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Free time is something that has become scarce and sacred for Yakov Feltsman over the years, and he’s learned to treasure every hour of peace and solitude he manages to steal. It’d been much easier to do when Yakov lived alone, but due to recent events, that isn’t the case anymore.
Victor, Yakov’s seventeen year old student, has been living under Yakov’s roof for six months now, and it’s been going well despite Victor’s tendencies to sing loudly in the shower at ass o’clock every morning and leave his crap everywhere around the house. Yakov may act exasperated with the boy but he likes having him around; Victor is bright and bubbly, radiating positivity which Yakov greatly appreciates some days, relying on that to lift his own tired mood.
Yakov settles down on the couch where Victor has already set up camp for the evening, watching TV with a blanket draped over his lap and an empty bowl of what once contained popcorn on the floor below him. Yakov opens up his newspaper, beginning to read for a few minutes before the sound of hysterical sobbing and melodramatic kissing noises draw his attention up to the TV screen.
He scowls at the onscreen couple trying to make out through their ugly tears. He’d quickly discovered that Victor enjoys trashy romance movies such as these, though for the life of him, Yakov can’t work out why.
He tries to distract himself with his reading, only to immediately snap his head back up at the sound of another set of tears much closer to home. Yakov glances sideways at Victor with a bewildered frown. Victor fully engrossed in the movie as he clutches his blanket with both hands and sobs his heart out, shameless and open.
Yakov tries not to sigh. He is far too sober for this.
“Yakov?” Victor’s voice is wobbly and full of emotion, such an innocent request for attention.
It’s embarrassing to admit, but Yakov is intensely uncomfortable with the situation. Emotional displays like this tend to put him on edge, and just because he and Victor get along well as coach and student, doesn’t mean Yakov has any real idea how to comfort the teenager when he gets upset. “Yes, Vitya.”
“Do you think I’ll ever find true love?”
Yakov’s eyes roll up to the ceiling, and he drops his paper onto his lap with a heavy sigh. He rubs his forehead, muttering, “Oh God. I need a drink.”
“I’m serious!” Victor whines, blue eyes wide and distraught. “I spend all of my time training and competing; the only boy my age who I talk to is Georgi. Nobody even tries to approach me because they only see me as ‘World Champion Victor Nikiforov’ instead of an actual person. What if I never find someone who wants me for me?”
Yakov grunts, trying to straighten his haphazard newspaper and doing his best to avoid this conversation by any means necessary. “You will, Vitya.”
“You don’t know that! What if my career is all I’ll ever have?”
Yakov finally looks away from his paper, turning his head towards Victor who is blinking up at him expectantly like a tearful, innocent doe. “I need more than just a shelf full of trophies, Yakov.”
Yakov sighs again, silently mourning the loss of his quiet reading time and folding his newspaper in half. He shifts where he sits, tilting his body towards Victor. “You’ll find your love, Vitya. I don’t know when you will; it could be a month from now, it could be a year or it could even be ten years, but it will happen for you. You’ll find somebody who will treat you the way you deserve to be treated, and they will love you and admire you for who you are inside, not just for how many trophies are sitting on your shelf.”
Victor’s eyes still glimmer with tears but his face has broken into a beaming smile. He wipes his cheeks with shaky hands, asking, “Really?”
“Yes, really.”
Yakov lets out a breath; after his emotional words he feels lost and a little self-conscious, so as always, he defaults back to his usual grumpy self. Picking up his newspaper again, he clears his throat and makes himself more comfortable against the cushions. “Now please mute this god awful movie before it gives me a migraine.”
“Okay,” Victor says with a watery laugh, muting the TV and lying down on his side, using the armrest as a pillow. “Hey, Yakov? When I get married someday, I want you to be the one who gives me away.”
A little air is punched from Yakov’s lungs, and he does his best to rapidly blink away a couple of tears that prick his eyes. He grumbles again, rustling the paper and saying, “Hush, Vitya. I’m trying to read.”