Chapter Text
Anyone would believe that at age twenty-seven, Viktor Nikiforov lived a perfect life.
Why wouldn’t they believe otherwise when he had an impressive list of achievements under his name? World Champion at sixteen. Five-time Grand Prix gold medalist—these were just some of his career achievements. Not only that, they had also given him the title of being the hottest bachelor in the figure skating world.
To Viktor, he agreed that these were all notable achievements. Something to be proud of—well, except the bachelor part.
But no matter how many times he won the biggest trophy and won the gold medal, he couldn’t help but feel a gaping hole in his chest. Like his life was incomplete.
Yes, he had become a worldwide celebrity. Yes, he had captured the hearts of his female fans. Yes, he knew he had the whole world dancing at the palm of his hand.
But after years of the same things, the same outcome, happening again and again, Viktor could not feel happy anymore. He could not find the joy that figure skating brought him in the first place.
Viktor was no longer satisfied. He wanted more.
The problem was he didn’t know how to fill the void. At first, he thought it was an artist’s block. A dead end that meant he simply needed to find another way to reach the finish line. Viktor always went for the complete opposite of what people expected from him. Surprise was his most favorite after all, the cause of his inspirations. So if the crowd perceived him as a playboy, he had thought he could surprise them by portraying a pining lover.
Stay Close to Me was the song he chose for his free skate for the recent season. Choreographed to capture the angst, the longing, the contrast of what the world thought they would get from him, he thought this performance was the answer, the spell to unlock his curse.
But it had failed. Viktor’s audience were as enamored as before, no look of surprise or bewilderment or anything unlike the expressions people before him had worn. He became jaded, because what could he do? It was an endless cycle, and he thought he would not come out of it.
This was no mere artist's block. Viktor realized he was stagnating. And if he didn’t come out of it, he was as good as dead.
It frustrated Viktor. Of course, it would, but he never let anyone see. The living legend, smiling for the world, but secretly dying on the inside. What a foolish way to go at twenty-seven.
Once upon a time, Viktor had dreamed of being where he was now.
At present, though, he’d rather be anywhere but here.
He had grown desensitized with practically everything—until meeting one particular person.
After the Grand Prix Finals, Viktor found a scowling Yuri Plisetsky grumbling about a “fucking pathetic loser” who he wished should just retire. Viktor playfully chastised him for his language and internally felt pity to whoever received the tongue lashing from this harsh teenager. Many times he wanted to tell off Yuri for his behavior but believed that one day he would learn his lesson.
In the meantime, though, he could scold Yuri for his performance. But as per usual, his criticism fell on deaf ears. Even Yakov was receiving the same treatment. Hopefully, he wished Yuri would learn his lesson sooner rather than later.
Just as he finished that thought, he felt the familiar weight of a stare on him. When he turned around, Viktor was met with large, brown eyes. They widened in surprise when their gaze met, and something like awe took over the young man’s face.
The shining bright eyes, the parted mouth. Viktor knew it too well. A fan. He has to be.
Viktor was always appreciative of his fans even though they overwhelmed him sometimes. He put on his trademark charming smile and offered the man a photo.
To his utter surprise, the man's face fell and he turned around without saying another word to Viktor.
Viktor was at a loss. He would be lying if he said this was the first time he was turned down for a picture. Whoever that boy was, Viktor was curious. Did he say something wrong? Why didn't he want a picture?
The following night’s banquet explained why.
Because he saw the boy again and was met with a startling realization. The boy was apparently Yuuri Katsuki, a figure skater, a fellow Grand Prix competitor like him. That skater who—he found out later—the Russian Yuri despised. That ice skater he recalled silently remarking with potential during the competition.
And to be brushed off and treated as a fan by Viktor.... Viktor was ashamed of his own carelessness. Still, he wanted to apologize to Yuuri. That is, once he broke free from the guests claiming for his attention.
Before he could do anything, distinct shouting disrupted the murmurs in the banquet hall and Viktor, along with the rest of the guests, looked on as a very drunk Yuuri Katsuki challenged Yuri Plisetsky to a dance-off.
“C’mon, Ruzian Yuri. Let’z have a dance-of,” Yuuri slurred.
Yuri tsked. “Even if you’re drunk off your ass, I can still beat you, you loser.”
It made Viktor chuckle when the younger Yuri, albeit with murderous aura, agreed and soon they began their face off. It was so amusing that Viktor couldn't help but film the dance in his phone as he nodded along absently to whoever was speaking to him.
Viktor expected Yuri to have the upper-hand since he was the coherent one, but no. It took one dance number to see that Yuuri Katsuki was quite a good dancer even when drunk. His performance was better than his free skate even. It was…. surprising.
He did not how but he could not keep his eyes away from Yuuri. Every twist and turn of his body was sinful. It was exquisite, like art coming alive. Not everyone could pull of the moves Yuuri was doing. Such grace and beauty.
When Yuri caught his eye after failing to keep up with Yuuri's endurance, Viktor found himself in the dance-off in Yuri's place.
"There. Deal with that drunk pig since you look so envious," sneered Yuri. Viktor wanted to scold him for his language again when—
"Iz that you, Viktor?" Viktor turned and was met with a brightly smiling Yuuri. His face was flushed and his eyes were struggling to stay open. Somehow, Viktor found him adorable. "Let'sh dance! C'mun." And cute, too.
Viktor let himself be dragged into the makeshift dance floor, leaving a wake of shocked guests behind. Yuuri was totally different from the impression he had yesterday. Well, intoxication could be a major factor for the change this time. But if this Yuuri let go of his reservations more, he was actually very fun.
Yuuri came up to him and held Viktor’s body in their dance with a confident look on his face, tie going loose and revealing the beginning of a nicely toned chest. Viktor couldn’t help but stare.
And hot, too.
Yuuri was so magnificent to look at, even if he was tipsy. His next face off with Christophe was on a whole other level, and Viktor loved it, too. Those maneuvers and the stripping—he was extremely right to call Yuuri hot.
Just who is this wonderful creature and where did he come from?
Viktor was having so much fun. Honestly, this year’s banquet was the first and only banquet he enjoyed. Time seemed to pass quicker than normal. His heart dropped when it was almost time to end the banquet.
And Yuuri was still busy pole dancing with Christophe.
By Chris’ request, he helped in getting Yuuri back in his clothes. When he had his shirt back on, however, Yuuri launched his arms around Viktor’s neck, and he heard a request that brought sudden warmth in his heart.
"Be my couch, Viktor."
Yuuri was smiling, eyes sparkling. In that moment, he looked like the personification of the sun. So bright. So lively.
And he could imagine it, almost. Flying off to Japan. Surprising Yuuri. Harsh yet fun lessons. Heart-to-heart talks. Tears. Laughter. Winning.
The idea enticed Viktor. It opened a new window in his mind and let in a flood of what-ifs. If he worked out everything with Yakov, why not?
Of course, solnyshko, Viktor found himself saying in his mind, his eyes softening.
And he was right, a few months later, as he watched a video of a face he had not seen in a while skating his routine. Another surprise for me. Viktor smiled excitedly and got up. Yuuri was the answer he had been looking for.
“It’s time to pack up, Makkachin. We’re going to Yuuri’s.”
It was time to meet with his inspiration once again.