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Yuuri, standing in front of a train map in the Moscow Metro’s entrance hall: ‘Oh no.’ He squints at the Cyrillic script, his nose scrunching. Plucks at Viktor’s sleeve. It’s ten o’clock at night. ‘Viktor, Viktor, which line should we take?’
‘I don’t know,’ replies Viktor cheerfully, his hands stuffed in the pockets of his jacket. He’s a little bit drunk. ‘What do you think?’
‘You’re the one from Russia,’ Yuuri says.
‘Well, I’m not from Moscow, am I?’
Yuuri exhales quietly. When Yuuri saw the inside of a Moscow station for the first time, his eyes went wide and his mouth fell open. Viktor would very much like to show him all the stations, all two hundred of them — their high vaulted ceilings, the breathtaking gleam of chandeliers and stained glass. Carved pillars framing Yuuri’s slender figure in his sleep-scuffed jeans and grey hoodie. Maybe next time. Viktor taps the opposite side of the kiosk, instead.
‘English,’ he says, and Yuuri ducks around the kiosk to come to Viktor’s side with a look of relief.
‘Good,’ Yuuri breathes — and then it turns into a deep sigh as he takes in the full map in all its sprawling, tangling glory. His hair’s tousled and his eyes must be stinging from the evening wind. Viktor’s warm from the good vodka and the good dinner, and the sleepy, unhappy swell of Yuuri’s lower lip is begging to be touched. Viktor’s fingertips itch. He curls his right hand into a fist in his pocket.
‘We can always ask for directions,’ he points out. ‘Look, I can just —’
‘I’m twenty-three years old. I can handle being lost in a foreign country,’ Yuuri mutters, with the kind of bleary-eyed contempt only Yuuri can muster when he’s exhausted. Purely for show, Yuuri rests his forehead against the kiosk for a moment; Viktor has to hide his smile. ‘Okay. Okay. Google Maps it is —’
‘No, don’t. I’ll help,’ Viktor interrupts, contrite. He flattens his palm against the map and traces their route with his finger. ‘See, we’re headed to Okhotny Ryad — here — oh, no, different line, okay. We’ll get off at Teatralnaya and walk. It’s not far.’
‘Okay,’ says Yuuri even as his eyelashes dip in gratitude. They’re standing slightly further apart than they normally would; still, surely the whole world can see how they’re sharing one another’s air. Blinking slowly, Yuuri allows himself to be guided towards the platform. Viktor keeps his hand at the small of Yuuri’s back, glancing over his shoulder all the while.
They’re laughing by the time the hotel — familiar and golden in its soft lamplight — looms up before them. Yuuri pushes his hair back, eyes bright in the carpeted comfort of the lobby. He looks younger than half the other skaters, with his fine features and the porcelain clearness of his skin, but here he is — here in Moscow with Viktor at his side, ready to impress a crowd that’s too used to roaring Viktor’s name. Viktor is prouder than he’s ever been. He lets his fingertips brush Yuuri’s wrist as they pass underneath the arch, and Yuuri hums in acknowledgement.
‘Ah, Yurio!’ says Yuuri, pleased, when they spot Yurio leaning against the wall beside a potted plant. Head down, Yurio scowls at his Instagram feed (the wifi’s best in the lobby). The initial awkwardness between them has worn off and Yuuri’s more confident with Viktor beside him, at any rate. ‘There you are.’
‘You again?’ Yurio looks up, forehead creasing in annoyance. ‘Why are you back so late? No, don’t tell me. I don’t want to know.’
‘Have you had dinner?’
‘Yeah, I’m not a baby. Vitya, Mila says good luck.’ His frown deepens. ‘Both of you.’
Viktor beams. ‘Thank you!’
Yurio sputters, ‘Don’t thank me! I’m only passing on the message!’
Viktor slings an arm over Yurio’s shoulders, ignoring his halfhearted protests. On Viktor’s other side, he can feel Yuuri’s mouth quirking into a smile as if Yuuri can’t quite help himself. There’s a deep glow to the lobby at this hour and the night outside stretches long and cool. ‘Want to come up to our room and watch TV?’
Yurio, who has the hood of his jacket up even though they’re indoors, shoots Viktor an incredulous glance. ‘No.’
‘Oh, okay then,’ Yuuri says, and his voice curls softly downwards and the corners of his mouth droop. Hand tucked into the crook of Yuuri’s elbow, Viktor grins. Yurio takes one look at Yuuri and his ears go red in outrage.
‘Fine! But only for a short while!’
Viktor is fond of his home country, all things considered. It’s a special feeling to be staying in a Russian hotel, to be hounded by the press in his native language — Yuuri on his left and Yurio, looking taller and older in his blue jacket, on Viktor’s right. Yuuri rubs the back of his hand over his eyes. Viktor doesn’t use his phone much but Yurio is enough of a social media addict for them both, and he sniffs periodically as he scrolls through Instagram and Twitter. In this aspect Yurio is a little like Viktor, a little apart from the rest — he doesn’t like or comment on posts very often, just scoffs and tilts the phone sideways to let Viktor see. Yuuri’s expression is very soft. Yurio’s sniggering at his phone screen as they step out of the lift on the ninth floor, and it’s everything Viktor didn’t know he could have: this quiet intimacy.
‘Who is it? JJ?’ Yuuri asks, distracted, as he unzips his bag.
‘Do you think I’d follow JJ? Really?’ Yurio shares a meaningful look with Viktor over Yuuri’s head. Yuuri is fishing for his key card before they even get to the room door, because that’s how Yuuri is. ‘It’s Chris.’
‘Oh, Chris! What did he post?’
‘Another selfie,’ Viktor and Yurio answer noncommittally at the same time. Yurio scrolls faster.
‘Fuck, I accidentally liked it — Vitya, don’t laugh!’
‘Oh no, no…’ Yuuri breathes, slumping against the wall, ‘don’t tell me I lost my key —’
‘I’ve got it!’
‘Why am I still here?’ Yurio asks the ceiling.
Viktor pats one of his jeans pockets, then the other. Yuuri’s eyelids are fluttering in fatigue. ‘It’s right here, just give me a second —’
‘Yes, but we still have to find my copy eventually, right?’
There’s an elderly porter hobbling in and out of the room opposite them, struggling with a heavy load of luggage that must belong to the Crispino twins. Viktor smiles at her uncomfortably. Yuuri has his head half-buried in the bag Yurio is now helpfully holding open, and doesn’t see.
‘Did I drop it on the way out of the restaurant…?’
‘Here’s mine,’ Viktor says, stopping him mid-sentence with one palm on Yuuri’s chest. ‘Let’s go in. We can worry about your key tomorrow morning.’
‘Can I help you?’ the porter asks. She raises an eyebrow at Viktor, whose face has somehow ended up very close to Yuuri’s.
‘Nyet. Dasvidaniya,’ Yuuri says loudly, and marches them away down the corridor. Once their backs are turned, he winces and whispers to himself, ‘I’m sorry! That was so rude!’
‘It’s not that funny, Viten’ka,’ Yurio grumbles as he slouches into Viktor and Yuuri’s room. ‘Why are you in such a good mood today?’
#CoC16
#ViktorNikiforov
#GPFLoveWins
#Kiss&Cry
#KatsukiYuuri
Golden Skate @goldenskate
Russia’s #LudmilaBabicheva shines in Paris @m_babicheva #ЛюдмилаБабичева #GPFigure #GPFrance bit.ly/2foxsiV
Golden Skate @goldenskate
#SaraCrispino and #MicheleCrispino talk about their 2016–17 programs @CrispinoSiblings youtube.com/watch?v=…
Rolling Stone @rollingstone
Here’s why Russia’s legendary Viktor Nikiforov may never return to figure skating rol.st/1zDEq8k
ISU Figure Skating @ISU_Figure
#GPFigure #CoC16 Phichit Chulanont blazes the trail for figure skating in Southeast Asia ow.ly/gj3M306gt2E
The next morning, Yuuri manages to settle the matter of his missing key in halting Russian. He doesn’t have to, of course — the staff speak English — but Viktor is delighted. Viktor’s hair is still wet from the shower and the faint fragrance of the corridor clings to Yuuri’s clothes. He throws his arms around Yuuri’s waist from behind as they head to the dining room for breakfast, and Yuuri laughs and reaches back to pat Viktor absent-mindedly.
‘Yuuri, I’m so proud of you!’
‘I can’t breathe,’ Yuuri gasps.
‘Oh my god, let him breathe!’ Yurio snaps, and Viktor releases Yuuri in alarm. Yuuri stumbles sideways, bumping into Yakov, who growls.
‘Sorry, sorry!’
Yurio rests his chin in his hand at the breakfast table, cheeks squishing comically. Yakov (who greets Viktor with a stiff nod) is absorbed in the morning paper, and Yuuri watches in mild horror as Viktor spoons a generous helping of raspberry jam into his tea.
‘That’s normal in Russia. It is not just him,’ Yurio says in an undertone when he notices the direction of Yuuri’s gaze. Yuuri nods in understanding.
‘So, Yuuri Katsuki,’ says Yakov abruptly in his heavily accented English, without glancing up from the newspaper. ‘How old are you?’
‘Twenty-three,’ Yuuri squeaks.
‘Yakov,’ Viktor warns.
Yakov says: ‘Huh!’
Emil Nekola staggers past them with a stack of blinis on a plate, futilely calling Michele’s name. Yuuri smiles at him, a little awkwardly. Viktor takes a sip of his tea; Yurio doesn’t even bother to turn his head. So far, nobody has noticed Viktor is wearing Yuuri’s hoodie, for which Viktor is grateful.
Yurio snaps his fingers underneath Yuuri’s nose. ‘Hey, pass the coffee.’
‘I hope Viktor’s fans don’t hate me now,’ Yuuri mumbles, more to himself than to anyone else, as he slides two packets of sugar towards Yurio along with the coffee jug from the next table.
‘What fans?’ demands Yurio.
Viktor clicks his tongue. ‘You hurt my heart, solnyshko.’
‘Don’t call me that!’
‘Is today’s comics section nice?’ says Yuuri desperately, looking in Yakov’s direction. Yakov ignores him.
Yurio snorts. ‘It’s okay. They know Vitya’s reputation. Did he ask to sleep with you on the first night? Yes?’
‘I refuse to understand,’ Yakov mutters, flipping a page aggressively.
‘Yeah, I thought so. We Russians are straightforward people.’
‘We did not do any sleeping!’
(Yakov: ‘Christ!’)
‘Hey,’ Viktor says. ‘I’ll have you know I am very suave.’
Yuuri says, ‘The first question you asked me was whether I was single.’
‘And now you’re not! You’re welcome!’
Rolling Stone
November 20, 2016
…and of course, kissing another man on live television didn’t stop him from being joyously welcomed back to Moscow as their national hero.
As this year’s competitors battle it out for the remaining spots at the Grand Prix Final, the figure skating world is rife with speculation. The Grand Prix is only one of the first competitions of the season, but the Nikiforov-Katsuki dream team’s already making waves. They’re both known for the high artistic quality of their skating, which in Nikiforov’s case is (or was?) coupled with unsurpassable technical prowess. There’s also Russia’s rising star, 15-year-old Yuri Plisetsky, whose pixie-like prettiness and distinctively ballet-inspired style has provoked the occasional comment from his North American rivals.
A victory for either Katsuki or Plisetsky in the Grand Prix could set a precedent, what with skaters currently shying away from choreography with anything resembling an effeminate flair. Could this be the dawn of a new era for the notoriously homophobic sport?
Nikiforov, who famously responded to rumours about his sexuality with ‘Good luck winning a gold medal for Russia without me!’ in 2009, declined to comment…
Here is what Viktor misses: wearing the Team Russia jacket. Walking together with the others into the cold comfort of the rink. He’s done this over and over again, European Championships and Worlds and more, till the routine rocks him like a nighttime lullaby. The best hotels booked entirely for the nations’ best skaters, and Viktor has always been Russia’s best. He likes eating at fine restaurants. Sleeping on soft beds in places where the sheets are changed every day. He likes wearing expensive clothes. Viktor has an unerring eye for glamour, for picking out exactly the kind of wardrobe he ought to have where the press can see him. In his own apartment he sinks into long-sleeved shirts and loose jeans and sweaters, like a child playing dress-up.
The faces of the rinkmates standing beside Viktor change every season but Viktor is still there. Sometimes he watches old YouTube videos of his performances, because vanity is a trait he’ll readily own up to. Snorts at the titles with words like ICONIC and Best Performance Eleven 6.0s!!! because they’re all programs he can barely remember. Clinically evaluating: gorgeous footwork, the sweep of arms perfectly designed. Could’ve landed that one better. It’s like watching the movements of a stranger.
Viktor played and replayed “Stay Close to Me” so many times that Makkachin recognised Yuuri on sight. He doesn’t visit the Golden Skate forums. He doesn’t bother. There is nothing there that could be useful to him. He slides through the years of low-quality, high-quality clips — the succession of nicknames, from Russia’s prince to Russia’s hero to Russia’s legend and Viktor is so tired. He stands in the hotel lobby and patiently waits and the reporters say when are you coming back to skating? When? When? When?
Yuri Plisetsky: LMAO
You: Yurio!!!
Yuri Plisetsky: they found them
Yuri Plisetsky: the internet found ur photos with ur ex bfs
You: Really?? Oh no
You: That’s embarrassing
Yuri Plisetsky: pfft ur still embarrassing
You: It’s okay Yuuri won’t mind
Yuri Plisetsky: tru
Yuri Plisetsky: anw, he alr knows he’s obv not ur first bf
You: Well he is my favourite?????
Yuri Plisetsky: WHY DO I TALK TO YOU
‘Yuuri, what do you want for lunch? Don’t say “anything”.’
Yuuri smiles. They’ve spent the last few hours of late-morning practice at the rink on Red Square. Running through Yuuri’s choreography side by side is still one of Viktor’s favourite ways to spend practice. Viktor’s movements are more fluid but the music is entirely Yuuri’s, and Yuuri’s been skating as though he has the whole rink to himself, weaving deftly through the other skaters with an expression of quiet absorption on his face.
‘Okay. Take me to your favourite restaurant.’
‘You can’t make me choose like that,’ Viktor protests.
‘Where are you going?’ Yurio skates over to them and rests his elbows on the barrier. He’s as out of his element here as Yuuri is, being too young to have made any friends in the senior division. It’s nice, Viktor thinks, to flock together like this.
From the other side of the barrier Yakov looks at Yuuri and asks gruffly, ‘Sushi?’
‘He didn’t come to Russia to eat Japanese food,’ Viktor says, irritated. ‘Yakov, the usual place. Let’s go.’
They make an odd little group in the restaurant booth. Viktor shrugs off his jacket and settles into the seat with a sigh of contentment. Yakov, scratching his nose, gazes at Viktor for a long moment and then grunts into his menu.
The food comes in record time. Yurio attacks his rabbit with fervour; Viktor stands up to spoon the soup into two smaller bowls for himself and Yuuri. As he leans over Yuuri whispers to him, ‘Can you take my dumplings? I don’t like them.’
‘I don’t like them either,’ Viktor hisses back.
‘Oh, come on,’ says Yurio in exasperation. He reaches across the table and scoops up Yuuri’s pelmeni, then turns his glare on Viktor. Viktor obediently hands his portion over.
‘You’d better pay for drinks, Vitya,’ Yuuri murmurs when Yakov signs the bill at the end of the meal. Opposite, Yurio throws them a sharp, startled look.
‘Right,’ Viktor says hastily and fumbles for his wallet.
You: Oh really
You: Did he say that? I didn’t notice
Yuri Plisetsky: ur obvious dislike for jj leroy gives me life tbh
You: ¯\_(ツ)_/¯
Yuri Plisetsky: what did he do, indirectly shit on yuuri?
You: ¯\_(ツ)_/¯
You: ¯\_( ツ )_/¯
You: ¯\_(ツ)_/¯
Their hotel room is pale and comfortable and Viktor should be used to casual luxury by now, but he really isn’t. He sprawls naked on the bed after his shower, soaking up the cool smoothness of the pillows, and Yuuri snorts softly when he sees him but doesn’t say a word.
Viktor must doze off shortly afterwards, because it’s dark when he opens his eyes and the sheets beside him are rumpled and warm. He throws an arm out blindly, reaching for Yuuri, and doesn’t find him. Viktor rolls over. Yuuri’s silhouette is framed in the deep curve of the window, one hand holding back the curtain and the low hum of traffic glistening in the city beneath him.
‘Viten’ka, go back to sleep,’ Yuuri mutters when Viktor shifts and sits up and gets out of bed. Viktor doesn’t. The floor is chilly beneath his feet. He moves to stand behind Yuuri, smoothing his thumbs over the tops of Yuuri’s ears, fingers tangling in Yuuri’s hair. Yuuri responds with a small, amused sound deep in his throat. The window glimmers damply.
‘Yuuri, Yuuri,’ Viktor says, letting his arms slide down to rest on Yuuri’s shoulders. A few weeks ago he would’ve had to bite back the question if I fuck you, will that help you sleep? Yuuri leans into him. ‘It’ll be fine. You have plenty of your own fans here in Russia, do you know? They’ll cheer for you. They’ll be so impressed.’
Yuuri chews on the edge of his thumbnail. ‘I don’t want to impress them. I want to intimidate them.’
Viktor laughs before he can catch himself, but that’s okay — Yuuri knows it isn’t a dismissive sort of laugh.
‘That sounded more like Yurio than you, my Yuuri.’ He kisses the crown of Yuuri’s head. ‘I like it.’
Yuuri twitches the curtain further back, pushing it out of Viktor’s way. ‘I hope he’ll be fine.’
‘What? Nonsense,’ says Viktor. He’s never considered this. ‘Of course he will. Have you met Yurochka?’
Yuuri smiles: Viktor can feel his exhale. ‘Are you ever going to call him that to his face?’
‘Never.’
Yuuri tips his head back to blink up at Viktor, the lines of his face dim in the soft red-gold light that sifts through the curtains. This is when the question occurs to Viktor: ‘Yuuri. Where are your glasses?’
‘Don’t need them,’ Yuuri replies, his cheeks warming. ‘It’s nice… from here, you know,’ he gestures vaguely at the windowpane, ‘the view, it’s a nice blur.’
‘Amazing.’
Yuuri reaches around to grasp Viktor’s wrist firmly, and Viktor sinks down onto the ledge beside him. The streets below them are beautiful at night. He pulls one leg up so he can face Yuuri properly — studying the liquid brown of Yuuri’s eyes, his features not as sharply defined as Viktor’s, the tip of his nose turning slowly pink.
‘Do you know,’ says Yuuri, ‘I have to memorise where you’re standing every time I skate Eros because I can’t see?’
‘I know,’ Viktor says. ‘I know.’