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"Chris, the final flight of skaters is starting. Let's go watch," his coach Josef suggested after Christophe exited the locker room, having changed out of his costume after his free skate. "As a first year senior, it's important to watch the top skaters compete to learn what will be expected of you if you want to join them."
Grinning, Christophe zipped up his warm-up jacket and nodded. "Okay!" He would have suggested it anyway, even if Josef hadn't.
There was one skater in particular he was dying to see skate: reigning Olympic and World Champion Viktor Nikiforov. At only seventeen years old, he had already won all the major senior titles, and based on the breath-taking short program he had skated earlier in the competition, Christophe could see why. Not only was he technically strong, Viktor skated with an elegance and beauty unexpected of a skater so young. He had easily won both his Grand Prix events this season, captured the gold at the Final, and unless he totally bombed the free, the European title was his as well. In other words, he was nothing short of amazing.
And the fact that Viktor was incredibly handsome… Well, it certainly didn't hurt.
On their way to the stands, a streak of silvery-white passed by Christophe and Josef. It took Christophe a couple of seconds to realize it had been Viktor, his long hair flowing behind him like a banner as he jogged around the backstage area, waiting to be called back to the ice. Christophe started to turn, wanting to wish Viktor "good luck" before his skate, but Josef firmly grabbed him by the shoulders, spinning him back around.
"Don't bother other skaters when they're about to take the ice," Josef gently lectured him as they climbed the steps leading up to the second tier of seats. "They need to focus and concentrate. There will be time later to socialize."
Christophe sighed. "Yes, sir. I understand."
He supposed he wouldn't want to be bothered by some no-name skater from a small federation either, if he had been in Viktor's skates. Stupid growth spurt! After a fairly successful junior career that included a silver at last season's Junior Worlds, he had started his first season on the senior circuit with grand aspirations of making the Grand Prix Final and maybe even medaling here at Europeans, but with the rapid addition of ten centimeters to his frame and counting, Christophe's jumps were all out of whack, causing him to miss the podium at both his Grand Prix events. His European debut had gone even worse. Right now he was currently in third place, largely due to his fantastic spinning ability (continuing in the Swiss tradition), but Christophe already knew he had no hope of staying there with six more skaters left to skate.
They lucked out and found a couple of empty seats near the gate where the skaters entered and exited the ice. As he suspected by Viktor's presence backstage, they had missed watching the six minute warm-up period. The first skater in the flight, hailing from France, was already in the middle of performing his flamboyant free program, the hometown crowd clapping along to the upbeat music. Christophe half-heartedly joined them; he wasn't bad by any means, but he was no Viktor Nikiforov.
"When does Viktor skate?" he asked Josef while the French skater waited for his score at the nearby Kiss-and-Cry.
"He drew the last spot," Josef said with a frown, "but, Chris, you need to pay attention to the other skaters, too, not just Viktor. This is a good opportunity for you to learn from the more experienced men."
Christophe rolled his eyes. "Fiiiiiiine."
As expected, the French skater took over the top spot, officially knocking Christophe off the podium. Quelle surprise.
The next skater to take the ice was Russian, one of Viktor's training mates. Christophe sat up a little straighter in his seat, although he raised an eyebrow when he saw what Georgi Popovich was wearing. Garbed all in black, he looked like Death personified, complete with dark lipstick and smokey eyeshadow which stood out starkly against his pale skin. It came as a surprise to absolutely nobody when an instrumental cover of an Evanescence song started blasting through the stadium's speakers, Georgi dramatically flapping his arms around as he glided forward on one foot.
Christophe had heard a little about Georgi through the grapevine, about how he was only one day younger than Viktor and how they had been one-sided rivals almost all their skating careers, Georgi in a never-ending quest to finally beat Viktor in competition. Sad to say, he wasn't going to surpass Viktor at Europeans either, falling on his only attempt at a quad – a quad salchow. The rest of his jumps and spins were good, though, if not Viktor-caliber good, and Christophe had to admit that the guy had style, even if it was kind of avant garde. It somehow worked for him.
Georgi went above the French skater, pushing Christophe further down the ranking.
The third skater to take the ice, from the Czech Republic, skated an unfortunate splatfest. Even with his sixth place finish in the short program, he still managed to drop behind Christophe in the standings.
Well, eighth place is better than the ninth I expected, he supposed.
The only skaters who remained were the top three after the short program: Viktor, a German skater, and another Russian man who did not train at the same rink as Viktor and Georgi. The other Russian skater went first, skating a solid, respectable free program that put him in the lead over Georgi. Next was the German skater; he, too, skated well, although it wasn't quite enough for first place. He landed in between the two Russians who had already skated, assured of at least the bronze.
The crowd roared when the last skater was announced, Viktor exchanging a few last words with his coach, Yakov Feltsman, at the boards before taking his position at center ice. Jumping out of his seat, Christophe cupped his hands in front of his mouth and bellowed, "Allez, Viktor!"
"Christophe!" Josef tugged on the bottom of Christophe's jacket. "Sit down. The people behind you can't see."
"Sorry."
Though he sat back down, he remained on the edge of his seat, eyes focused on Viktor. He looked gorgeous in a sparkly blue costume, the tunic designed to resemble the feathers of a bird. Unlike the brief glimpse Christophe had caught of him backstage, Viktor's silver-white hair was now pulled back into a ponytail at the nape of his neck, a few strands left loose to frame his stunning face. Christophe let out a dreamy sigh as Viktor's free program music began, instantly swept away as Viktor invited the spectators to another world, a world where he was the undisputed prince – no, king! – of the ice, a mystical creature no one else could touch.
Perfection. Absolute perfection.
There was no other word to describe Viktor's skating. His jumps were big and secure, with the highest base value ever attempted in history, including two quad toe loops and a quad salchow. His spins were perhaps not as fast and as flexible as Christophe's, but the positions he did hit had beautiful balletic extension, his spinning centered and free from traveling. And his footwork sequences! With the recent switch to the Code of Points judging system, many skaters had struggled with the new level requirements, yet Viktor made it look easy, his blade cutting through the ice like a knife as he demonstrated difficult brackets, rockers, and twizzles while still managing to interpret the music.
The audience, including Christophe, was already on their feet even before Viktor completed his final spin. Scores were unnecessary. Everyone present already knew Viktor had won his second European title in spectacular fashion. Even the German and Russian skaters who would join him on the podium were clapping for him in a show of good sportsmanship, fourth place finisher Georgi reluctantly joining them a few seconds later.
A storm of flowers and plush toys rained down on the ice as a triumphant Viktor took his bows. Christophe wished he had a gift to throw down on the ice as well, but unfortunately, he hadn't thought that far ahead. He settled for jumping up and down instead, screaming his head off. Josef didn't even bother to rein him in anymore, cheering almost as loudly for Viktor himself at Christophe's side.
After being crowned by a female fan with a wreath of blue roses to match his costume, Viktor gathered some of the wrapped flowers off the ice, carrying them in the crook of his left arm as he skated over to the gate.
Now was his chance.
Christophe leaned over the railing and waved wildly, trying to capture Viktor's attention. "Viktor, congrats!" he called out in English, regretting the only Russian words he knew were the dirty ones a fellow competitor at Junior Worlds had taught him.
Beaming, Viktor glanced up at him, Christophe feeling as if he had just been struck in the heart by one of Cupid's arrows. Up close and personal, Viktor was even more beautiful, if that was possible, like an angel fallen from Heaven – or perhaps a devil in disguise, sent to seduce everyone he met with his otherworldly beauty and charm.
"What's your name?" Viktor asked in perfect French, picking up on his Swiss French accent.
He speaks French, too? Christophe thought, having to grab onto the railing in an effort not to swoon. Could he be any more perfect? "Christophe Giacometti. I-I skate for Switzerland."
"Okay, here." Viktor selected one of the pink tulips wrapped in cellophane from the batch in his arm and tossed it up to Christophe. "Chris, let's meet again at Worlds!"
"Yeah!"
As Viktor continued onto the Kiss-and-Cry, his coach Yakov lecturing him about something in Russian at his side, Christophe clutched the tulip against his chest, cheeks burning and heart pounding a million beats a minute. Wow, Viktor Nikiforov actually spoke to me, he thought in a daze, barely even listening to Viktor's world record-breaking free skate score.
His head was still in the clouds twenty minutes later as he and Josef took a taxi back to the official hotel, Christophe sniffing the sweet fragrance of the tulip while staring out the window at the passing scenery of Lyon.
"Eighth place isn't bad for your first Euros, considering your jumps are still unstable and you are fresh out of juniors, but you'll need to work harder to prepare for Worlds," Josef said. "I think we should switch the order of your jumps in the second half of your free and take out your quad toe for now. You don't have the stamina yet to – Chris, are you listening to me?"
Christophe jumped, startled from his reverie. "Huh, what?" He turned his attention to his coach, trying to recall anything Josef had just said, but it was all a blank. "You said something about...uh, Worlds?"
Josef rolled his eyes, but there was an affectionate smile on his face as he ruffled Christophe's curls. "Never mind. We'll talk later," he said. "Just remember, no matter how much you idolize Viktor Nikiforov, he's still your rival on the ice. Don't forget that."
"I won't," Christophe promised, smiling as he twirled the tulip in between his thumb and pointer finger. "Believe me, one of these days, I'm going to be just as big a star as Viktor."
And when he was… Maybe Viktor would notice him in a different way.