Chapter Text
Yuri.
Victor rubbed absently at the name on his wrist. The letters had been there his whole life and he had honestly never given them much thought. It was a common enough name in Saint Petersburg, rampantly common if he was honest. And while he had wondered about his soulmate, with the abundance of Yuris he’d always known it was just a matter of time before they crossed paths. So rather than dwell on it, he’d thrown himself into his skating, pushing himself harder than any coach in an attempt to ignore the agony of yet another year of waiting.
At twenty, he was well established in his career. He had won several championships by the age of 16, and was now routinely choreographing his own free skates. This year he had even commissioned his own music.
Lost in his thoughts as he practiced a new free skate for the coming season, he only dimly noticed coach Yakov on the edge of the rink introducing a new boy to Mila and the others. He must be one of Yakov’s students from the skating camp, Victor thought absently before speeding up for a jump.
Stepping out of the landing in his distraction, he cursed and decided to stop ignoring the coach’s summons, gliding over to the group and stealing Mila’s water bottle with a cheeky grin. “Spasibo,” he said with smile, flipping his hair out of his eyes.
Mila rolled her eyes and stole her water back with a laugh. “Vitya, stop fooling around! We have a new teammate- isn’t he adorable?” She teased, laughing when the small blonde bristled. “Yakov says he’s the best out of the latest camp group. Victor, meet Yuri Plisetsky.”
Yuri.
Yuri?
Victor felt the blood drain from his face.
YURI?! No. Nonono. This couldn’t- NO. He’s too young! They were all staring at him. Maybe they thought he was ill? He certainly thought he would be. His mouth was dry and his stomach was tying itself in knots. Say something, Nikiforov! Snap out of it!
Somehow he managed a smile that was a pale ghost of his usual effervescence. “Welcome, Yuri.” It was terse, but it was something at least. There, that wasn’t so hard, was it? Dear God he’s tiny! There has to be a mistake! Gliding over to the gate, he reached for his skateguards and slipped them on before heading over to a bench for his own water bottle.
Just think. Don’t panic. Think. He took a long pull on the bottle, wishing it had something stronger in it than water. Maybe it’s just a mistake. Does that happen? Does his mark have my name? How old is he? Can he even read? I can’t just ask him about his mark.
The panic was returning in full force and he could still feel Mila’s eyes on him. She was probably wondering why he was being so rude. God this was awful.
“Coach!” Yakov looked over at him with a hint of annoyance. “I’m not feeling great – I think I forgot to eat breakfast again,” he said with a smile much stronger than he felt. He saw the annoyance grow on Feltsman’s face, but clearly his coach also saw something in Victor that made him sympathetic. Or at least as sympathetic as he was capable of being. “Is it okay if I leave a little early to grab something?” He gladly endured the lecture about healthy eating habits in exchange for a chance to escape.
On his way toward the locker room he overheard the boy – Yuri, his mind supplied helpfully again – saying something to the others.
“That’s Victor Nikiforov? What a jerk! ”
Oh god, was Yuri a fan? He hadn’t thought of that possibility. He hurried his steps and missed Mila’s defense that Victor wasn’t himself today.
*****
Over the next few weeks, Victor did his best to avoid his new rinkmate. He came up with all sorts of excuses, some weaker than others. Never had he ever been more grateful for the Russian winter and the necessity of long sleeves. He felt like it was tattooed on his forehead instead of his wrist. Four small letters, and they’d completely ruined his life.
Victor had to admit it: Yuri Plisetsky was a fantastic skater. He was headstrong, talented, and utterly fearless. He wasn’t intimidated by the other skaters or by Yakov, and Victor could see a reflection of his younger self in the boy. Driven to be the best and willing to do anything to win.
But the thought of this young skating powerhouse as his soulmate had Victor in a shambles. He was losing sleep and flubbing jumps, and it wasn’t going unnoticed. Only threats of being pulled from competitions straightened him out. He did his best to avoid the blonde, scheduling his practices at the crack of dawn, or working on jumps on the opposite end of the rink. So what if the boy thought he was rude? Maybe it wasn’t even him, and Victor was just overreacting. At least with this much practice he’d be sure to cinch the GPF and Worlds again.
*****
As time passed, Victor began to loosen up again around Yuri. It was hardly the boy’s fault they were soulmates. (Though he’d be damned if he was ever going to bring that up – it was still far too embarrassing.) But he could show him how to land jumps, or tease him like Mila did, and try to feel normal again.
If anything, his efforts to avoid Yuri over the past few months had made the boy even more determined. He clearly thought Victor was a ditz, which was harsh but not altogether false, and forgetful, which was 100% true, and he had become fiercely competitive. The other day Yuri had even vowed that he would break every record Victor ever set, which made Victor laugh until he saw the raw fury and determination shine through in the boys free skate at the Russian Nationals. Yuri Plisetsky would be a force to be reckoned with once he made it to the senior division. If he was honest, Victor was a little nervous about the thought of his soulmate being his competition.
For now, though, he was easy to tease and it was easy for Victor to remind himself he was young and not at all soulmate material. Besides, with the season in full swing, there was always that Swiss skater to flirt with to take his mind off things…
In fact, there were several skaters to take his mind off things with. He was known as a social butterfly and a bit of a ditz and he hated to disappoint his fans. Calling up a few of the others, he arranged dinner and dancing at the most popular club in town. He knew he could rely on Chris for pictures and fun as they painted the town.
*****
It was a few years later when Victor’s world turned on its head for the second time. He was 27 and he was days away from his 5th consecutive Grand Prix Final gold. He had paid more attention than usual to his competitors this year now that Yuri was only a year away from his senior debut. Victor was determined to win every medal this year, before he had to face Yuri as a competitor. If he faced him. But that was a thought for after the medal ceremony.
Victor had seen Katsuki skate before, though this was his first time qualifying for the GPF. Watching the Japanese skater perform, he couldn’t help observing how inconsistent he was. It was like he was afraid to fully commit or he had lost his focus.
Victor won, of course. When he took to the ice again for the medal ceremony, his mind drifted away from the dark-haired young man, and in the tumult of the photographs and interviews Katsuki vanished. Victor felt lost, standing before the crowd. He had broken the world record again, and won yet another gold, but he felt directionless. He smiled off the questions from reporters about next season with a vague comment of “it will be a surprise.”
He dressed for the banquet absently, pulling on the charcoal wool three piece suit and tying his tie by muscle memory. He always looked forward to the excuse to mingle with the other skaters in a less formal setting, with all the pressure of the competition behind them. Even better, it was Plisetsky’s last junior competition at the GPF, so their coach would be keeping him busy schmoozing with the sponsors before his senior debut.
Victor wasn’t expecting the dance-off. Katsuki had kept to himself for a while at the start of the party, taking advantage of the freely flowing champagne, then suddenly he was in front of the Russian team challenging Yuri to a dance-off. Yakov was saying something about not losing his head and the sponsors, but Yuri shoved his mocktail into Victor’s hands and grinned with that feral look normally reserved for the moment before he intended to kick someone’s ass on the ice. This would be good.
Handstands… headstands… taking everything far too seriously and not seriously enough… shirts riding up and showing off lean, muscled stomachs… Laughing and drinking and – (“WHERE DID THAT POLE COME FROM? JESUS, CHRISTOPHE!”) – Victor found himself relaxing and having more fun than he had in years. If only his wrist read Katsuki, he thought. This man was crazy and fun and he’d be an even more fantastic skater with a little push.
*****
The end of the season was a blur of competitions, training, and living out of a suitcase in dozens of hotel rooms. Victor was used to the routine by now, but it felt more wearisome this year. He had been toying with the idea of taking a year off, or even retiring entirely, though he hadn’t discussed it with anyone yet. He still didn’t quite know if it was just the thought of competing against Yuri or if it was something more that kept it on his mind. He continued to train and develop his programs for next season but it was half-hearted. Something was missing—he couldn’t find any inspiration and without that he wouldn’t be able to keep winning.
After a few months of drifting aimlessly through daily life back in Saint Petersburg, he got a message from Chris. It was a link to a video that had been posted last night, and was already going viral.
He couldn’t read the title since it was in Japanese, but the name in the translated description caught his eye: Katsuki Yuri. Yuri. YURI! Victor had completely forgotten that Japanese skaters addressed each other by their last names!
He clicked the link on his phone, attention laser focused on the tiny screen. Someone had added music to the original video and the familiar song from his free skate filled his ears and Makkachin glanced up and wagged his tail, recognizing the tune his master had hummed so frequently over the past year. It was the skater from the Grand Prix Final! He was pouring his heart into the performance in a way even Victor hadn’t been able to achieve. While he missed a few of the jumps, the passion of the performance was undeniable.
Victor grabbed his laptop and played the video again as Katsuki Yuri’s words came back to him. His family had a resort in Japan. He wanted Victor to train him. He was skating Victor’s own free skate… almost like a love letter. But it was one frame that decided him—he caught a glimpse of part of Yuri’s own soul mark where his glove rode up. He rewound the video, watched it again, and paused, his heart in his throat.
Before he could think twice, Victor had booked a flight and was scrambling to pack a bag. He called Coach Yakov, asking him to meet him on his way out of town. He took the earful of colorful names and entreaties and threats in stride, kissing his coach’s cheek and heading into the terminal of Pulovko Airport with a spring in his step. Boarding the plane his head was full of Yuri.
Barcelona, one year later:
“I’m sorry, what did you say your name was?”
This high over Barcelona, the wind is strong. Yuri is grateful if only because it means his hair is obscuring the rising heat on his face.
This new stranger, this Otabek Altin from Kazakhstan, is gripping the railing tightly with one hand and staring at him. He doesn’t answer.
Without meaning to, Yuri’s opposite hand grips his wrist, where the Cyrillic lettering feels almost hot on his hand.
“Otabek?” he repeats, slowly. When he was first learning to read, he thought it sounded made-up, like a prank his mother pulled on him with a tattoo gun before he’d remember the pain of it. What kind of a name is Otabek, anyway?
Rather than answer, Otabek slowly pulls up his own sleeve.
Yuri, it says, and Yuri’s heart thunders.