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“I still don’t understand why you would want to coach someone like Yuuri,” Christophe once confessed. “I’d understand if your choice were some youth with raw talent, like that Plisetsky kid. But him? He can skate, sure, but I've seen better. There has to be something more to the picture. Tell me, Viktor - out of everyone, why him?”
Why him? Well, there were so many ways he could have answered that. He could have raised a shoulder, and said that he just wanted to see how coaching would work out for him, like testing the waters before diving right in. Or he could have professed that seeing Yuuri perform his number flattered him, and he only wanted to return the favor with an act of kindness. He could have confessed that Yuuri was exceptionally flawless, and he felt the need to guide him himself - or he could have just waved a hand in the air, answering with a simple ‘I just felt like it’.
There were a million and more ways he could have answered that seemingly simple question. He could have conjured up a cliched truth, or he could have told a lewd lie. He could have given a passionate speech about the taste of a shared victory, or he could have left the question unanswered. But none of them felt authentic; each reason felt like an excuse, and each fact felt fake when brought to the tip of his tongue.
Why did I coach him? Why, indeed?
He didn't know how to put his motives into reason. All he knew was that it was more of a matter regarding the heart than the mind.
There was no other way to put it. All he knew was that he definitely felt it, like a tug he couldn’t avoid, a force he couldn’t overcome. The first time he felt it was when he had seen that stranger dance away in a video for the first time. He still remembered the wave of surprise that had washed over him, like a slap to the face - having someone mimic your entire performance, move for move, so perfectly was nothing if not astounding.
After the surprise, however, came the captivation; the way he had twisted and turned to the highs and lows of the song, the way he had carried his sequences along with the crescendos so expertly… he couldn’t help the way his toes curled with excitement. It was as if the skater were making the music himself - his body being the instruments, and his soft, subtle moves the melody. The more frequently Viktor watched that video, the more details he started noticing hidden within; like the way his eyebrows scrunched with emotion whenever he reached the song's climax, how he'd twist his wrist just when the violins changed their tunes, and how he'd hide a smile whenever he'd land a quad perfectly. Viktor's skin would never stop tingling with exhilaration, and his heart would never stop fluttering in his chest.
It was as if he were staring at a painting, filled to the brim with bright colors, all blindingly beautiful. At first, you'd only focus on the bigger strokes of reds and greens and pinks - but it was only later you'd notice the soft smears of white paint in between the glorious mess. You notice the subtleties once you’ve studied the obnoxiously loud details - and then you'd start seeing it all in a different light. That was when the madness would start making sense.
Yuuri was the painting, and Viktor the observer. And once he had finally seen that breathtaking silver lining shining bright through the chaos - well, Viktor could no longer look away.
It was not long before he traveled across the world, only to stand before Yuuri himself - but before anything could happen, the youthful Yuri Plisetsky had entered the picture. Soon enough, what was planned to be a simple choice of helping one another out morphed itself into a full fledged battle of the best - the victor winning fame, and the loser winning a ticket back home.
Of course, Viktor had to be pulled along with the flow of the consequent events. As much as the idea of a confrontation on who was better at skating felt childish, he couldn’t say no. The profession of coaching demanded finesse and accuracy the most, after all. Viktor couldn’t just make a decision based purely on feelings. This had to be a matter of the mind, not just the heart.
Yuri proved himself to be quite the prodigy. It was as if his lithe, slender body was made for the fine moves and technicalities figure skating demanded so badly. He was not so hard to work with, either; any additions Viktor wanted to make, and he’d immediately understand with a silent nod. The usual skirmishes came and went, but that much was expected - the only times Yuri ever spoke back was when he'd insist that he could do better. He’d make a bitter face at the music he was assigned, but he was willing to mold his entire self for an innocent persona - the pure representation of sacrificial, unconditional love.
Yuuri, however… he was different.
At first, he stuttered more than he spoke, and Yuri’s intervention all but struck him hard across the face; being coached by a world champion was one thing - having to fight against a contender was more than he could handle.
Strangely - surprisingly - he didn’t back down.
If anything, he gave it his all. Without complaint, and without hesitation, he did everything that was demanded from him. From the most trivial of step sequences, to the most strenuous of quads, he strove to be the best. There were countless of times he misplaced his step one for another. There were even more times he fell onto the ice hard, after having improperly timed his quads. Even then, he would never complain. He would only wipe his brow, and say one thing: “Again!”
And with a gleaming, determined gaze like his - well, it was impossible to refuse.
The night of the performance finally came. Crowds cheering, lights illuminating the ice rink, glittering like a sea of diamonds, it felt as if they were back at the Grand Prix finals. Viktor couldn’t help his jittery nerves the entire time. What would happen next? he couldn't help but wonder.
First came Yuri Plisetsky; in his shimmering white attire, he was the entire embodiment of virtuous love. It was as if he were gliding on the ice, his moves flowing in on one another like water. His quads were effortless, and his step sequencing beautiful. From the way the fans just couldn’t stop their cries of awe and adoration, it was almost as if the competition had ended before it even began.
But then came Yuuri Katsuki, adorned in glittering black and silver. For someone who was of the habit of staying away from the limelight, he was unavoidable. Like a dark horse, he skid to a halt at the center of the ice rink. All eyes on him.
And when he began, it was as if he were someone entirely different; no longer was he the timid man who’d turn red at the slightest thought of having to portray an erotic character. No, this was someone who manifested eros, in its true, sultry nature. His step sequencing was flawless, as if the entire performance was built into his bones. His jumps were strong and awe-inspiring. Even when he fell while landing one quad, the crowd didn’t cease to encourage him. It was simply magical to watch, for he had the entire arena enraptured; it was like a work of sorcery that compelled people to look on.
Yuuri had everyone cast in his spell, and Viktor was the worst victim of them all.
He just couldn’t bring it in himself to look away, as if a grip as strong as steel had held his gaze in place, chasing Yuuri wherever he went. The silky smooth movements of his legs, the sensual sway of his hips, the twirl of his fingers… he was dumb-founded entirely, and there was nothing he could do about it. Everything from his dainty pirouettes, to his bold strides sung a song of their own - and his expressions… they told a story of the eros he so obviously possessed, and of a love he demanded.
It was a story Viktor knew - but hearing Yuuri recount it through his performance was an experience he could never forget.
Ah, there was that tug again; that strong force that pulled him towards something. Well, now Viktor knew where the tug pulled at - and now he knew who it lead him to.
There were so many reasons why Viktor decided to coach Yuuri; was it because of his amazing step sequencing, or his incomplete quads? Was it because of his drive to succeed, or his lack of confidence in himself? Was it because of the song his body could sing, or the story his eyes could tell?
Viktor wasn’t sure - he wasn’t sure why he stayed.
But to answer that question, he could only smile, and say:
“What can I say? He just… caught my eye.”