm, dragging him across the floor to the empty space where dancing was encouraged. It was probably for the better; those kind of reassurances would feel pretty cheap coming from a four-time world champion.
Yuuri moved off the ice just as enticingly as he did on it. The dance floor, nearly empty when they first approached, quickly filled with competitors and spectators alike, and everyone’s focus was on Japan’s Ace himself. God, Viktor didn’t realize someone could be sweet, sensuous, and self-conscious all at once, but Yuuri definitely was—though the last of those was dwindling with every drink he downed.
Viktor used to enjoy a good, rowdy post-competition banquet. He used to place himself at the front of the action alongside his best friend and confidante, Christophe. Together, they were responsible for more than their share of nondisclosure emails from the ISU requesting that photos from the banquets not be shared in public forums. Hence, Mamochka’s aphorism about being able to hold one’s liquor. He’d since lost interest in that sort of thing and gained interest in strong sponsorship deals, so the half a moment’s hesitation he felt when Yuuri threw his jacket aside, loosened his tie, and dragged him to the floor for a dance-off seemed somewhat justified.
Then again, who was going to say no to the four-time world champion?
But all of that melted away when Yuuri pulled him close, an arm around his waist, and spun him around wildly, nearly sweeping him off his feet. The song changed, almost as if on cue, the thrum of Spanish guitars only reinforcing Viktor’s idea that Yuuri was one with the music. Somewhere on the fringe of the crowd, Viktor saw twin scowls on the faces of Yakov and young Yuri, who’d been gunning for his position as favorite from his first day in Juniors’. However, anything and everything melted away a moment later, save for Yuuri’s fingers pressing firmly into his side, leading him in a steamy pas de deux with little regard for form or formality.
“Hey, you’re almost as good as me,” Yuuri joked, his hand coming up to tease along Viktor’s jawline as he spun outward, his hips swinging dangerously.
“Not nearly,” Viktor breathed. He kept his feet moving in a desperate chase as Yuuri danced away, because oh God, did he feel good against Viktor’s side. If more of that was on offer, Viktor was not going to let it pass, even if it meant getting put on rink detail once he got back to St. Petersburg for breaking conduct.
A few others got their turns too, including Yuri, who danced so aggressively it was clear he had something to prove, and Christophe, who was immediately clued in to Yuuri’s state and found his opportunity to revive the old days of debauched fun. Viktor couldn’t deny a pang of jealousy when that electrifying touch left his side, but he still got to watch Yuuri dance, carefree and captivating, and he couldn’t complain about that.
Somewhere in the middle of all the fun, Viktor found himself caught in Yuuri’s iron grip. Yuuri’s hand was sweaty on his wrist—it was clear he was hot from the delicious expanse of bare chest that was now peeking out from his dress shirt. Viktor silently thanked whatever gods were responsible for the modern death of the undershirt, because some sinful mix of wine and perspiration had also rendered what was left of Yuuri’s top translucent. The way that garment clung to its owner’s sides was a capital offense. It had Viktor secretly hoping, against his better judgement, that he was being dragged off to some bathroom stall somewhere to really escape. Or, better yet, maybe Yuuri was done with banqueting for the evening, and Viktor was the lucky recipient of one night in his hotel room.
He knew both of those were too good to be true. After all, Yuuri was more than one glass past plastered. It had only taken Viktor a few trysts to learn that drunken fun was usually less than its name. The potential for harm was nowhere near worth the clumsy, underwhelming action. So Viktor fantasized, but only that, and he was thrilled when Yuuri pulled him into a secluded little corner of the lobby, out of sight of anyone who might still be awake or wandering away from the party.
“God, I hate banquets.”
Beautiful and half-shirtless, and a man after Viktor’s own heart. An amazing dancer capable of captivating everyone around him. Viktor was in capital-T Trouble.
“Me too,” Viktor said almost by rote, leaning forward on his elbow and turning to better admire his impromptu date. Ruddy-faced and bleary-eyed, Yuuri covered his face with his hands and bellowed an incredulous laugh.
“You? Mr. Camera-Ready?” he chortled, leaving his palms to hang from his cheeks dazedly. “A night like tonight is practically in your honor; who wouldn’t love that?”
“I think you have me confused with the man out on the ice,” Viktor said, deflating a little. “People love him. No one cares once the skates are off.”
Yuuri snorted. “It’s like people don’t realize how much work goes into getting there.” He fell forward, dropping his head into the crook of his elbow. “Not that I have to worry about it; no one sees me either way.”
“I see you,” Viktor said, the hopeful pitch in his voice sort of pathetic as he heard it. “You have stronger step sequences than any of us, Yuuri. You should be confident in them.”
Yuuri shifted uncomfortably, burying his head between his forearms with a little whine.
“Well I’m not, okay?” he groaned. “There will always be some beautiful, talented, beautiful man with a gold streak to break. I can say this to you, because I know this is a dream.”
“This is a… I’m sorry?” Viktor asked. Of all the things for Yuuri to blurt out drunkenly, that wasn’t it.
“A dream.” Yuuri sighed. “In real life, Viktor would never have the time for someone like me. He’s bigger and more amazing than I ever could hope to aspire. There’s no way I could… anyway, it doesn’t matter. This is my dream, I might as well enjoy it, right?”
Oh.
How stupid Viktor was to hope. How naive to assume, their first real opportunity to talk, that Katsuki Yuuri wouldn’t have him up on a pedestal like everyone else. Viktor wasn’t a friend, not even a peer. He was a dream. Something unattainable, impermanent, incorporeal. To Yuuri, Viktor wasn’t a person, he was an idea.
It was so lonely so high above the world. It had been fun at first. Viktor had been flippant in his fame. It was amazing, the leverage it gave him. He didn’t like to think he was out of touch, but it was clear that everyone around him assumed him to be. As his platform rose higher and higher, connecting was harder and harder. That sort of isolation happened in plain sight. Why did no one ever question it but him? Why had no one extended a ladder, a step, anything? Was his only way down to jump?
Yuuri stretched lavishly over the edge of the table, his skin squeaking across its shiny surface, before rising precariously to his feet. “I left my tie… somewhere,” he mumbled, turning back out toward the banquet hall. “Do you think there's more champagne?”
“I hope there is,” Viktor said. He squeezed his eyes shut for a moment, trying to shake himself from yet another spiral that evening. When he opened them, Yuuri was already gone.
Shit. At least when he was alone, there was no pillar for him to stand atop. It was why his closest companion was his dog. God, he missed Makkachin. It wasn’t long before he’d be home with the only creature he knew to love him without the addition of contrived expectations. He’d have to tell her how, yet again, a date was even lonelier than being alone.
Not that Katsuki was a date. No, he couldn’t start down that path, either. The moment he affixed his own hopes onto something, he’d set himself up for disappointment. He’d sat with Katsuki for barely five minutes outside of a banquet they were both required to attend. And Katsuki clearly admired him, the skater. He heard Viktor, the gold medalist, not Viktor: vulnerable, touch-starved, and yearning for a connection.
Viktor used to cry at letdowns like this. Not anymore. He’d down another champagne or two, go back to his suite for a few glasses of water and an episode of Downton Abbey, and fall asleep before the end credits.
Post-banquet tradition.
When he pushed through the double doors that opened into the private banquet, Viktor found Yuuri back in Christophe’s clutches, this time wrapped around a shiny steel pole he was sure hadn’t been there when they’d left. Whatever had been left of that sweat-soaked shirt was now nowhere to be seen, and Yuuri’s pants must have been with them, because the only thing keeping him presentable (for lack of a better word) was a pair of tight, blue boxer briefs that accentuated all his best assets. He’d found his tie, apparently, because it hung like the punchline of a dirty joke around his neck, brushing back and forth over his bare chest as he cycled through some impressive pole dance moves. Or at least, Viktor assumed they were impressive, based off of a limited knowledge supplied by Christophe and his level of attraction.
There must have been more champagne.
Viktor resolved to stick around until the pole dancing was inevitably shut down, no longer. He definitely wouldn’t offer to walk Yuuri back up to his room. He already knew he was no more a person to Japan’s Ace than Viktor’s idols had been to him. How much pushing would it take to break through and make a connection? Probably more than he was willing to endure.
It took surprisingly long for anyone to muster up the guts to coax Yuuri and Christophe down off the pole. Viktor could see Josef and Celestino commiserating over drinks nearby, but even they didn’t try to stop their skaters. Once the thing was taken down and Yuuri’s shirt had been handed back to him, Viktor went over to try and get Christophe back to his room. At best, Chris was always willing to help him chase away his loneliness no strings attached, and at the very least he could have someone to whine to as he drifted off into what he hoped would be a dreamless sleep.
“The life of the party as always, Chris,” he murmured, low enough to keep out of earshot of Yuuri.
Chris, whose eyes had yet to detach themselves from the opening in Yuuri’s shirt, nodded. “Yes, he certainly is.”
Viktor frowned. “I was talking about you, mon beau,” he said, trying not to pout.
Chris swung his hips to gently collide with Viktor’s, his face full of mirth.
“I know, honey, but look at him.”
“Oh, I have,” Viktor hummed, shifting his weight to keep that little bit of contact with his friend’s side. “He’s the only reason I haven’t gone to bed yet.”
Chris chuckled, bringing his arm around to pat Viktor’s side. “Don’t think I didn’t notice,” he purred. “Where were you two for so long?”
“It was barely five minutes, Chris.”
“Ah, well you know, when you’re excited…” Chris says with a playful smirk.
Viktor sighed, dropping his head onto his friend’s shoulder. “We talked a bit, he gushed about what a great skater I am, and then he came and rubbed his body all over you. It’s just not my night.”
They watched as Yuuri cast away his coach’s multiple attempts to get pants back on him, Viktor brushing his fingers hopefully against Chris’ side under his untucked shirt. Yuuri continued to dance, and he unsurprisingly found plenty still willing to join him. Without Chris, the atmosphere had shifted back to fun and silly instead of sexy, but Yuuri was a scrumptious sight wherever he went.
When Viktor let his hand drop to Chris’ hip, his friend pulled away with a sympathetic smile.
“Mon chéri, you’re about three weeks too late,” he said gently. “My boy toy and I just went exclusive.”
Viktor felt his mood drop instantly. Tonight had been doomed from the start. He should have stuck to his original plan.
“Not even traveling?” he asked, and Chris sighed, a dreamy, silly grin on his face.
“I know, can you imagine?” he mused. “I’m smitten, I’m afraid. Josef says he’s the best thing to ever happen to me.”
Damn, damn, damn, Viktor felt like an idiot. He even knew Chris had been seeing someone; they’d talked about it extensively together during the competition. He didn’t know what had gotten into him, this desperate grasping at anyone who could fill the empty space around him. He should have expected that no one would be willing to climb up to meet him in the isolation he’d built for himself. Least of all, the hurting hopeful contender who’d had to listen to him bitch about being too famous. How stupid could he be!?
He was never one to give up, though. He’d at least get Katsuki’s number, in case their paths crossed in slightly more sober circumstances. Maybe at Worlds? If Yuuri could make it to the GPF…
“Of course, how could I have forgotten?” he muttered, squeezing Chris’ hand once more as he pulled away. “Call me for breakfast, please?”
He broke off and made a course toward the dance floor. He couldn’t get pulled in, no matter how beautifully Yuuri moved. He’d get in, exchange contacts, and get out. At this point, he didn’t even want to watch TV. He’d do some shots at the hotel bar and pass out without any worry of the kind of lonesome dreams these events gave him.
Yuuri’s tie was now around his head, his pants and shoes sitting idly by the wall next to his exasperated coach, and when he saw Viktor, he practically melted.
“One more dance, Viktor!” he cried, latching on and pinning Viktor’s arms to his sides. For as long as they’d danced together, Viktor hadn’t had this kind of dizzying proximity yet, their bodies pressed close and Yuuri’s clouded eyes gazing adoringly up into his.
Fuck.
Yuuri was still babbling in broken English, grinding against Viktor so shamelessly that he had to fight not to give in. “...and even though you got lost for a while, I just wanted to say I had a lovely time and I’m so glad we finally got to talk! And Viktor, I’ve been wanting to ask all night…”
Viktor held his breath, ready to spell out ‘y-e-s’ against those red, pouty lips. God, he was hopeless.
“Will you come to Japan and be my coach?”
Well.
“My parents own a hot spring, and you could come and stay with us! Be my coach, Viktor!”
Viktor hadn’t quite been expecting that. It wasn’t exactly common, was it? Skaters didn’t just ask their competitors to drop their competitive career to come and coach, right? He’d never seen it. He’d never heard anything like it.
Honestly, it wouldn’t have been a bad deal. A break away from the everyday, the monotony that has been drilling against his psyche for the past however long. Japan was one of his favorite places to travel, after all. He’d love to enjoy it without the stress of a competition. But what would that mean for him? Was he ready to give up skating? Was he ready to be a coach? Whatever the answer was to either of those, he definitely wasn’t ready to navigate the sloppy mix of professional and personal relationships. Coaching Yuuri almost definitely meant condemning himself to the torture of working alongside him without being able to get close to him. Or worse, getting close without being able to act on it. Taking a student only to date them later would be career suicide in this day and age. He wasn’t interested in that.
As they always were when Yuuri was involved, all eyes were turned expectantly in their directions, and Viktor needed to escape the allure of those hips as soon as humanly possible.
So he did what he had to. He ignored the pitiful way the life drained from those gorgeous amber-brown eyes. The way the arms that held him tightly fell dully at Yuuri’s sides. He turned and left without daring to meet the gaze of anyone around him, even as the uproar began. Yakov was after him. Yuri was after him. Christophe was the only one who caught up, probably because Christophe was the only one Viktor would let at this point.
“Did you just turn down an opportunity to stay with Katsuki Yuuri?” Chris demanded, trying to slow Viktor’s gait with a tug of his arm.
Viktor did not slow down.
“I had to,” he choked out, blinking back an unfamiliar sting at the corner of his eyes. Whatever Chris had to say in response, Viktor couldn’t hear. He was too busy trying to swallow around a painful lump in his throat. He jammed the button for the elevator, thankful that there was already a car waiting for him on the ground floor, and passed through the automatic double doors without so much as a glance behind him. “Goodnight, Chris.”