Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Victor smiled when he won gold in Sochi.

It was a mask he wore for the newscasters, for his countrymen, for all those who idolized him and truly cared about this win. Victor knew it well, knew it sat properly on his face, even though the joy no longer reached his heart.

Victor was kind to his fans, because perhaps more important than winning a championship title was inspiring the next generation of young usurpers to come and overthrow him. Skating was not an easy thing; not so simple as grace on the edge of a razor blade.

It was work. Hard work. Many of the best skaters started young like Victor had (holding onto milk crates for balance, out on the ice before he was steady enough to stand or even to walk, barely two years old).

Victor was kind to them all because he could be. He didn’t have to be, and he’d seen enough unkind skaters to know the damage they could do to an impressionable heart. There was an understanding among most competitors that while reporters could be ignored, young fans could not. They were the future of the sport. Part of his duty of being the reigning World Champion was inspiring those who had watched him come this far. There was still some fleeting pleasure in reaching out and connecting with the ones who couldn’t afford tickets, who couldn’t travel to see him skate in person, the ones that greeted him on the street in St. Petersburg as a hometown hero. Even the Juniors who, rather than finishing their homework while they were on the competitive circuit, took time away from their late nights and busy days to watch the Senior division in person.

That was how Victor met Christophe all those years ago, and many others like him. Christophe’s journey alone could have ended in a heartbreaking injury that would’ve finished his career.

So what did it cost Victor to be kind to him that day?

Nothing. Nothing at all.

To hear Chris say it, Victor inspired him to be better with that simple interaction, that selfless kindness to nurture someone with young hopes and dreams.

(He’d like to teach Yuri Plisetsky the same courtesy before he reached the Senior division next year, but that may take more time than one or two stern talking-to sessions.)

So Victor made a point of supporting and encouraging those who admired him. It was such a simple thing to smile, even if it never reached his eyes.

But the truth was, as Victor stood on the podium and accepted the medal and said his thanks and waved the wave and smiled his Reigning World Champion Victor Nikiforov smile, the satisfaction was gone. Not in his performance—he always felt satisfied with the exertion and effort he put forth, with the satisfaction of a job well done.

But the connection he used to feel, the inspiration from others being inspired by him, the way the audience’s support could transform him from a champion skater to a force of nature…

Victor was starting to realize, whether from age or experience or simply being jaded, that feeling was gone.

Perhaps travel would help—on his own time, his own schedule, with no one to tell him where to go or when to be anywhere in particular. He’d rarely tasted that sort of freedom. Victor had always been the kind of person who buckled down when he reached a new city, a new country, a new competition. Rather than seeing the sights, he committed his time to practice and hard work. It was one of the things that many said got Victor to the place he was.

But at twenty-seven (with his twenty-eighth birthday barrelling headlong at him), he knew his competitive time was winding down. There was no such thing as a thirty year old World Champion; not when it came to figure skating. Why should he go out in a blaze of glory with a ruptured ACL or a torn rotator cuff or a vertebral fracture like others before him?

Victor had given everything to this sport. He’d given enough.

(Even now, with those thoughts in mind, he was arranging a new short program in any spare moment. A work of art. A record-breaker. A force of habit.)

Around him, the medaling ceremony wound down and Yakov collected him for the victory banquet. After this season, maybe he could get some time off. He could spend his days with Makkachin, who had been a gift from Yakov when Victor first moved to St. Petersburg, young and isolated and desperately lonely. His coach had hoped to give him an outlet, a way to connect with others, and a creature to love Victor unconditionally.

Even Makkachin couldn’t replace someone to come home to. The gray fuzz on Makkachin’s muzzle only made Victor feel guilty for all the weeks he spent away from home. All these years later, the holes in his life remained.

There was… a sense of something missing. Dissatisfaction everywhere he turned. For all that Victor was surrounded by people day in and day out, and as Yakov marched him out of the arena, he felt… trapped. Alone, somehow, as conflicting as those emotions seemed to be.

The mindless offer to take a photo with a discouraged young skater barely passed Victor’s radar; when he turned his back and fled, Victor wasn’t offended. It’d been a long time since he felt the sting of defeat, but he remembered how keen it could be, especially in the wake of physical exhaustion that had amounted in nothing more than tears. Nothing to show for the man’s efforts, his months of practice, his nerves.

Victor respected that; the moment passed.

Something, something had to change. Victor showered and dressed and combed his fingers through his hair to make it presentable, thinking of the free spirit who has once snubbed his nose at his mother country with his flowing sheet of silver hair. A disgrace , they had called him—until he started winning. Even then, the tolerance for Victor’s natural flamboyance and cheer was low. The acceptance from Russia’s populace came only when he adhered to the standards set forth by his country, of a man being tall and bold and strong, broad shoulders, independent. At eighteen years old, Victor bent his head and relented.

It was against his nature, but it had been a necessary evil to tear away pieces of himself—all to make himself palatable, relatable, sponsorable.

He cut his hair. His outfits became more streamlined and masculine. He stopped pushing conventional Russian boundaries.

Victor wondered if maybe that was when this feeling started.

In the mirror stood a man that Victor recognized only because he’d watched him change. What other kind of man could he be, if not World Champion, Victor Nikiforov?

“Victor, Yuri,” Yakov called from the hallway as he knocked on each of their doors. “Hurry up, we’re going to be late.”

He went. He didn’t expect much beyond the usual.

But Victor was wrong.

So blessedly wrong.

It didn’t start out as much—just a regular banquet, champagne, handshakes and empty smiles all around.

...but truthfully, that was disingenuous. Victor knew he was the only one here feeling this unsettled. The other skaters, many of whom he considered his friends, looked truly happy; Victor smiled politely at them and drifted through the crowd, resentful of the sinking feeling he couldn’t shake.

Why couldn’t he just enjoy this night? He longed to feel the victoriousness and the elation like he had when he was young. Now, the congratulations and the pats on the back just felt so…

He couldn’t place a name on the emotion, but it was frustrating.

Fake? Maybe that was it. It all felt fake, he felt fake, just a show put on for the benefit of others who wanted to feel like they’d touched elbows with his supposed greatness. Victor didn’t feel great or worthy of praise—he felt tired , and more than anything else he just… wanted to go home. To curl up on the couch with Makkachin in the dark and finally, finally get some peace and quiet.

But then—

A sound caught his ear. A quiet scoff interrupted by slurred speech. It was early for anyone to be drunk already, wasn’t it?

At the edge of Victor’s vision, Celestino Cialdini had his hand on the shoulder of…

Oh, the boy from before.

Victor hadn’t gotten a good look at him then. Under the heavy frame of glasses that he hadn’t worn during his frazzled routine, the rims of his dark eyes were red and puffy, despite his watery smile. Victor felt pang of sympathy; losing on a platform as large and publicized as the Grand Prix Final couldn’t possibly feel good. Whether it was nerves or something else that had impacted his performance earlier, it was clear the boy—or rather, young man—was still shaken.

He didn’t recognize the skater the way he recognized his coach. It must’ve been his first Grand Prix. Katsuki, Victor remembered finally, but couldn’t for the life of him remember his given name.

Victor glanced to where the two stood shoulder to shoulder, and where the young man downed another flute of champagne without so much as a hiccup. Maybe Victor could offer some encouragement, he thought with a pang of pity. Katsuki’s routine had come just after his own, but from what Victor remembered of the skater’s free skate, the technical score was meant to be high and his program components had been skillful. Victor had noticed at least that much while he’d been busy being interviewed.

It was clear the man had all of the skill and none of the grace under pressure that came with experience. The weight of the Grand Prix Finals was immense, though, and Victor couldn’t fault him for being shaken. It happened to even the most seasoned athletes.

“Coach Yakov,” Victor called, his eyes drawn to Katsuki as he wobbled on his feet.

“ Vitya ,” Yakov said, “the man of the hour!”

He shook off the unwelcome praise; he was on a mission. “That skater over there, the one from Japan. It’s Katsuki something, right?”

“Katsuki, yes. Yuuri,” Yakov said with a nod. His expression shifted into something a little disapproving as his eyes fell on the skater’s coach and gave a small, dismissive shake of his head. “Skilled skater. Celestino babies him; that’s why he lost. No nerve.”

Most would probably find the words offensive, insensitive; Victor might have felt the same if he didn’t know Yakov so well, knew he didn’t mean it so much as a criticism as a note for improvement.

Victor caught a glimpse of Yuri Plisetsky in the corner, fending off sponsors and admirers alike while shooting disgusted glares at the Japanese Yuuri. He ducked under the arm of a man who had gone to shake his hand, then snagged a glass of champagne as a waiter passed by. Yuri met his eyes and sent Victor an even, challenging smirk as he shot it back.

Nerve, indeed.

“Better than too much nerve,” Victor replied, with an amazed and exasperated sigh—and snorted at Yuri’s inexperienced full-body shudder at the bitter taste. “At least grace can be trained. Thank you, Yakov. You may want to rescue Yuri before he drinks himself under a table or punches a sponsor.”

Yakov whipped around, his sharp eyes looking for his youngest protegé. Victor heard him grumble something along the lines of that boy needs to learn how to behave in public as he cut through the crowd, intent on confiscating the alcohol from Yuri.

Victor had more important things in mind, but when he turned to look for Yuuri again, he had faded into the crowd. Perplexed but undisturbed, Victor let it go; it was a small venue and he was sure to find Yuuri later. For the moment, Celestino could do the cheering up. Close friends were better suited than strangers for offering comfort.

In the meantime, Victor decided he would spare Yakov an impending heart attack and keep an eye on their underaged Yuri. He accepted a beverage of his own as was expected of him and went to temper Yuri’s… well, temper.

The champagne helped. So did Christophe’s eccentric nature and persistent optimism when, after a few too many, he pulled Victor onto the dance floor for an energetic if slightly-tipsy waltz. “Come on,” he crooned, “Dance with me, Victor. If I can’t have the gold medal this year, you can at least let me have my fun!”

Chris was energetic and athletic and exactly what Victor needed to get out of his head. He laughed for what may have been the first time that night, chugged his glass and handed it to a fuming Yuri Plisetsky, and let Chris twirl them out onto the floor. The crowd parted and cleared a space; no one really wanted to get hit by Chris’ pointed toe as Victor swung him around, a simpler form of movement without the pressure of being perfect, and to be honest, Victor loved to dance.

Chris always did know how to have a good time, but more importantly, how to break Victor’s sour mood. So by the time Yuuri showed up on the sidelines with a curious gaze and an entire bottle of champagne in his hand, Victor was pleased to bump into him again.

“Glad to see you’re feeling better,” Victor shouted as Chris whipped him in tight, graceful twirls in the direction of a beverage cart. Yuuri looked up, cheeks flushed and suit jacket missing—when he saw who had spoken to him, the way his eyes widened was comical. Victor freed a hand to shoot him a thumbs-up, because clearly Chris didn’t plan on stopping anytime soon unless it was to—

Chris grabbed a bottle from a passing waiter mid-rotation and sent them both spinning out. They crashed to the floor with the added weight and lack of stability. Victor laughed, even as he winced from the pain, and this was much better—much, much better. Fun. He clambered to his feet and figured now was probably the easiest time if he wanted to talk, and made his way to Yuuri.

“Victor Nikiforov,” he said with a grin, and held out his hand. Yuuri stared at it, then him. Victor’s smile dimmed at the strange glint in Yuuri’s eyes, the conflicted hesitation. Just when Victor was about to laugh it off, Yuuri shuffled the champagne bottle around and reached back. He grabbed Victor’s hand with a weak, fluttery smile; Victor’s heart skipped a nervous beat.

“I know,” Yuuri said. His grip was firm, more holding than shaking. Their palms slipped against each other, slightly damp with sweat from Victor’s exerted flush and Yuuri’s anxious energy. Even so, his admiration was as clear as it was flattering. The soft upward tilt to Yuuri’s lips suited him so much better than that disappointed frown. “Sorry about earlier!”

Victor shrugged, too charmed to be entirely unaffected. Yuuri’s grin was shy and on the right side of adorable. “It’s happened to all of us. Try not to let it discourage you. Before I won my first Grand Prix gold, I had the most humiliating defeat of my life, so. Really, all of us.” Victor smiled and glanced at his hand, still grasped tightly in Yuuri’s—who seemed to realize he was holding on a bit too long and let go with a bashful laugh. He swayed on his feet, already feeling the effects of too much champagne too fast. In Victor’s mind, though, being tipsy and cheerful was leagues above being a downer drunk. He could work with that. “How long are you in tow—”

“Katsuki! Come here!" Celestino grabbed his skater by the shoulder and shot an apologetic smile at Victor. "Just a moment, Nikiforov. I need to speak to Yuuri for a moment about his, um, decorum."

Yuuri had started speaking, but Celestino was already dragging him away, and Victor was quickly mobbed by JJ and Christophe, who were convinced that Georgi needed a break from his moping about on-again-off-again-Anya. Despite being interrupted, he felt better than he had before. Yuuri seemed like a nice kid, and Victor hoped to see him at Worlds after he qualified in his country’s Nationals.

Victor could tell he had spirit. Enough to rank better than sixth of six, that was for sure. With some careful guidance, Victor was sure Yuuri could place better than he had today. Celestino was a talented coach, but compared to Yakov, he was decidedly hands-off in terms of suggesting adjustments. Maybe a different method of—

“Let me go, you hag!” Yuri squawked as Mila Babicheva pulled him into the mix. Mila was anything but a hag, but Yuri Plisetsky was outspoken and his sibling-esque rivalry with Mila was well known in most circles.

“Yura!” She scolded. “If you’re going to drink my champagne, you can at least dance with me.”

The endearing nickname made Yuri red in the face and spitting mad. “You ugly old crone—”

“Yooou just don’t wanna dance ‘cause you’re scared,” Yuuri said, stumbling between the two, voice slurred and glasses absent (Celestino must have taken them when he’d confiscated Yuuri’s bottle of champagne). “Of getting beat!”

If Victor didn’t know for a fact that Yuri was already tipsy, he would have expected him to start throwing punches. As it was, Victor shared a look with Georgi, who knew their rinkmate’s temper as well as he did. Victor stepped forward to intervene, until—

“Beat? You honestly think a last-rate failure like you can beat me?” Plisetsky was vibrating. Yuuri was just drunk enough to be unperturbed.

“Ye–p.” His shirt was untucked on one side, his tie crooked. He listed to the side, but his grin was sure to incite a fit of rage in the temperamental Junior Champion. “Clearly Victor never taught you to have fun.”

(...Yuuri thought he was fun?)

Victor paused; maybe it was best to let Yuri find his own way in this interaction. He’d never grow if Victor looked out for him forever, and Yuri would never forgive him if he intervened and embarrassed him now. Let him humiliate himself if need be. Maybe next time he would hold his tongue. Katsuki had more than enough backup here if he needed it.

Victor smiled to himself and decided to let things play out.

“I don’t have time for fun,” Yuri spat, more of a hissy kitten than the supposed Ice Tiger of Russia. “Maybe if you had less fun, you’d actually win something once in a while!”

Yuuri froze; the crowd around the altercation shifted uncomfortably. To be trash talked so soon after such a devastating loss…

“You’re right,” Yuuri replied. He wobbled on his feet for a moment, reaching out to steady himself on a bystander's shoulder. He raised his chin, his eyes alight. “But if you win, and then you don’t have fun or enjoy it, why bother winning?” Yuuri grinned and put his hands on his hips. He leaned forward into Yuri’s personal space; the boy stumbled, taken aback. “That’s okay. You’re young. You’ll learn. But if you think you can beat me… give it your best try, Second Yuri.”

Things immediately got out of control.

“Second Yuri?!” Yuri’s face went from shocked to furious and he grabbed Katsuki by the tie to drag him onto the floor. Where Chris found an aux cable that connected to the room’s sound system, no one could be sure, but in full view of scandalized guests and patrons, they took the floor in a devastating breakdance showdown. For the first time in Victor’s memory, what was usually a tame event turned into a party more worthy of hotel bars and after-hours clubs—not the Grand Ballroom of the Grand Prix Final Banquet.

Yuuri Katsuki was a spitfire, but whether that was the alcohol or being surrounded by friends, Victor couldn’t tell. What he knew was this:

Yuuri was a great dancer, and Victor could not keep himself away.

Thrilled and amazed at the display of athleticism, Victor found himself involved in the madness, and he was never so happy to be entangled in such tacky flirtation and drunken flamenco.

Yuuri had no restraint; his hands on Victor’s waist were bold and sure, and he didn’t seem to be intimidated by Victor’s prestige or notoriety. He laughed freely, even though his English got sloppy as he grew less and less sober.

Without the shadow his glasses cast on his face, his eyes were actually autumnal red-brown. Victor was stricken by the color when Yuuri’s fingers curled around his cheek, his palm cast back to cup and support Victor’s thigh. Their faces were so close that Victor knew the exact moment that Yuuri had glanced at his lips, and had seen the shudder of Yuuri’s throat as he swallowed, burst out a shaky laugh, and tore himself away from Victor’s hands.

Yuuri didn’t have any hard feelings toward Plisetsky. Maybe didn’t know what a grudge was at all, because at some point mid-lunge, he grabbed the scandalized Junior by the hand and said, “Are you having fun?” and Yuri Plisetsky actually (kind of) laughed.

Yuuri had great form; his footwork was excellent. He apparently also ran hot when he drank, because in the middle of a rather impressive bout of breakdancing, he paused full-stop, butt to the floor with legs splayed in front of him, drawled, “Atsuuuuiiiiiiiii,” and unbuttoned his shirt. He then proceeded to go back to spinning on his head.

That was quite enough for Christophe to declare what he said was called (in America) a pants off dance off.

Yuuri was… in very good shape.

Stripped down to his boxer-briefs, Yuuri and Chris engaged in what were some startling displays of acrobatics using the support pole for the light system in the center of the room. What were arguably some of the most physically fit athletes in the world could not be stopped—not by patrons, benefactors, hotel staff, or even their coaches, who soon gave up entirely.

The Sochi Grand Prix after-party was one that would go down in infamy. Glorious, hilarious, well-documented infamy.

And nudity. So much nudity.

Victor had never had so much fun at an event in his life.

Until finally, Yuuri poured himself onto the floor and Chris picked him back up, a perfect partner in crime. He gave Yuuri back his shirt and his glasses that he’d snagged from Celestino, and tried his best to put Yuuri back together despite neither of them having pants. “Come on, Yuuri. I think Plisetsky needs a rematch, don’t you think? He doesn’t look nearly contrite enough. I think you need to destroy him twice.”

Yuuri’s eyes lit up as he accepted his tie and, failing to be able to knot it properly, looped it around his head like a sweatband. Victor couldn’t hold back his laughter at Yuuri’s antics as he watched the two together. Yuuri was hilarious, wonderful—perhaps the most fantastic person Victor had encountered in his time as a professional skater.

Victor’s chuckles, choked back in his fingers, were just enough to have Yuuri’s head whipping around to search him out in the crowd.

He found himself with an armful of Yuuri immediately, his heated and clammy face pressed firmly into Victor’s chest. “Victooor… after this season ends, my family runs an onsen resort, so please come visit!” Then, as if struck by great inspiration, Yuuri took a step back. Flushed red and his eyes pleading, he added, “If I win this dance-off, you’ll be my coach, right?”

Victor was stricken dumb by the thought. Me, a coach?

Before he could come up with an adequate response, Yuuri launched himself into an enthusiastic embrace. His weight was a strain but not unpleasant, and Victor could feel Yuuri’s radiant heat behind his ribs, in the thrumming of his own heart. Yuuri looked so hopeful, so vibrant. “Be my coach, Victoooor!”

Victor’s heart raced; he had never even considered coaching before. It wasn’t that far off-base, though, was it? He’d been choreographing his own routines for years, offering pointers to his peers from the time he won his first gold.

Victor’s hand went to Yuuri’s back to hold him up. He opened his mouth to reply, and then—

“Hey, get your own!” Yuri Plisetsky snapped. He was red in the face from his consumption of everyone else’s drinks, and he dragged Yuuri backwards out of Victor’s arms. “Victor promised to choreograph my Senior debut, and that’s going to be enough trouble without a loser sniffing around. How about you show literally anyone that you can do more than single and double jumps before you try hogging the World Champion?! You’re a mediocre, second-rate, dime-a-dozen skater.”

“I can—” Yuuri protested. He looked over his shoulder, stung, as he was pulled back to where Celestino Cialdini sat at the bar. His eyes met Victor’s for only a moment in humiliated despair, and Victor had never felt such frustration and irritation at his younger rinkmate before. Didn’t he know there was more to skating than rivalries and being the kind of stuck-up winner that the boy usually loved to hate?

“Then prove it ,” Plisetsky snapped, and jabbed a finger into Yuuri’s flushed chest. With his attention sufficiently snagged, Yuri sneered right in his face. “Or retire. Like I said before, we don’t need two Yuris in the senior bracket. Not unless you’re good enough.”

Victor was frozen.

Yuuri’s eyes glinted in the light. His expression shifted and set. His jaw was clenched despite his flushed cheeks, and for the first time all night, Yuuri’s voice was clear and strong when he said, “I will be.”

“Hmph,” Plisetsky sniffed, then shoved Yuuri toward his coach. Yuuri stumbled backward, a victim of his own alcohol consumption, and he choked back a pained yelp when he impacted with the bar hard. “Clean him up. He’s a disgrace. What kind of coach sends a loser like this into the Grand Prix Finals? Don’t waste my time.”

Yakov, who had tolerated Plisetsky’s rotten attitude and insubordination (albeit with much lecturing) stood swiftly at hearing his student insult his colleague and his treatment of his fellow athlete. “Plisetsky, you’re out of line! You need discipline! Picking fights like that—you’ll lose your medal. Don’t you know anything?” He grabbed Yuri by the ear and put his drink down heavily on the bar. “Celestino, Katsuki, my apologies.”

Cialdini’s raised eyebrows as he reached out to his athlete. Yuuri smacked his hand away and that, more than anything, seemed to take the man aback. “I’m fine,” Yuuri snapped. “I’m fine. He’s just a kid. Don’t worry about it.”

Celestino stared at his skater, then slowly turned on his barstool to face Yakov with an even, assessing glance. “Tell the kid to lay off the sauce after his next win. The ISF doesn’t care about dance-offs, but they don’t take fighting lightly—or underage alcohol consumption at a sponsored event.”

Yuri bristled as his actions caught up with him. Victor covered his face with his hands.

“Victor, Mila, Giorgi!” Coach Yakov barked. “That’s enough for the night. We’re going.”

“Yes, Coach,” they replied together. Their uniform response was less instinct, more practice. Anything less than the best when Yakov got serious was unacceptable. Despite the fact that they were often able to goof off, they all could tell how abruptly agitated their coach had become. He would tolerate nothing less than their absolute obedience right now.

As Victor turned to go, his gaze met Yuuri’s one last time. With a hollow feeling in his belly and a strange sense of disquiet, Victor forced a smile a gave Yuuri a little wave. He wished more than anything he’d had the time to say goodbye, to tell him it was nice to meet him and that he hoped to compete against him again—but Yakov was relentless when Plisetsky put him in a mood. Victor knew he didn’t have thirty seconds to squeeze out the words, let alone a few minutes to take him aside and say such things.

But Victor could still see the effects of Yuri’s harsh words on Yuuri’s face, in his eyes. That stony stillness and fierce determination shone from across the room. Yuuri didn’t smile; he didn’t wave back. He looked down, away, and nodded once, a gesture more meant for himself than anything.

Victor wondered if it would become a driving force; maybe one kid being an asshole could turn a good skater into a great one. He had no way of knowing, and could only hope he would see Yuuri again to find out.

Truth be told, Victor wasn’t interested in competing when he knew how things would turn out (with him winning again, always on top, an omnipresent and unshakeable shadow cast on anyone below him on the podium). Despite that, he was absolutely interested in seeing how Yuuri would shake up the game at Worlds.

He would see Yuuri again, he knew that for certain. There was simply no way Yuuri wouldn’t bounce back full-force after a challenge like the one Yuri had thrown his way. A competitor, a person like the one Victor had met tonight wouldn’t be able to resist.

Given a few months’ time, Victor couldn’t wait to see the kind of competitor Yuuri would become—and the surprises he would bring to the ice.

Katsuki Yuuri did not qualify at Japan’s Nationals.

Disgraced and discouraged, Plisetsky laughed at the standings when he saw them online, though he grew more somber when Coach Yakov smacked him over the head and delivered the news: Katsuki Yuuri had quit training with Celestino and returned home to Japan.

Against his better judgement, Victor had been wrong. He couldn’t lie and say he wasn’t disappointed, both with the results and with Yuuri’s resolve.

Victor won Worlds—of course he did. He sighed and tried not to call it pride, but the pattern was unbreakable. He won, and he won, and he won again, and it was… fine. He worked hard for it. But it was never a surprise when he brought home the gold anymore, and Victor was tired.

Two days after the win, as he lounged on his couch at home with Makkachin in his lap, he received a text from Mila. That in itself wasn’t unusual.

Mila:  >>Oh my god, did you see this??? I can’t believe it!!! [link]

He had not, in fact, seen whatever it was, but he didn’t expect it to be anything more than an inflammatory article about one of them or, knowing Mila, maybe a video of cute animals. He clicked the link as Makkachin’s tail wagged. At least one of them was content.

A skater at center ice, tiny on the viewscreen, unrecognizable. But then the music started to play, and Victor’s fingers started to shake.

He pressed the fullscreen button and turned his phone in his hands.

The camera work was shaky. He could hear young voices whispering in a flurry of Japanese, but… that routine. His routine. The very one that had just won him Worlds by a huge margin of difficulty, and Katsuki Yuuri was filmed performing his routine that very same night.

He watched. He watched again. Victor replayed the video at least three times before the reality sank in and he felt like he could breathe. Yuuri had gained a little weight since the last time Victor had seen him, but there was not so much as an over-rotation or a step-out or a hand down. Clean, clear, flawless jumps.

Nothing like his performance at the Sochi Grand Prix.

Yuuri’s expression was peaceful, his breaths were even, and there was a look in his eyes that told Victor that he wasn’t really there in the jumps, he was lost in the experience. The raw emotion …

Imagine how we could surprise the world with a performance like that from someone like him.

Victor pulled his legs out from under Makkachin and stood.

With a sense of fierce determination and inspiration and an unending stream (of arm positions, of jumps, of choreography) of potential in his brain, he began to pack.

Chapter Text

The onsen was nice. Quaint. Informal. The sort of place he couldn’t quite see turning out someone as vibrant as Katsuki Yuuri. Yuuri’s parents were also… not what he pictured. Simple people, kind. Not intense like some athletes’ parents. Just good, down-to-earth working people who greeted Victor with a smile and a pat on the hand and told him that their son would be so excited to see him, of course Makkachin could stay in his room, please help yourself to anything you need and ask us if you can’t find something.

If his own parents had been like Yuuri’s, he doesn’t know what his life would have been.

Exhausted from the flight, short as it seemed compared to the others lately, he headed for the baths, intent on relaxing before he dealt with his luggage and tracked down Yuuri. He made it just long enough to get undressed and into the water before Yuuri found him.

Out of breath, red in the face, hair and glasses askew, Yuuri slid into the room at a run. It had been so long since the last time Victor had seen him, and (wow, he had gained some weight, hadn’t he? If it wasn’t so counterproductive to Victor’s goals, he would have thought it endearing) their reunion was less of just that, and more of a train wreck.

“Victor, wha—why are you here?”

Why else would he be here? Victor paused before he stood, because what the hell, who cared about modesty? This was much more important! “Yuuri! Starting today, I’m your coach,” Victor said with a smile and a wink. “I’ll make you win the Grand Prix Final!”

Yuuri stared, dumbfounded. “What?” and then again, “What?! ”

“Isn’t this what you wanted?” Victor asked and cocked his head to the side. His smile dimmed. Yuuri had practically begged for this a year ago. Now, here he was, looking at Victor like he was the crazy one, like he wasn’t remotely interested, and this was all for nothing.

Well, Victor wouldn’t let it be for nothing! He’d decided! Yuuri’s skating was raw, powerful, and not entirely refined. Victor was going to be a part of that refining process, whether Yuuri liked it or not.

“What I…?” Yuuri trailed off. His eyes flickered away from Victor’s. Everything went from zero to sixty quickly after that, as Yuuri’s face lit up scarlet and he clapped his hands over his eyes, glasses crooked and hazy from the steam. “You’re naked! ”

While admittedly Victor was getting a little cold, he laughed aloud at the thought that a professional athlete who had been half-naked around teammates and coaches his whole life, and whose family owned an onsen, and who had stripped publicly and pole danced while drunk, would get embarrassed by something so mundane as Victor’s nudity. Still, he sat. The water was hot and soothing against his sore muscles. “Why do you care about that? You’re around naked people all the time.”

“That’s different!” He exclaimed, eyes still covered, his cheeks still red from what Victor could see of his face from beneath the palms of his hands. “That’s when—they’re not—I just—” He turned and smacked into the doorway, flustered.

Victor sat forward, eyes wide. “Yuuri!”

“I’m fine ,” he said. “I—ju-just take your bath. I’ll be inside. We can talk later!”

Yuuri left, and Victor slowly sat back. That was odd, and unlike the bold and sure Yuuri he’d met before. Perhaps his loss had shaken him deeper than Victor had anticipated. That was fine. They could work to rebuild his confidence together! Tomorrow, of course. After they had gone over training parameters, Yuuri’s capabilities, his diet and exercise routine, his prior short and free program choreography… they would have plenty of time. This was what he wanted, he’d said so himself! Yuuri would definitely come around, he just needed a little time to get over the surprise.

Reassured by his thoughts, Victor soaked his towel in the warm water and placed it back over his damp, cold hair. Comfortable again, he sank down to eye level in the hot spring and exhaled a stream of bubbles. Just a few minutes more and he’d go back inside. He had so much to discuss with Yuuri before they could get started.

The onsen was warm, the food was new and delicious, and before long, Victor had dozed off with Makkachin on the tatami floor mats, which were somehow more comfortable than the many wide hockey benches he had napped on in rinks around the world. Maybe it was because Makkachin was with him, but… there was a sense of peace in being here. Things were easy. Aside from Yuuri, no one really seemed to think too much about who he was or what he had achieved. It was nice to be a simple man again, in some ways. His life would always be on the ice, in the rink, but there was something to be said for the privacy that was so rare in Moscow and Saint Petersburg.

And for another thing, Yuuri was here. Sweet, impulsive, oblivious Yuuri.

“I didn’t know,” Yuuri said later as Victor helped carry his own luggage up the stairs.

“About what?”

He flushed and tucked his face against the boxes, his legs making the journey without looking at the steps he must have learned to know throughout his childhood. “About the video,” he finished. “Yuuko's daughters took it. I was just trying to show Yuuko what I’d practiced. But her daughters, they’re, em… groupies.”

“Groupies?” Victor asked with a laugh.

“Skating groupies. They were raised in that rink. I grew up skating with Yuuko, learning to copy—er,” Yuuri got quiet again.

“Copy what?” Victor asked, intrigued, as they reached the top of the staircase.

Yuuri was silent as they rounded the hall and continued down to Victor’s new room.

“Ehh, Yuuri. Copy what?” Needling Yuuri was fun in a way, seeing how flushed and red he got. Mila and Georgi were both usually so down-to-earth (minus Georgi's Anya-related rampages, but that was beside the point), it was impossible to rattle them. And usually young Yuri was too easy to rattle, so Victor didn’t bother trying. But Yuuri’s buttons, these new buttons to push in the interest of finding out more about him—that was worth the effort.

Yuuri set down the boxes and scooted for the doorway, for freedom. “Copy you!”  

Victor snagged him by the collar, sending Yuuri off-balance. The thought was… precious. And flattering. Yuuri wiggled, trying to free himself, but Victor wouldn’t let him scurry off until he’d heard what he wanted to hear. “You learned to skate from copying me?”

Yuuri scooped an arm around behind him and lifted Victor’s arm away from his collar. Smart. But he didn’t immediately make a run for it, and instead took a moment to straighten his shirt over his front and tug at the waist of his pants. Maybe Victor had gone too far earlier in teasing him about his weight. There were lines here that he still had to learn—what was okay, and what was too much. He just wanted to motivate him, and make an important point. None of this would be for anything if Yuuri wasn’t in proper competitive shape. It didn’t mean that he was as overweight as Victor had implied, just… that he was out of top form, at the moment. But maybe he should have been more kind. He hadn’t meant to hurt Yuuri’s feelings.

“Yeah,” Yuuri admitted finally. “And watching you on the TV. And Minako-sensei’s ballet, but skating... I took lessons, but they never suggested anything complicated. I tried and tried on my own most of the time. I wanted to… be like you. You were so cool.”

Victor smiled to himself, pleased but not wanting to let on. To think a world-rated skater could be what he was because of Victor, it… was a lot to accept. That someone as clearly talented as Yuuri could have started, and fought to learn because of his influence from so far away. Of course, he heard those sorts of things every day, but to hear it from Yuuri, who had so much potential, and who came from a veritable nowhere land with no one to push him, and parents that didn’t seem to care what he did as long as it made him happy, that… was just so… unbelievable. Wonderful. He had wondered, back when he first saw the tail-end of Yuuri’s routine at the Sochi Grand Prix Final. He had moved in a way that seemed so familiar that he had to think that maybe ... but to hear it in words...

In a word, Victor was charmed, and curious. And he knew when he got curious, he tended to push more and more buttons. But wasn’t that just the best part of learning someone new?

“Let’s get some more boxes, hmm?” Victor asked and smiled to himself. “We’ll be done in no time.”

“O-okay.”

Victor kept pushing, and Yuuri kept retreating. When Victor backed away, Yuuri would return again. It was a beautiful dance, a subtle one, that kept Victor entertained throughout the night.

“Yuuri,” he’d called as his new protege went to retreat into solitude, after Victor had pushed just a little too much by reaching out to touch his face, hold his hand, another boundary found and marked. “Aren’t you going to help me unpack?”

“Eh?” Yuuri asked in surprise, and then, “Do I have to?”

“No,” Victor said, eternally patient, and removed a framed photo of him and Makkachin from a box. “No, you don’t have to. But I thought it would be good—”

“If I helped you unpack?” he interrupted, expression pinched and skeptical.

“If we could talk,” he corrected gently. “We’re going to be spending a lot of time together to make this happen. We need to go over a lot of things. Your physical limits.” Yuuri turned bright red, his arms crossed defensively over his body, and Victor laughed. “For training. How far you can run, how much you can lift, et cetera. These are important things for a coach to know so I can know your limits, but also push them when I think you’re reaching a plateau. Of course, we’ll have to make enough progress to reach a plateau first…”

From embarrassed to downtrodden, Yuuri walked on his knees back into the room from where he’d been sitting in the hall, over to the nearest box. Then, softly, “Do you really think I’m fat?”

“No,” Victor replied. Another knick-knack, another possession. Another memory, out of the box he’d put it in, and into its new home here, in Japan, with Yuuri. This would be an adjustment period for Victor as well. Once Yuuri caught up, they could train together. Victor had no intention of losing his peak physicality, even though he’d decided to take a break from the competitive side of skating, at least for this season. “At the moment, I think you’re average, Yuuri. That’s not a bad thing for normal people. For athletes like us, it is unacceptable if we wish to stay in competition. I don’t say it to make you feel bad. I want to motivate you!” Victor finished emptying the box, then straightened its flaps and broke it down until it was flat. He moved onto the next. “I need to know you, to learn how to do that the best way, without hurting your feelings.”

“Oh,” Yuuri said. He unpacked a box full of sweatshirts and track pants, lingering on Victor’s signature white-and-red Team Russia jacket. Victor wasn’t sure if Yuuri noticed that his thumbs kept rubbing over the fabric, back and forth, as he spaced out for a moment. Victor used to do the same with the insides of the pockets, back before his major events. If Yuuri had put his hands in the lining there, he would be able to feel the holes Victor had worn in with his own nerves, many years ago. “I know I’m out of shape. I got too depressed to keep trying, for a while. I stopped working out. I was heavier then than I am now, but. I started practicing again, so…”  He set the jacket aside.

“What made you decide to try again?” Victor asked. He didn’t want to pry too much too soon, but these sort of details were important for knowing Yuuri. What could motivate him out of a slump. What words could inspire him to action. Victor knew that Yuuri had practiced his routine, but he wanted to know why.

One box in silence, then two. After a while, he sighed and stopped again. “I wanted to compete against you. The first time, I… messed up. It wasn’t what I wanted it to be. And I knew I’d never get another chance if I didn’t try my best. So I decided to work hard and learn your routine. Because if I can learn what you can learn, maybe… I could do anything!” Yuuri paused and smiled, something private and pure that wasn’t meant for Victor, but he took it anyway—memorized it and wrapped it up in his mind and saved it for later. “That’s what I felt, anyway. I don’t know if it’s true.”

“Wow,” Victor said softly, beautifully surprised and at a loss for words. He’d never known until now how dedicated Yuuri was—and thought so highly of him! More than anything, Victor never wanted to let him down. Despite having nothing to prove, Victor wanted to impress him. He wanted to find a way to make that happen. He would do whatever it took to make that happen. Despite the viral video being proof that Yuuri had the requisite skill to become a champion skater, not everyone had the resolve . But Yuuri did. Now Victor knew he did.

They unpacked in silence for a while more before Victor settled on what he wanted to say in response. “I think it could be true, but not without hard work.” He reached over then, and tapped Yuuri on the arm to draw his attention. Then he smiled. “But that’s why I’m here.”

Yuuri’s answering smile was small and genuine as he shifted into a proper seated position, and started unpacking things in a circle around him and broke down boxes as he went. He worked constantly, but his expression never faded. (Victor wondered if, when Yuuri was training, he approached it much the same way—with careful diligence. He hoped so.) Victor wasn’t sure whether or not he was meant to hear the gentle, “Thank you,” but he did. And he saved that for himself, too.

“Yuuuuuuuuri!” Bright and early the next morning—or rather, dark and early the next morning—Victor awoke and got ready before he made his way to Yuuri’s room, Makkachin following closely at his heels. From inside the locked door, he could hear a shuffle and a groan and then a quiet nooooo when Yuuri inevitably realized what was happening.

Training time.

“Wake up! We’re going for a jog!” Well, Yuuri was going for a jog. Mari, who was up early to make breakfast for the patrons of the onsen, had generously offered Victor her bike. “Yuuri! You better wake up or I’ll ask your sister for the key to your door!”

Another groan, another shuffle, the unmistakable sound of Yuuri getting out of bed and promptly hitting the floor. “ Oooow… ”

“I’ll see you downstairs!” Victor grinned to himself as he retreated down the hallway and Makkachin wuffed . “Ready for a walk, darling? Come on.” Fifteen minutes later, Yuuri all but rolled down the stairs in a tracksuit that was just a little too tight around the middle, eyes bleary behind his glasses. Makkachin had already been let outside for the morning, but he always enjoyed a good trot, so Victor put his leash in the navy-blue backpack he’d brought from his apartment in Russia. It was old and nearly threadbare, but he could wear it while cycling like he did in Saint Petersburg to bring his belongings to-and-from practice. Makkachin could walk alongside the bike at his leisure, but it was always good to have the leash just in case, no matter how well-trained he was. “Good moooor ning, sleepyhead. Protein shake is on the counter. Drink up.” Yuuri dry heaved a little bit when he took a sip. Victor suppressed his smirk by pursing his lips.

“No breakfast?”

Victor walked back inside to grab a pair of gloves and to whistle for Makkachin. He clapped Yuuri on the shoulder, and Yuuri’s whole body wavered with the force of it. Victor winked. “This is breakfast. Sixteen grams of protein, eighteen grams of carbs, 230kcal. You’ll have one of these in the morning, one around lunch. From now on, anything you eat is fruit, lean protein, or an unprocessed carbohydrate. Brown rice only from now on. Here,” he snatched a clear, reusable water bottle from the shelf behind Yuri and pushed it to his chest. “You’ll be drinking at least six of these a day! And no—more—katsudon!” He emphasized this point by poking Yuuri in the sternum.

Yuuri sighed, staring miserably into his protein shake. “Yes, Coach.”

Victor grimaced, hit with a sudden vision of being old and gray and grim and balding like Coach Yakov. No thanks. “You can just call me Victor, Yuuri. We’re competitors—and friends. And no more katsudon… until you win.” He smiled. “Finish your shake, then we’ll get going. Jog first, and I want to see your home rink. That's going to be our home base from now on. Did you stretch yet this morning?”

“In my room before I got dressed.” That mental image was enough of a distraction for Yuuri to chug the rest of the shake, and Victor chuckled at the full-body shudder. He always hated the protein shakes Yakov had made him drink when he was training. They were good for him, of course, but at such a displeasurable cost. “I’m ready. Let’s go.”

“Makka- chin !” Victor called, swung the backpack up onto his shoulder, and clipped it around his waist. His poodle came running from the back room and sat at his feet, tail wagging patiently as he waited for Victor. “Good boy. Yuuri, hope you’re ready for a workout. Makkachin and I are in excellent shape.” He winked.

“You’re riding a bike .” Yuuri’s eyes narrowed in an expression that reminded Victor strongly of Yuri Plisetsky. However, Yuuri sighed soon after without pitching the fit Victor was used to receiving, and walked brusquely up behind Victor. He unzipped his backpack and shoved the water bottle inside, then zipped it back up before Victor could protest. “Fine. Don’t turn too fast or you’ll run over poor Makkachin.”

“I would never ,” Victor sniffed. Still, he smiled a little at Yuuri’s snappy nature as he climbed up onto the seat. It was a good thing Yuuri seemed to like Makkachin so much. They’d gotten along splendidly the night before. Plisetsky, Mila, and Georgi never liked dogs, though tolerated Makkachin because Victor was the star of their studio. It was nice to have someone who appreciated his best friend and constant companion. “Okay, let’s go!”

Victor started to ride with Makkachin ambling a fair distance at his side, allowing room for Victor to maneuver. He often rode his bicycle in Saint Petersburg; keeping and parking a car was so costly and ineffective when everything he needed was just a couple blocks away.

He rode slowly, taking in the sight of the city as the sun painted the sky with the first rays of light. Fog rolled in off the sea in billowing waves, and Victor could hear the crash of the surf. In the small town, not many people were driving this time of morning, so the sounds of the ocean were unfettered by street traffic. On the top of the hill, an enormous, terrific building was bathed in light, and the architecture was something new and strange that drew Victor’s eye. It was a beautiful place to live, and something about the quiet and the peace of it settled something in him. Saint Petersburg was different, busy, chaotic, no matter the time of day. The people didn’t smile when he passed them on the street in Russia—the woman they passed soon after leaving the onsen, pushing her baby in a jogging stroller, greeted them warmly. Victor wondered at first if it was because she knew Yuuri (in a town this small, that was likely), but he soon came to realize as the morning progressed and more people started their commutes that they were just friendly here.

They crossed the bridge over the Hasetsu Sound, the smell of the tide was strong in Victor’s nose, but he much preferred that to the metal smell of a city. When he had skated in Hong Kong several years back, the smog had been so thick that he had been forced to wear a face mask, and he’d had a headache for three days after he left. He could breathe freely here as he cycled, and despite the chill in the air remaining from the recent snow, he could imagine how beautiful it would be in the summer when the coastal breeze wasn’t so brisk.

“Makka, wait,” Victor said, and slowed his speed to a stop; he pulled off to the side of the bridge to allow room for the cars to pass. Yuuri, trailing behind Makkachin on the sidewalk, was struggling. Victor waited for him to catch up, but when he did, he was wheezing. Concerned, Victor put down the kickstand of the bike and stood, his own breathing barely phased—it was hardly the workout he was used to, but the toll it was taking on Yuuri seemed unusual. Yuuri was visibly exhausted; Victor felt a pang of guilt. “You don’t have asthma, do you? Ah, I should have asked that before we started. Do you have an inhaler?” It was uncommon, but not unheard of for a professional athlete to have such an affliction. With regular workouts, the lungs became stronger, but for athletes that got out-of-shape, sometimes starting the process again was like starting from scratch. Victor should have thought of that. Yuuri’s health was important.

“I don’t… have asthma…” Yuuri panted. He doubled over, hands braced on his buckled knees, and leaned against the metal railings of the bridge. “I’m just… out of shape. And it’s cold. Makes… it hard to take a deep breath.”

Victor scrambled to unbuckle the harness of the backpack and get it on the ground. Once he did, he grabbed Yuuri’s water bottle and held it with anxious hands, waiting as he recovered. After a moment, he touched Yuuri’s shoulder. “Here, drink.” Yuuri took the water bottle, but held onto it for another minute or two before his breathing had calmed enough for him to be able to do so. When he did drink, it was a slow thing, Yuuri inhaling and exhaling through his nose in a shallow, even pattern as he took small sips. His glasses fogged from his breath, and if he didn’t look so miserable, Victor would have felt less guilty about finding it so cute.

He understood physical exhaustion more than most people, but Victor had never had to strain particularly hard in terms of general activity. Muscle fatigue, yes. But he had been a champion for so long that it had been years since he was so out-of-shape to have difficulty breathing like that. Honestly, it gave him a bit of a fright to see Yuuri in such a state.

“Are you okay?” Victor asked. He stepped forward, hand outreached, and placed his fingers just below Yuuri’s jaw. He flinched away at first, until he realized the pads of Victor’s first two fingers were placed against his throat, searching for his pulse. He held still a moment, but his expression was twisted and embarrassed.

“I’m fine,” Yuuri said, and gently swept away Victor’s hand with his own, dismissive. His eyes were downcast. “Please don’t. I know I’m not great, but I’ll work hard! I’ll get better!” He looked up, eyes wide and sharp. “I know you’re trying to help, but I need to struggle to improve! I’m okay. I’m going to be fine. I just need time!” He held out the water bottle in both outstretched hands toward Victor, and bowed his head. “I’m ready to continue. I won’t let you down.”

Victor paused, but he thought he understood. This wasn’t just a struggle, but a matter of pride. He hadn’t meant to imply weakness in his concern for Yuuri’s well-being, but Yakov had always said these things were different in Japan. “Okay,” Victor said, and took Yuuri’s water bottle, already half-empty. He leaned down, under Yuuri’s shallow bow of shame, to return it to his backpack and zip it up again. He lifted it onto his shoulders once more and tried not to look too solemn, forcing a crooked smile. He didn’t want to pressure Yuuri with overbearing worry. “I won’t stop you again unless you ask. But, Yuuri, if you need to take a break, please… ask.” He nodded once to show he was serious about this.

Yuuri hesitated only a moment before he nodded in return. “Okay.”

Victor learned something critical about Yuuri and his training with that interaction. He pondered on it as he climbed back up on Mari’s bike and they set off again. This time, Victor deliberately slowed his pace some, but since he didn’t make a fuss of it, neither did Yuuri.

That cemented it.

Training Yuuri was going to be an exercise in due diligence. Victor would have to be constantly watching his movements, listening to his breathing, interpreting his needs from the way he moved and reacted. This proved to Victor that (at least at this stage in their relationship) Yuuri would never ask him for the necessities. Perhaps the cultural differences were so great that he would never ask for what he needed, in the hopes of appearing strong, or unaffected, or polite. It was up to Victor to find that line between letting Yuuri keep his pride, and where to step in for his safety and comfort. Georgi and Mila and Yuri, they all understood when to ask (or in Plisetsky’s case, demand ) a break to rest, as to not overexert and hurt themselves. They knew how to ask their coach when they needed to rehydrate, to eat, to sleep. What was more, they all knew how to ask for other, less obvious things—when to beg a day off de-stress and prevent an imminent breakdown, or to take it easy for a single day when they weren’t feeling well, to prevent a week’s worth of debilitating illness (that often spread to their teammates in the process).

It would be up to Victor to suggest these things, if he sensed Yuuri needed them. And, when he felt Yuuri could carry on safely, it would be Victor’s duty to turn a blind eye and proceed like he hadn’t noticed the struggle all, to allow him to save face. It was not just a matter of pride, but a matter of cultural heritage and, quite simply, the way things were done here.

He could do that, though. He could. Yuuri’s face was so open and easy to read, unlike many of the skaters Victor had known in his career. He wore the way he felt clearly in the lines of his body. Nervousness. Exhaustion. Shame. But the other things, too, like his happiness, his excitement, and his interest. His heart. To bear witness to Yuuri’s heart and interpret its needs would be, Victor felt, his greatest achievement—if he could manage it. He could then help Yuuri grow into someone truly magical, spectacular, unpredictable, free. Maybe there would come a time when Yuuri no longer hid those things, from him or at all. Maybe there would come a time where he felt he knew and trusted Victor enough to ask for what he needed, knowing Victor would oblige without judgement. Wouldn’t that just be the truest gift, Victor thought. To have the unwavering trust of a person like Katsuki Yuuri?

Victor desired so much to be the kind of person that was worthy of that. The kind of trust he’d offered freely to Yakov Feltsman when he was a child—unquestioning and pure; the kind of person that could be looked up to without fear of falling in the process.

Victor had spent his life hoping to inspire people through his own achievements. But to build new achievements with someone, and to help someone find their way, and create their own form of art… that would be something truly special.

Chapter Text

Hasetsu Ice Castle was a small-town rink that seated maybe a thousand people, full of local advertisements for businesses, many of which Victor had seen on the bike ride there. It was quaint, and it was small—the sort of place where he could see a skater starting a career, but not thriving with one.

Nishigori Yuuko had stars in her eyes the moment they walked in the door and Victor introduced himself as Yuuri’s new coach (all the while listening to Yuuri, winded, doubled over behind him—a conscious effort not to draw attention to his difficulty, but he was fine, he was okay, Victor would let it go). She was a nice girl with three beautiful daughters, whose gazes were more like Coach Yakov’s critical assessments than the starstruck look of their mother. Victor appreciated both. It was good to see passion for the sport in kids so young, and that they knew who he was at all was surprising. Most of the children he had known didn’t become aware of celebrities, really, until they were well out of primary school. The young ones that trained under the other coaches in Saint Petersburg were too busy playing tag on the ice or learning how to properly take a fall to know or care who Victor was, and he liked that about them. Childhood should never be cut short prematurely. That innocence was precious.

As Victor laced his skates, he tried to imagine Yuuri and Yuuko skating together on this ice as children. He could picture Yuuri’s face, soft and young and rounded like it was now, but with the same eager shine in his eyes he’d had at the Grand Prix after-banquet. Was he the kind of boy that was careful and precise when he was learning a new skill? Or did he throw all caution to the wind and launch himself into daring jumps before he was ready, gaining scrapes and bruises along the way?

Victor had been the latter. Dynamic, they called him. Explosive talent. In reality, he’d been very lucky he didn’t injure himself more severely than a couple of broken fingers and minor concussions in his youth. Victor had never listened to Yakov’s caution and rarely practiced the jumps and flips on the trampolines and padded flooring before they tried it on ice, the way that it was standard for them to practice now. The rink was unforgiving to those who didn’t have the skill to complete a gutsy move the way it should be done.

This rink was not half the size of an Olympic arena, but for that reason Victor found it more comfortable. It felt more private in how small it was, used primarily for elementary and high school hockey, and amateur and hobbyist figure skating practice. He could see himself spending time there, and not just out of necessity. So long as Yuuri didn’t get too distracted by his friends who owned the rink, it would be a perfect place to practice… once he got in shape.

Victor had seen the video of Yuuri skating at his current weight, of course. He’d been fantastic, and his jumps were well-executed. But for the sake of hard impact on his knees that came inherent with jumps, he’d prefer Yuuri trained a little more before Victor let him back on the ice. Not a punishment, but a reward for hard work.

Victor left his sweatshirt on the bench and stepped out of the gate, onto the ice and oh, he hadn’t skated in a few days because of the travel, and… maybe it was cruel to deny this to Yuuri. Victor’s love for skating and his love for competing were almost mutually exclusive nowadays. He had never lost his love for the hobby, only for the fickle nature of the competitive sport. If Yuuri’s love for being on the ice was anything like Victor’s, then perhaps it wasn’t fair of him to restrict his ice time, even if it was for his own health and wellbeing.

Two weeks, Victor decided. As long as Yuuri worked hard and made significant progress toward the fitness goals they would set together, Victor would let him back on the ice in two weeks. In reality, what Yuuri really had to lose was body fat, but in the process, he would be gaining muscle, which was more dense and was much heavier than adipose. Judging Yuuri’s progress by weight alone would mean very little; as parts of him slimmed down, others would bulk up—his arms, his legs, his back, his core musculature, all the things that made a strong, physically conditioned skater.

Yuuri was good, but Victor would make him great. If his love for being on the ice was there, Victor would help it grow.

With that thought, he gained speed, the sound of his skates so soft and familiar underneath him, and launched himself into a quadruple flip. Yes , that was the movement he’d practiced hundreds of times—he landed on a single skate, the feeling of spinning midair still in his mind. He heard Yuuko’s shout of wonder and admiration from offside, and the clicking of her daughters’ camera shutters—well, what could it hurt to let them take a few photos? Everyone that mattered already knew where he was. He had no reason to hide, and this whole endeavor wasn’t about him, anyway.

Yuuri spoke casually and comfortably to Takeshi offside in a way that spoke of years of history. When the man clapped him on the back and threw his arm around Yuuri’s shoulders, Yuuri didn’t shrug him off or seem uncomfortable in the least. He smiled back at his friend before he turned his longing eyes to the ice.

“The little piggy can’t enter the rink until he drops some body fat,” Victor called as me moved through his fledgling routine, and realized soon after at Yuuri’s crestfallen, frustrated look that it sounded more mean than he meant it. But if Yuuri was motivated to get into shape, it would be no time at all until Victor allowed him to come back on the ice. A few more spins, but Victor could see that Yuuri was ready to move on from the antsy way he tapped at the edge of the rink. That was fine. If Yuuri wanted to move on in town, Victor would follow. He still had a lot to learn about Hasetsu.

Victor skated back to the edge of the rink, and Yuuko frowned. “Done so soon?” She asked.

“I’m here for Yuuri,” Victor said with a smile. “I’ve had my fun. Any moment I spend on the ice when I could be helping him train is wasted!” He smiled at the little girls, Axel, Lutz, and Loop (whose names made him smile every time he thought about it, and thanked the good fortunes that Yuuko didn’t have a fourth daughter to name Salchow), and leaned down to address them. “I’ll be back, though. And I’ll be counting on you to get Yuuri’s practices on film. Skaters can’t see themselves jump unless someone shows them a video. That’s what my coach did for me. Do you think you could help me with that?”

One of the little girls snapped into a sharp salute, another other got watery-eyed, and the last bowed deeply in deference, but the three replied together, “Nikiforov-sensei! It would be an honor!”

Victor was won over. When they straightened up, he tapped each of the three on the tips of their noses and said, “You’re definitely my number-one fans! Thank you!”

The girls, fit to explode with excitement, were ushered away by their mother and father before they could demand too many pictures or quotes for their (mother’s) blog. Victor shrugged back into his sweatshirt and sat to unlace his skates. As he did, Yuuri wandered over and sat on the other side of the bench, the two with their backs facing each other. Just as Victor was about to apologize for the comment he’d made, Yuuri said softly, “You were good with them.”

Caught off-guard, Victor looked over his shoulder, but Yuuri’s gaze was still following his friends. “Who?”

“Axel, Lutz, and Loop,” Victor said. He turned back to Victor then and laughed a little. “I only just got them to stop calling me Uncle Yuuri or senpai. But sometimes when I babysit for Yuuko and Takeshi and I try to put them to bed, they call me Yuuri-ojiichan.” At Victor’s furrowed brow, the word familiar-sounding but the meaning lost in translation, Yuuri glanced up, wracked his memory, and said carefully in English that they would both understand, “Grandpa.”

They both laughed at that. If only those girls could have known the Yuuri that Victor met, the one that loved to dance, and spoke freely, and could keep up with others from far more outgoing cultures than he. It was funny to think of anyone calling Yuuri a grandpa in that sense.

“I like kids,” Victor admitted. Yuuri looked at him, his head in a curious tilt. “Their age is wonderful, right around six, when they still have their creative spirit, but are old enough to ask real questions. And babies.” Victor rubbed the back of his neck bashfully. “I’ve always been good with infants.”

“Me, too,” Yuuri replied. “I used to come over to help Takeshi and Yuuko with the girls. Triplets are hard. That way there was one for each of us to hold. I think that’s why Axel likes me the best—I always held her.” He smiled as he stood. “I’m ready when you are. Should I get Makkachin out of the lobby?”

“Sure, if you’d like,” Victor agreed. “I’ll just change into my shoes. Oh, but Yuuri?”

Yuuri paused. “Huh?”

Victor tossed a careless smile back over his shoulder, and thought of how comfortable and free Yuuri had been with him at the banquet. If he could be so relaxed with Victor once, maybe he could be again with some more time to get to know one another—an ease he seemed to share with Yuuko and Takeshi, but not him, not yet. “I know you’re my real number-one fan.”

Yuuri’s replying blush went from the tips of his ears to down his neck, where it disappeared into the hood of his sweatshirt. “I’m gonna go get Makkachin!! See you outside!” Yuuri replied in a rush, and beat a hasty retreat without a real response.

Victor couldn’t hold back his grin as he tapped his skates on the padded floor to knock off any remaining powder, and put them into his backpack. As he slipped on his shoes, he realized that it would be fun, really fun, to skate with Yuuri. The back and forth between them, but in a tangible form… he hadn’t thought about it too much before then. But for both of them to be on the same ice, working closely together… not only would he be able to help Yuuri push his limits, but maybe Yuuri could help Victor push his own.

He looked forward to it.

Victor pushed Yuuri hard in physical training. After they left the Hasetsu Ice Castle, they found a stone walkway in a park that was perfect for stair runs, and when they were done that, Victor made them stop mid-loop around town to have Yuuri do pull-ups on the monkey bars of a children’s playground. To temper that, though, Victor would often make a point of stopping to take photos around town, usually just for a minute or two—selfies, cityscapes, landmarks, all tagged on his social media profiles, all shared to the general public.

Hasetsu was so picturesque. It was worth the time to document and share—not only for the fans that followed him, but for his friends spread out at training facilities around the world. This was his was of being close to them. But it was also his subtle, plausibly-deniable way of giving Yuuri the breaks that he needed to rest.

After a certain point in the afternoon, Victor realized that Yuuri had reached a point of exhaustion where he needed more than a moment’s break, and suggested they head back to the inn for a late lunch.

“Ah, sure,” Yuuri said. “But lunch ended about an hour ago. If you’re hungry, we should get food before we get back. It’ll be a few hours until dinner.” His stomach growled, and his cheeks flushed.

“Yuuri, shame on me,” Victor said, his hand on his hip. “I should have thought more about feeding you. Those protein shakes only go so far. Let’s go home, I’ll make you lunch.”

“You—? Victor, no!” Yuuri protested. “Really, I’m fine. You don’t have to—”

“It’s my responsibility, and my pleasure,” Victor said with a firm nod. Yuuri’s blush was precious, his bashful expression more so. Victor had been cooking his own meals since he was a teenager; cooking for Yuuri would be simple. Victor could tell (and not just because of the softness in his belly) that he wasn’t the picky type.

Victor climbed on the bike, and Yuuri visibly deflated a little bit. He was already tired enough, Victor figured. He’d worked hard, and without complaint. He deserved a reward for that.

He unbuckled his backpack and held it out toward Yuuri. “Put this on,” Victor said. “I don’t want it to hit you in the face when I’m steering. Sit.”

Yuuri balked.

“Come on, come on,” Victor insisted, and made to stand on the pedals. “You’ve already gone more than seven kilometers today, and you’re not even conditioned for it. I can handle the ride back. Sit!”

Yuuri barely looked at Victor as he secured the straps around his waist and climbed onto the bike, though not without some fussing before Victor grabbed his nervous hands and placed them at his own hips. There was no sense in Yuuri sending them off-balance just because he was too worried about touching Victor. The time would inevitably come that their relationship became hands-on for the sake of Yuuri’s coaching; if they didn’t overcome this hurdle before then, it would only hurt his progress. Coaching and skating were both physical processes, that much was inevitable. “Makka, come on.”

Makkachin wagged his tail and stretched, ready for the jog back. For an old dog, he was in surprisingly good shape, but Victor made a point of keeping him active.

“Wait, Victor—” Yuuri said.

Victor looked back over his shoulder. Yuuri was looking at anything but him. “What’s wrong?”

Yuuri’s voice, when he finally spoke, was soft and embarrassed. “You shouldn’t tire yourself out for me. I’m too heavy for something like this.”

The guilt in Victor’s gut was entirely self-inflicted. He really shouldn’t have teased Yuuri so much about his weight. “Nonsense,” he said. “Just because you’re not in peak form doesn’t make you heavy, Yuuri. I know I’ve poked fun, but I didn’t mean it. You’re exhausted, and I can manage this much for you. Just hold on, okay?”

Yuuri nodded, still looking downtrodden, and Victor took that as a sign to go. They could talk about this later, after he made sure Yuuri was properly fed and well-rested.

Riding with both of them on the bike really was nothing once they built momentum, but Victor was keenly aware of Yuuri’s hands on his hips the whole way home.

After shooing Yuuri away to bathe in the hot spring for a while and rest his muscles, Victor set quickly to work taking over a small section of the restaurant’s kitchen, under Mari’s watchful eye. With her approval to skim a small portion of their produce and pantry stock under the promise that it was for Yuuri, Victor set quickly to work.

Many of Russia’s native recipes were based around potatoes and heavy, high-calorie ingredients with cream-sauce bases, so while Yuuri was actively attempting to lose weight, Victor would have to adapt.

“Mari,” Victor asked as he carefully peeled apart whole cabbage leaves and rinsed them under the sink. “What do you have for protein I could use that wouldn’t take away from your supplies for the dinner menu?”

Mari was perhaps Victor’s age, but with a laid-back attitude and both ears full of piercings, even though her relaxed outfit and carelessly pushed-back hair spoke to a lack attention or care for her appearance that probably didn’t exist when she’d spent the time and money committing to her modifications. Victor couldn’t blame her, though—he’d barely been here more than a day, and he could see that running a bathhouse like this was hard, unforgiving work that left little time for self-care.

But he could also see that the fact that he asked meant something to her; that he wanted to do something productive, but didn’t want to interrupt her own work or efforts, either.

“We’ve got a lot of onsen tamago,” she said as she looked into the large commercial fridge for other options. “I just took some out. They’re what we put on top of the katsudon. That’s Yuuri’s favorite. But we have some raw pork to spare that came in cutlets too small to serve in the restaurant. You could boil or steam them, if you wanted. And we have some small chicken breasts we didn’t use for yesterday, that if we don’t go through today will only go to waste. We used to feed those sorts of things to Vicchan, but now…”

“Vicchan?” Victor asked, curiosity piqued. Wasn’t that what Hiroko had called him when he first arrived?

“...our poodle,” Mari said, her voice pitched low and sad. “He got hit by a car last year when one of the patrons accidentally let him outside without us. I had to call Yuuri right before the competition and tell him. I knew I should have waited until after he performed, but if I hadn’t told him, he never would have forgiven me.”

Stricken, Victor paused in his actions, the cold water bath he was giving the cabbage nearly freezing his fingers. “Competition —not the Grand Prix Final?”

“Yeah, that was it,” Mari sighed. She toed the kickplate of the commercial fridge with a little more violence than necessary. “Yuuri’s always been a nervous kid. But he hadn’t been home in five years, and Vicchan was his dog. We all loved him, but getting a puppy was Yuuri’s idea, because of you. Minako-chan said it would be good for his anxiety, convinced our parents.”

Because of me? Yuuri got a poodle and named it Vicchan because of me? Victor stared into the stream of the water, then slowly turned it off. He placed the cabbage leaves on a paper towel to dry them, and wiped his hands against his track pants. He tried to imagine what it would be like, if he were to unexpectedly lose Makkachin before a major event when nerves were already running high. If he hadn’t seen Makkachin in months, like things had been when he was still in the competitive circuit.

He couldn’t. He couldn’t imagine that, though he knew now that Makkachin was eleven years old, it was entirely possible.

That would explain why Yuuri had crashed and burned so badly on his free skate last year. And a shake in confidence like that could explain his flub at the Japanese Nationals, too. Not to mention why he had spent the first portion of the banquet after the Grand Prix being comforted by his coach.

In retrospect, he was amazed Yuuri had been able to have any fun at all that evening. Though it did explain the sheer amount of alcohol.

“I’m sorry,” Victor said, not knowing what else to say at first. “I hope Makkachin being here isn’t hard for you all.”

“No, no,” Mari said, and promptly closed the fridge so she could look at Victor, a selection of packages balanced on one hand. She placed them on the counter beside Victor, and set her hands down flat on the countertop. “It’s been a year. We’re mostly over it. Makkachin is a great dog, and I think having him here will help Yuuri. But I appreciate you saying that.”

Victor nodded once, and went through what Mari had brought until he found something that suited him. “I think I’ll use the pork, if that’s okay. Yuuri likes it. I can help finish up the chicken later tonight for dinner.”

“Sure,” Mari said, and rounded up what Victor didn’t need to put back in the upright fridge. “Do you want anything else?”

Victor considered this. “An onion, and a few tomatoes, please. Where do you keep your seasonings?”

“Behind you, on the shelf above the prep table,” Mari called from inside the walk-in. “These are fresh today but frozen, is that alright? I don’t want to use too much of the raw stuff before dinner.”

“That’s fine,” Victor replied as he turned and picked out salt, pepper, garlic, and dill. He set these aside and readied a pot that he set on the stovetop, heat set on high to boil water. On the counter, he readied a large skillet and wiped it down with a thin layer of oil, just enough to prevent sticking. He could tell the cast-iron was well-seasoned, well-loved. He’d make sure it was cleaned in time for the dinner service.

“Out of curiosity, what are you making?” Mari asked as she emerged with the frozen, pre-diced produce in their stainless steel prep dishes.

“Cabbage rolls,” Victor answered. “Albeit, not a traditional recipe or presentation. Do you mind if I steal a little bit of your rice as well? I’ll go shopping later tonight to replace what I’ve used and get my own supplies. I would have stopped on the way back, but Yuuri was already tired.”

“We’re a traditional Japanese onsen, we’ve got rice to spare. Don’t worry about replacing anything, by the way. You’re coaching Yuuri. That’s worth a whole lot more than a little food.”

“Food, and a room, for as long as I’m going to be here?” Victor pointed out simply. “I won’t take advantage. I’ll help where I can. I have enough from my winnings to do that, at least. I teased Yuuri that I would charge him a coaching fee later, but your hospitality is payment enough. Traditionally, this whole thing is done the other way around—the skater lives with the coach and uses their facilities, their food, their gyms. Not the coach living with the skater.”

Mari made a considering sound. “Anything I can do, by the way?”

“Oh!” Victor was surprised for her help, but grateful for it. “If the water’s boiling, if you’d like to put the cabbage leaves in for a few minutes, that would be wonderful. Do you have a meat grinder? I’ll clean it when I’m done.”

“I can do that. And yeah, over in the corner,” Mari answered. She picked up the cabbage leaves and carefully placed them in one by one, pushing them down into the water with a mesh skimmer, more commonly used for fried foods. It was a good idea, to extract the leaves later when they were soft without tearing them. Of course, Mari had worked in the onsen and restaurant for most of her life. She knew how things were done.

Victor carefully fed the small pieces of pork through the grinder and into a small metal bowl. The portions were fairly small, maybe enough for two to three people, but that would feed them both until Victor could get to the store and get what he needed for future meals. Like he’d said to Mari, he didn’t expect to live expense-free off the Katsuki family’s generosity.

“You’re different than the TV makes you out to be,” Mari said as Victor turned off and took apart the grinder to put the components in the large bucket sink.

Victor was curious. He didn’t often spend enough time with people who had only ever known him from television to think about the differences they’d experience in real life. All the people he considered friends knew him , not just how the media portrayed him. “How?”

“You think about things. You ask before you take. You’re not as shallow as they make you seem.” Her voice was matter-of-fact, but not unkind. “I didn’t think I would like you, especially when I heard you make fun of Yuuri last night for his weight. Idols never turn out to be what people think they are—they’re just people, it’s not realistic. I tried to tell Yuuri that years ago, but he never listened to me when it came to you. But if you really didn’t care, you wouldn’t have gone with him this morning as early as you did. You wouldn’t have taken the time to meet Yuuko and Takeshi and their girls. You wouldn’t be making his food from scratch, like I know you made those protein shakes this morning. You wouldn’t offer to buy your own groceries.”

Victor laughed under his breath, just once, stuck on the concept of Yuuri and idol and years ago and him all together in the same sentence, trying to make sense of it. “Do I really seem that shallow on TV?”

“Yes,” Mari answered simply. “Like you can take anything you want without consequence. And Yuuri has looked up to you for so long, he would probably let you.”

She turned her knowing eyes on him, and Victor stilled. He had the feeling they weren’t talking about groceries anymore.

“That may be the way things are done in other places, but that’s not the way it is here. Not with him. So be careful.” She fished the cabbage leaves out of the pot and into a separate bowl, then brought them to the sink to cover them with cold water and stop the cooking process. She looked at Victor, still standing there holding his bowl of ground pork. “Aren’t you going to finish that? Yuuri’s going to be hungry.”

“Oh,” Victor said, and looked down at the bowl in his hands. “Yes.” Once at the counter, he cracked open three soft-boiled eggs, onsen tamago, to mix into the ground pork, the texture fascinating and strange and unlike anything he’d ever seen, partially cooked but runny enough to be a good binding agent. “How do you make these?” He asked.

“We have an old lobster trap that we put the eggs in, then put it in the bottom of the pool that’s too small for guests, out near the maintenance shed, for just under an hour. It’s the old way.” She nodded once, and before Victor could tell her not to, started cleaning the grinder components he’d left in the sink. “My mom’s family has owned the onsen for generations. She says that the old ways are the reason we’re still open, even though most places like ours have closed down. She’s very traditional, but she loves my brother.”

Victor didn’t see the correlation in that statement, but maybe there was a detail he was losing in translation. He thought about what Mari had said, started mixing in the salt and pepper and ground dill into the pork-and-egg-mixture, and then, “You’re very different from Yuuri.”

“Someone has to look out for him,” she replied, the motions of her hands swift and simple from practice. Soap, water, wash, rinse, repeat. “For most of our lives, that’s been me. Yuuri never wanted to leave here, but I never really wanted to stay. But I did what I had to; so did he. It’s just who we are.” Victor started forming the mixture into small shapes, like elongated meatballs. Mari finished washing, and added, “What do you want to do with the rice?”

“This shape, but thinner. To go as a bottom layer, then we’ll wrap them in the cabbage leaves.” Victor said.

“That’s not the traditional way, is it?” Mari asked, and dove hands-first into the rice to start making patties that were not unlike the rice base made for sashimi.

“No,” Victor said. “But nothing about this is traditional.”

She smiled.

Together they formed the rice base, then the pork-and-egg filling on top, and wrapped them in the cabbage leaves. They set them close together, seam down, in the skillet, and then placed the whole thing on high heat. Victor washed the mixing bowls in the meantime, and Mari stood careful watch over the cabbage rolls as they began to sear closed.

“I never would have taken you for a cook,” she said to him over the sound of the running water. “Usually men don’t know how to take care of themselves. Not ones of privilege, anyway.”

“I wasn’t always,” Victor answered, and that was really all he had to say. He turned off the sink and dried the bowls with a towel, then set them aside. He peeked over Mari’s shoulder. “Those look good. Now we add the tomato, some rice wine vinegar, and we’ll cover it for about half an hour on low heat.”

“Ah,” said Mari just as she poured in the finely-diced tomatoes. “I just ran out of vinegar, I was going to run to the store for some later. We could always just use sake.”

Bold. Victor liked it. “Let’s do it,” he agreed with a grin, and met Mari’s victorious smile as she upended a generous portion into the skillet and set the cover over the top.

They shared a high-five.

“You’re not so bad,” Mari decided, and it felt almost like approval. Victor smiled, grateful and validated, and made to thank her, “—but I liked you hair better long, for the record.” She patted him on the shoulder as she left with a casual, “Don’t burn down my kitchen,” and Victor deflated.

As much as he liked them, this family would be the death of him.

But later, Yuuri’s eyes were wide and bright as he ate, and he turned to Victor and asked, “You made this?”

“Mari helped me,” Victor said with a nod.

“Too much credit!” Mari called from where she had started prepping dinner orders in the kitchen. “The whole recipe was his idea!”

“Oishii,” Yuuri replied happily, muffled through the bite in his mouth. “And I can eat this? But it tastes good.”

“Healthy food can be delicious, too.” Victor smiled, his chin balanced on his hand. In truth, it was delicious, but he was more glad to see Yuuri enjoying it than he was in eating himself. “I’ll teach you next time.”

When Yuuri smiled, really smiled, his whole face lit up. Victor hadn’t seen that expression all day. In fact, he hadn’t seen it for… more than a year. It was lovely. “Oh… what do you say in Russian? Vkusno? ”

His pronunciation was mangled but it didn’t even matter, because oh, Victor was definitely in trouble.

Chapter Text

Yuuri disappeared at some point that evening; Victor wasn’t sure where he had gone at first, but when he mentioned it offhand to Mari, she’d just said, he’s probably with Minako-chan . The pang Victor felt at that meant very little in the grand scheme of things—what had he expected, really? Yuuri had known Minako his whole life. She was a beautiful woman, even if she was closer to Victor’s age than Yuuri’s, and older still.

Ah, I see, Victor had said. Are they dating?

Mari’s knowing, pitying look had not answered his question in a way that satisfied him.

Victor figured he would have to ask Yuuri himself.

As it turned out, Yuuri was not dating Minako… or so he said. Rather, she was his ballet instructor and training partner, and he had snuck off last night to practice in her studio before bed.

“I could have gone with you,” Victor said offhand during a water break, his phone vibrating idly in his pocket. Probably Instagram notifications. His earlier post about the Hasetsu Castle really seemed to be taking off.

“No!” Yuuri’s response was direct, vehement, and startling.

When Victor turned his surprised— and a little offended— expression on Yuuri, he balked. If Yuuri didn’t want him to be involved in his training, then why was he here?

“I just…” Yuuri worried the soft silicone mouthpiece of the sports bottle between his teeth. Nervous chewers were also usually nervous eaters, in Victor’s experience, and he could guess the same was true for Yuuri. Gum was a typical favorite, but was not allowed while skating. (Though he denied it vehemently, Yuri Plisetsky chewed on the hood strings of his sweatshirts before competing.) Fingernails were also a common victim. He’d never paid attention to Yuuri’s nails before, but—yes, they were bitten down short, just shy of irritated. “Minako-sensei pushes me to be my best, and I’m not at my best right now. When you come to watch me dance, I want to have something to show for it.”

When, he said, and that was encouraging. Yuuri didn’t plan to keep him barred forever. Just for now. And with Victor invading every aspect of his life—his home, his family, his day-to-day actions—he needed something familiar, comforting, to hold on to. “Okay, Yuuri. I’d be happy to see when you’re ready.”

Yuuri’s smile, gentle and relieved, stuck in Victor’s mind, and he started to notice other things, too. Yuuri pointed his toes when he practiced bench jumps. He always turned on the ball of his feet by leading with his hips, not his shoulders. He swayed from side to side, or heel-to-toe, at all times when he wasn’t running or sitting. If there was music playing, he smiled, no matter how exhausted he was.

He worked harder than anyone Victor had ever trained with, and didn’t complain about the effort he put in. It didn’t take long for Victor to decide that anything Yuuri was going to do in terms of physical conditioning, it was only fair to do himself. Sprints, jumps, suicides, squats, push-ups, pull-ups—if Yuuri did it, Victor did it, and Yuuri’s hard-earned results were starting to show.

They ran themselves hard during the days, but at Victor’s insistence, they spent more time together in the evenings, too. Victor taught him some simple, healthy cooking, they soaked together in the large outdoor spring (now that the nervous energy of first meeting was behind them), and they tossed toys around for Makkachin to chase. Yuuri showed him his favorite places in town, and it was… nice , just to walk around shoulder-to-shoulder with Makkachin at their heels, to let Yuuri read the street signs and gossip magazines out loud to him and translate what Victor couldn’t understand. Kanji and hiragana were as foreign to him as the Russian alphabet looked to Yuuri, even if he knew some of the words when they were spoken out loud.

Sometimes when they got back to the onsen, they would lay on the floor in Victor’s room, surrounded by a collection of their old school books, both in Russian and Japanese. Yuuri would ramble on about cultural context clues, and Victor would let him. He was always eager to fill the silence, and it was usually the most Victor heard him speak all day. He learned more and more about Yuuri in the process—the sorts of jokes he found funny, and the TV shows he liked. It didn’t matter that Victor had never seen most of them before. Yuuri was happy to explain them to him.

They were settling into a routine, and a fragile sort of friendship, when the reporters arrived.

Suddenly, there was no such thing as privacy at the onsen. Though Yuuri’s parents were thrilled at the influx of business, Yuuri was anything but . For Victor, he hadn’t quite thought through what tagging his social media posts with geolocations would mean for his partnership with Yuuri. Namely, a whole lot of interruption.

“Katsuki-san!”

“Yuuri-kun!”

“Hey, Mr. Nikiforov!”

Crestfallen, and cornered again on their attempt to sneak out for their morning run—they even left Makkachin behind for his absence not to be noticed!—Victor and Yuuri paused as the trio of newscasters ran up on them in the entryway. “Good morning,” Yuuri said politely. The only good thing that had come of all this was Yuuri getting to practice his English more and more, and them both remembering how much easier it made communication between them.

“Not this again,” Yuuri muttered under his breath, voice pitched so only Victor could hear him.

Microphones shoved into their faces behind the young, eager reporters—the three newscasters were green and enthusiastic. Rookies just out of journalism school, or maybe just bloggers. Victor had to commend them at their persistence. He didn’t think any would be waiting for them outside the fire exit, which let out near the maintenance shed. But silently, Victor agreed with Yuuri. Reporters after a competitive win were expected, and on busy city streets, too. But not at five in the morning when he and Yuuri were trying to train.

A pale American boy shoved his digital recorder forward. “Mr. Nikiforov! You’ve been a Russian icon in the public eye for most of the last ten years. What do you say to the rumors that your absence is because of political maneuvers?”

“Yuuri-kun,” the second, female reporter’s following question in Japanese was too rapid-fire for Victor to catch, but Yuuri went bright red and flustered in response.

“Katsuki-san! How’s the training going?” asked the last girl.

Victor latched onto that in Yuuri’s stead. “The training is going well!” All the microphones and recording decides swivelled to him. “Yuuri is working very hard and we’re excited to get started. I have a lot of faith in his skills and what we will achieve together. However, we can’t achieve anything for you to report about if we don’t have any time to practice. See you later!”

Victor grabbed Yuuri’s wrist and dragged him straight through the middle. The young journalists were forced out of the way lest they be bowled over, and once they were through, Victor and Yuuri took off at a brisk jog.

“What did the second woman ask you, in Japanese?” Victor asked, grinning, as they rounded the front gate and set off toward the beach.

Yuuri’s face was still flushed. “Uh, if, uh. If I would give an interview about my amazing weight loss.”

“Why is that embarrassing?” The more they jogged together each morning, the easier it got to maintain conversation while doing so. “You’re doing great, you have nothing to be ashamed of!”

“I know that. She, er. Asked about my physical habits, was all.”

“Huh? Physical habits?” Victor blinked and contemplated this. “ Oh! That’s bold —wait, Yuuri! Stop speeding up! You’re going to tire yourself out! Yuuri!! It’s too early to be running this fast!”

Unfortunately, necessity demanded that sometimes, Yuuri had to train alone while Victor fended off the reporters. Neither of them liked it, but the truth was that the scandal of Victor coaching Yuuri was less about exactly that, and more about Victor taking time off. The reporters followed Victor anywhere they could, but Yuuri had more leeway. After the third morning of trying to find a new location of the inn to sneak out from for their run, and getting subsequently caught, Victor insisted Yuuri go on his own.

He then spent the morning answering what questions he had patience for (and wouldn’t get him excommunicated from his home country), hiding in Mari’s kitchen during the breakfast service, and preventing strangers who clearly knew nothing about dogs from feeding questionable things to Makkachin.

It was frustrating. Victor was as good as anyone as putting on a smile for the press, but this was getting out of hand. Days upon days on end, and enough reporters with not enough focus and intrusive questions—for the first time, Victor realized how much Yakov must have filtered these things out and kept journalists away from him. He didn’t have such a luxury here, and since the onsen was a public place that still had patrons unrelated to the news crews, there was no viable way to shut their doors to the intruders.

By the time Yuuri returned from training all day with Minako, Victor’d had enough. They barred the doors to the outdoor baths late in the evening, and while Yuuri soaked his tired muscles, Victor stewed in his annoyance over the lost time. Not that Yuuri had lost any time, and he was what really mattered, but… it was the principle of the thing.

Victor lay his head back against the stone floor at the edge of the pool and closed his eyes. “Yuuri.”

“Huh?” Yuuri splashed idly in the water as he swayed and bobbed in the heated pool, ever moving.

“Please call Yuuko tonight and ask her if we can practice there tomorrow. You’ve been working hard, I know you’re ready to get back on the ice. But please, let’s make sure it’s a private practice. No public viewing.” Victor was more than ready to train Yuuri in peace. “I’ll pack the bag tonight with our skates and our water. I’ll head there early in the morning when they’re all drinking coffee, and you can meet me there after your jog. Okay?”

There was no response. Even Yuuri’s telltale splashing had gone silent. Victor opened his eyes against the dim glow of the lights and sat up from where he’d been soaking.

Yuuri’s eyes were bright and wide, and his glasses kept steaming up so he grabbed them and tossed them to the side. They clattered across the floor and slid away from the edge of the pool. “Really?” He asked. His wet hair stuck to his face. “I can skate with you tomorrow?”

Victor couldn’t look away. It had been a year since the last time he’d seen Yuuri without his glasses. Now that he had lost some of his puppy weight, a good portion of the roundness present in Yuuri’s cheeks had drained away and left an angular jaw, nose, and cheekbones. Without the glasses to break up the general silhouette, Victor was distinctly reminded… the angles of Yuuri’s face were beautiful. Sculpted. Without his usual layers bundling him up either, the long long of his neck was also left exposed.

There had been something enticing about Yuuri before, with his soft face and his long lashes. But to take away the extra few kilos was to boil Yuuri down to his most stunning physical form.

“Yes.” Victor swallowed. Yuuri’s smile was glowing and bright, and, “Yuuri, can you even see me right now?”

“...no?”

It was the distraction Victor needed to laugh and laugh and laugh. Yuuri scrabbled for the edge of the onsen and realized his glasses had skidded further than expected. Victor skimmed through the water to his side, and his shoulder pressed close and damp against Yuuri’s when he reached out to grab them. “Do you have contact lenses?” Victor asked, and pressed the frames into Yuuri’s hands.

Yuuri shook his head and put them back on. The steam was still enough that he couldn’t see. He huffed, and when he rubbed his wet thumbs on the lenses, he left distorted beads of water behind. “No, I never got officially fitted for them.”

“You can’t possibly have been allowed to wear glasses at the Grand Prix Final?” The thought of a skater wearing glasses while attempting a quad was laughable.

“I just… didn’t wear anything for my eyes.” Now that Yuuri’s glasses were on and righted, he seemed to realize how very close together while unclothed they still were, and made some distance between them. “I never have when I performed.”

“You’re telling me that you’ve never skated a routine while being able to see what you’re doing?”

“Why does that matter?” Yuuri asked. He sank into the water until his chin just barely touched the simmering surface. “It’s about velocity, jump height, and body position. You don’t need to see to skate any more than you need to see to make music.”

“I’m sure you don’t need to see, but it certainly helps,” Victor replied. “Are you opposed to contacts?”

“No.” Yuuri shrugged. “Honestly, um. When I first got fitted in high school, the doctor said he had to put them in for me, right? And I didn’t like having his fingers that close to my eyes, so I wouldn’t let him do it. So I couldn’t get fitted, never got a prescription, and I never went back to try again.”

Victor shook his head. Doctors. “We should find you a new doctor and try again. We’re going to be training a lot for the next few months. I’d like you to be able to see what we’re doing. Would you be okay with that?”

Yuuri opened his mouth, then closed it. He drew his arms around himself in the water. “Yeah, I guess so. ...maybe it would be nice, seeing when I’m skating. I don’t get dizzy when it’s blurry, though. But it’s worth a shot.”

“I’ll get you an appointment,” Victor said with a nod. He smiled, and reached out to touch Yuuri’s bare shoulder. Though the gesture was meant to be reassuring, Yuuri’s eyes were wide and surprised when he looked back at Victor.  “This is good. It’ll help.”

Yuri let the touch linger. From soaking in the water, his skin was soft and warm.

“...I’ll call Yuuko and ask her about tomorrow, for the rink.” Yuuri’s eyes had drifted down to Victor’s fingers, which rested on his shoulder. Victor, perhaps feeling too bold, let them stay.

The moment stretched.

“Victor…” Yuuri trailed off into silence. He looked up into Victor’s eyes.

His glasses were foggy again. Victor smiled.

He plucked the glasses from off Yuuri’s nose and put them on his own face. “How do I look?” Through the lenses, Victor’s own vision was warped; the small muscles in his eyes twinged at the strain.

Yuuri squinted. “I… don’t know.”

They laughed.

Victor gave them back without much fuss, and the tension was gone. They floated and smiled for a while longer.

“I like your glasses,” Victor said as they climbed out of the water. They both turned their backs to each other as they dressed in the loose-fitting onsen robes, but the embarrassment of their mutual nudity was gone. It was more comfortable than Victor had been with a person in a long time. “But without them, you’re stunning, Yuuri. I’d like for you to see what I see when you look in the mirror.”

When he turned, Yuuri was holding his glasses folded in his hand. He glanced over his shoulder at Victor, and with the neckline falling open over his collarbones, and his soft smile, he just… looked…

Victor could feel the heat rising in his cheeks, his chest, his ears, the tip of his nose. He’d always blushed with his whole body, which in this instance made it obvious. He hoped Yuuri didn’t take it the wrong way, because hiding it would be impossible. He pulled the loose halves of the open robe together with one hand and tried not to be self-conscious. There was no shame in this, he knew.

“I know you probably mean it, when you say those things,” Yuuri said quietly. “I know you don’t lie. You say what you believe, no matter the consequences. But…” He trailed off. He worried the glasses in his hand, and Victor realized that his own self-consciousness didn’t matter.

Yuuri couldn’t see him.

“When someone like you says something like that, about someone like me … I can’t believe it. Maybe, if I’m good enough, and I work hard enough, I could earn it. Maybe that doesn’t make sense. But I’m happy… that I’ve earned skating with you. That’s enough for me.”

Victor didn’t wait for Yuuri to say anything else. Drawn by the need to be close, he stepped up to Yuuri’s side and threw one arm around his shoulders. He hoped that seemed casual, even if it didn’t feel it. He hoped Yuuri couldn’t feel his heart beating through his side.

Red-faced, Yuuri put his glasses on. Victor looked over and smiled. “I hope you’ll believe it someday. You’ve worked so hard for this, Yuuri. I’m proud of you.”

Another moment, but Victor didn’t let this one wait.

“Come on,” he said. “Let’s go inside. You call Yuuko, I’ll call a doctor, and tomorrow we’ll get to work.”

Yuri Plisetsky arriving was… unexpected. But Victor was confident that he could make it work to his advantage. Truthfully, most of the promises he made before he met Yuuri seemed so small and unimportant now. This was his life. This was where he lived. This was what he’d committed to.

But he couldn’t exactly say that to Yuri. After all, a deal was a deal. Victor didn’t like making a habit out of breaking his promises. But there had to be a way around that, where he could still teach Yuuri, and fulfill the younger Yuri in a way that he wouldn’t come away with nothing.

The idea for the competition was born.

Victor was sure he could motivate Yuuri to win. While both the programs would be equally as complex, equally as beautiful, he wanted to inspire them both, challenge them both to see a different side of themselves than they normally saw.

I don’t want to be punished for losing! Yuuri had said, and that therein was the problem. He was already telling himself that he couldn’t win.

But he could. Victor knew he could. Yuri Plisetsky was an excellent skater, but he knew so little about life. He knew nothing about challenge, or heartbreak, or true human suffering, beyond the sadness a child could feel. Yuuri had so much more to draw upon, years more of experience. Despite what Yuri thought, and what Yuuri thought, this competition was in no way fair. Yuuri was the more talented skater, had the more experienced life. The only thing he lacked was confidence.

If Victor could inspire him, there was no way that Yuuri could ever lose. No matter what either of them thought, it simply wasn’t possible.

Victor was content. He would choreograph their programs. They would skate. Yuri would learn. Yuuri would win.

It wouldn’t be easy for them. But it was the way of the world, and the experience would give Yuuri the kickstart he needed.

Simple.

There was something about Yuuri that settled when being attacked by someone as confrontational as Yuri Plisetsky. It was fascinating for Victor to witness.

Yuri had a way of rattling even the most experienced people sometimes. If Victor’d had to place a bet beforehand, he would have bet three-to-one that Yuri would get under Yuuri’s skin in short accord. After all, Yuuri was reactive with Victor—he flushed, he riled, he recoiled, he hid. But with Yuri in his face, he was all smiles and soft words and didn’t take the boy seriously even a little bit when they were off the ice.

It was a familiar, beautiful, smug side of Yuuri he’d never seen unfiltered before. Comfortable in his place in the world, in his status with Victor, and… grounded.

He was easygoing, gently entertained.

But Yuuri alone…

Victor realized, at some point that night while Yurio curled lazily over the table (recategorized and named anew by Katsuki Mari, full belly sated by Katsuki Hiroko) that he hadn’t seen Yuuri for a while. It was late, and Makkachin had been too absent for too long, and Yuuri even more so.

When he asked Mari, she said that he was gone again.

Victor didn’t understand. Why would Yuuri leave? He thought they were having a good time, gently teasing the reactionary Yurio, eating good food, Victor just buzzed enough to be fuzzy on the inn’s sake throughout the meal. Yuuri had turned down a drink, but Victor hadn’t pushed it. Mari had called him aside to help preparing Yurio’s room, and then…

He gets like this sometimes. At times like this, he’ll go to Minako’s or the Ice Castle. He’s always been this way.

So Victor poured the jet-lagged and still-growing Yurio into bed, and set out to find Yuuri.

Minako’s place was a bust. Yuuri wasn’t there. Instead, she told him about Yuuri’s dancing—how graceful, how beautiful, how dedicated. Hardworking. Could have been prima ballerina, but Minako had known how Yuuri was meant for the soft sweeps and sharp vectors of a higher plane of movement, more and different than dancing. She had guided him into skating, into becoming the strange, elusive creature that Victor followed even now.

A mystery, wrapped in a man’s body. (Somehow, someday, knowing what Victor knew now, he would have to find a way to thank her for that. For giving him the experience of knowing Yuuri. If he had never skated, they would have never met.)

When Yuuri was sad or anxious, he would disappear to practice, she said. That she wouldn’t usually let him be alone, but that Yuuri also had an all-hours key at the Ice Castle.

And wasn’t that just…

Yuuri had kept himself off the ice for two weeks. Victor never could have done that, himself. No one could have kept him from the rink—not Yakov, not anyone . But Yuuri had, because Victor had said so. He’d even had the key to let himself in, to go and skate in the off-hours, but he hadn’t. He’d trained hard for two weeks and kept himself off the ice, even though, logistically, he didn’t have to. That kind of sacrifice meant even more to Victor than he could have ever imagined; Yuuri had every opportunity to ignore Victor and to be selfish (like Victor), but he chose not to be.

And only now that he felt he had earned it with Victor’s say-so, Yuuri was letting himself skate.

“I have to find him,” Victor said. He put his hands on the bar, determined, even as his eyes were drawn to the poster of Yuuri that Minako had pasted to the wall—over a year old, Yuuri before the Grand Prix Final. The Rising Sun of Japan , Minako had translated for him. He’s no prodigy, but he had the gift of more free time to practice than anyone else.

Yuuri was idolized here. A national hero. And he thought so little of himself, despite that.

“Try Ice Castle,” Minako replied with a nod. She promptly unfastened one key from her loop, and handed it across the counter into Victor’s waiting hand. “Don’t interrupt him, though. Just watch. I learned that if you can just sit there and watch him skate, you can usually figure out what he’s feeling. It’s one of the things that made him a champion—his emotion .”

The rink lights were on, but there was no clamor, only soft music. Too soft for normal public use, coming from a small portable speaker, attached to Yuuri’s phone on the ice. He skated backwards, little to no upward movement in his arms, all precise legwork. Beautiful form, balance held carefully in the muscles through his back and shoulders.

Makkachin wagged his tail when Victor walked into the rink box to find Yuuko and Takeshi, reclining and chatting quietly, and Yuuri skating alone on the other side of the glass.

“I wondered how long it would take,” Yuuko said with her soft, understanding smile. “But the first night? I’m impressed.”

“They spend so much time together, Yuuko. I told you it wouldn’t be long before he noticed,” Takeshi scolded gently. “Good evening, Victor.”

He nodded. And for a while, in silence, he watched.

He’d never seen anyone look quite so lonely before. Yuuri’s motion was sweeping, adrift. He never looked up from the ice.

His glasses were off.

So this was Yuuri, skating without sight, solely on feeling. He didn’t seem particularly ambitious with it, but his expression said he was lost in the experience—on the single-turn on his toe, the backwards cross-overs, his free-leg extensions. He probably had no idea that Victor was there, standing beside Yuuko and Takeshi in the box. Would he be more prone to jumps and energetic routines if he knew, Victor wondered? Or would his languid motions remain, unperturbed with Victor’s watchful presence?

“He would come here to practice alone.”

“It always made me think that he really loved skating,” Yuuko added. She was leaned forward, engaged in Yuuri’s performance, simple as it was. Her eyes never left him. “He didn’t even play with his friends.”

“Well, he was never very good at making them,” Takeshi agreed with a sidelong look at his wife. “Skating aside, he’s not good at putting himself out there. I don’t want this to be the end for him.”

The dissonance was almost too strong, between what he was seeing, and what he knew was true.

So… this was who Yuuri really was? Not the Yuuri at the banquet that had caught fire with him, but this shy, quiet man? Was his soul really so gentle, so placid? That couldn’t be right. That couldn’t possibly be right. But here the evidence lay out before him.

“He actually hates losing.”

Victor got that sense as well. He couldn’t imagine Yuuri standing still. Why else would he have learned Victor’s routine on a whim? Why wouldn’t he have retired quietly, if he were truly defeated?

“Victor, I hope you’ll bring out a side of Yuuri-kun that we’ve never seen before.”

The ideas already overwhelmed him. The routines that could encompass this change, the time it would take, the training, but it would be so worth it—

He could make Yuuri strong. If he didn’t feel his confidence yet, Victor would help him find it again. After all, Yuuri had been an unstoppable force once already—enough to grab Victor’s attention. Victor knew that side of him lived in his soul. Unlocking it would be the key.

“Thank you. I know a lot more about Yuuri now,” he said, and he did.

A fundamental understanding of Yuuri’s person had been called into question. If Yuuri was not like this every day, was not brave and daring, why was it Victor that he had chosen to show that side of himself to all those months ago? Could it somehow be who he really was, hidden inside?

What was it about Victor that had brought that side of Yuuri out? Could he figure out a way to do it again?

Makkachin followed him as he left. The whole walk home, Victor had images in his head, playing like videos across his vision in the dark.

He could make Yuuri fearless. Unstoppable.

He wanted nothing more.

Chapter Text

To choreograph two routines in a week was, perhaps, insanity. He knew that he’d done more challenging things, of course. But as soon as Victor woke up, he packed his things and shooed away the reporters and went to the Ice Castle to practice alone.

In Regards to Love: Agape and In Regards to Love: Eros. Though they were movements of the same, larger piece, the sounds were contradictory, as were the themes. Victor worked as much passion and grace into both pieces as he could, until he was reasonably satisfied. He still had a lot of refining to do on the two routines, but the bare bones were there.

Selflessness was not something Yuri Plisetsky had ever had to encompass and portray in his work. If he could pull it off, he would become a better skater. Maybe even a better person. To be self-centered was not a crime, but humility was a virtue that Yurio had not yet mastered. The routine would push his limits of emotional understanding, and maybe bestow on him a different grace on the ice.

But Eros… raw presence. Unavoidable, unforgiving, unrelenting. Fun. Victor wasn’t sure if such a departure was something he could help Yuuri embody in such a short span of time. But if he could, if they could, Yuuri would be one step closer to being the skater Victor knew he could be.

“Oi, Victor!”

He ground to a halt, a spray of powder let loose from the ice as he turned on a dime. Standing at the rink entry gate, Yuuri and Yurio stood side by side. Yurio huddled in his red athletic jacket, shivering and scowling—Yuuri, in his black collared jacket, smiled and held up a fabric-wrapped box.

Victor skated to the edge of the rink, surprised to see them, let alone together. “What are you doing here? I told you I’d be working on choreographing the routines today.”

“Mari-oneesan said you didn’t bring lunch,” Yuuri said. He held out the obento toward Victor. “We were training nearby, so we thought we’d bring something over in case you’re hungry.”

Oh. Victor’s eyes widened. That was so… nice. Thoughtful. Aside from Yakov’s gruff reminders not to push himself too hard, he’d never had anyone to look out for him like that before. Yuuri placed the box into his hands, wrapped in a blue-patterned fabric and tied with a knot to keep it secure. He could still feel the warmth through the bottom of the lunch box.

“Thank you!” Victor combed his mind to think of something, anything to say that would be better than just that. “Yuuri, that’s so kind.”

“Ugh, gross,” Yurio grumbled. “Leave it to the pig to think about food. We dropped off the box, can we go now?”

Yuuri’s cheeks tinted pink as he frowned at Yurio. “This was your idea, too. You were the one who helped with the borscht—”

“You were destroying the recipe I gave you!” Yurio protested, fists clenched and face red. “I just stepped in to rescue a perfectly good batch of beets—”

Victor blinked. “You made me borscht? ” He looked down at the box and smiled so wide his cheeks hurt. Carefully, he placed it off to the side, balanced on the rink guard, and threw himself across it to wrap them both in a hug that crushed them all together. “You’re fantastic! Amazing! Thank you!”

“AUGH, GET OFF!” Yurio pushed at Victor’s chest, even as Yuuri laughed with his face mashed against Yurio’s red hood, muffled and glad.

“You haven’t even tried it yet!” Yuuri said.

Victor didn’t care. They were getting along, they were training together, and they’d brought him lunch. Whether the food was the best or the worst wasn’t even close to the point. He was just so happy .

Part of him wished it would never change, even though he knew in just a few short weeks, it inevitably would, for better or worse.

But he would treasure these days. Treasure Yuuri’s thoughtfulness, and Yurio’s gruff ambivalence toward them both.

He loved being here. He loved this.

“Okay!” Victor said, and released them both. “It’s decided. I can’t eat this alone. We’re going to sit and eat it together. We could all use a break.”

“Wait, I didn’t make enough for three people,” Yuuri protested. “Or pack enough utensils.”

“I don’t care if I have to hand-feed both of you. We’re going to share it.” Victor nodded, decided. Yuuri spluttered, eyes wide and cheeks pink. “And it’s going to be delicious. It’s going to be the best thing I’ve ever eaten. And we’re going to have fun ,” he insisted pointedly at Yurio, “and be nice. And then you can keep training and I can keep working on these routines. That’s all there is to it.”

Yurio grumbled and scuffed his feet and said something like, “I don’t need your together breakfast.” Which seemed more to Victor like an over-the-head reference than a statement, because this was clearly lunch. But Yurio grabbed the obento and put it on the bench, and they gathered in the offside penalty box to sit and eat it together, anyway.

The portion may have been small when divided into three, but it was the best lunch Victor had ever had, beyond compare.

“I’m just saying,” Yurio said nearly a week later, the night before Victor planned on assigning the routines, “If you give Katsudon a better program than mine, I’m going to make you do them again. I don’t care about your big gay crush.”

Victor choked on his sake, and thanked whatever gods may be that Yurio had enough tact to drop that particular phrase when Yuuri wasn’t in the room. He’d come to expect a certain… attitude from Yurio, but that didn’t mean that even Victor couldn’t be caught off-guard from time to time.

He hadn’t thought Yurio would be so perceptive.

Or, rather, Victor hadn’t realized he’d been so obvious.

Maybe it showed on his face, because Yurio snorted into his soup. “You thought I wouldn’t notice? Don’t make me laugh. You never touch Mila or Georgi unless they’re training, and only enough to correct their sloppy form. Even though you’re not on the ice, you’ve always got your hands all over that fatty.”

Victor frowned into his cup. If word of this got back to Russia, Victor might not be welcomed home. Not that it mattered terribly, but—

“I won’t tell, you know, Yakov or anyone,” Yurio said, but quieter and softer this time. He contemplated this for a moment before he got all fired up again. “But you better not try to pull a fast one on me! I’ll know!”

There may be some hope for Yuri Plisetsky, after all. “I wouldn’t dream of it, Yurio.”

“That’s not my name!!”

Yuuri’s eyes when he saw the Eros program were wide, rapt, amazed. His lips parted, and he leaned into watching Victor move like there was a thread connecting their bodies.

Victor had never been affected by such individual attention before. Of course, he’d never choreographed a routine so deeply personal to him, either. He had pulled upon elements of that night so long ago, of seeing a bright-eyed Yuuri at his most bold and exciting, and had not choreographed this routine as if he were the one skating—instead, he tried to put himself in Yuuri’s head as the movements flowed from him. He wanted to show Yuuri that he knew what he could do, and would accept nothing less than the sublime, ethereal creature that had knocked Victor from his high, lonely pedestal and brought him back down to the earth with other people.

So when Yuuri balked, when he shuffled his feet on the ice and looked away, it drove Victor up a wall. What could he do to make Yuuri realize that Victor saw him? What could he do to make him accept that he was capable of so much more than stuttered apologies and last place?

Like he always did, Victor pushed.

This time, Yuuri yielded.

His breath shivered from him when Victor touched his mouth, and the punch that soft little gasp sent to Victor’s gut was wholly unavoidable. If Yuuri would always react like that, how could Victor resist? Yuuri was enticing, too starry-eyed, too rough around the edges—even his lip, chapped under the pad of Victor’s thumb. Yuuri was by no means new and untried as a skater, but if he was new and untried to Victor, honestly wasn’t that just the same? Who else could push him the way Victor could? A man like Celestino could never quite get beyond the unfinished shape to see the polished figure that waited within.

But Victor… Victor was a visionary.

He wanted to stun Yuuri, captivate him, leave a mark on him for all the world to see, just like Yuuri had done to him on the night they’d met.

No one in the whole wide world knows your true Eros, Yuuri, he’d murmured into the space between them. Yuuri’s pupils, pitch-black and shining, were consuming the auburn color of his eyes. Victor could feel the heat from Yuuri’s cheeks radiating against his own. It may be an alluring side of you that you yourself are unaware of. Can you show it to me soon?

Yurio’s interruption was fine, really. Victor had planted the thought. Now, with some gentle nurturing, maybe it would take root.

So, Yuuri. Think long and hard about what Eros is to you.

Maybe it was suggestive bordering on a level closer to Christophe, but that was okay.

As long as Yuuri came out of this committed enough to win Onsen on Ice competition, they would have all the time in the world.

The days before Victor revealed the programs for Yuuri and Yurio were some of his favorites. But, like all things, they changed—and once he had assigned the choreography, there was little time for any of them to do more than eat or bathe together outside of the rink.

They alternated morning and afternoon sessions. When one would skate under Victor’s watchful eye, the other would train, and then they would switch. And though the choreography was coming along, neither Yuuri nor Yurio was grasping the concept of their program. They were both stuck on the emotional conveyance. He sent Yurio to a local temple to meditate, and sent Yuuri through basic training and told him to think , but for some reason… it just wasn’t seeming to click.

The performance was just days away.

It was hard not to take it personally. If one of them was struggling, fine, that was to be expected. But both of them? What was Victor doing wrong?

He couldn’t be certain, and was honestly feeling discouraged, until the very moment Yuuri stood up and shouted, “I get it now! Katsudon!! That’s what Eros is to me!!”

...what?

Immediately, Yuuri tried to backtrack like he hadn’t just irrevocably declared the concept of sexual love to be the same, in his mind, as his favorite food.

But then again… it was better than nothing, right?

“Okay… let’s go with that. It’s… nice. And unique,” Victor agreed mildly, and tried to buckle down on the lost laughter that wanted to bubble up and out of his chest. Oh, Yuuri…

When Yuuri excused himself shortly thereafter, inevitably to go and run off a fit of humiliation, Yurio turned his flat, unsympathetic gaze on Victor and said, “Yeah, you’re fucked. Hope you’ve missed Russia.”

“Gospody,”   Victor murmured, and covered his face with his hands.

Throughout it all, though, Victor had to admire Yurio and his work ethic. Not only was he substantially younger than Yuuri, but he was also in a foreign country. Yuuri had people to cheer him on when he trained; Yurio didn’t. Yuuri was surrounded by friends and family, and while Yurio called home to talk to his grandpa in soft Russkiy most nights, he was ultimately alone in a strange place, with no one beside Victor that knew him.

It was a good thing, he figured, when he started making fast and unlikely friends with Yuuko. He noticed a few times that Mari had reached out to Yurio as well, usually with offerings of food for a growing boy.

(In return for that kindness, Victor made the executive decision not to tell Mari when Yurio had carefully lifted one of her cigarettes. Instead, when Victor caught him smoking out behind the storage shed while walking Makkachin, he swatted the boy in the back of the head and ground it out under his heel. Kill yourself on your own time, he’d said. I better not catch you with one of these again until you can buy them yourself. Victor figured he’d wised up or gotten better at hiding, because he didn’t catch Yurio a second time.)

Despite these things, Victor could still see his technical progress, even if he was struggling with the emotional.

Yuuri was starting to do better, too. Though the katsudon metaphor was far, far from what Victor had intended to inspire, he could work within it. After the first day or so, he even started to understand it. To someone like Yuuri—someone inexperienced with love and intimacy—he could equate the desire for sex with the desire for food as basal human needs. It was clever, in a way. Adaptive.

But it was nothing like what he wanted.

Victor was, well… impatient, in a word. His relationship with Yuuri, tumultuous. His emotional state, dejected.

Minako found him at Nagahama Ramen around eleven that night. Though the food was fantastic, Victor quickly lost interest in the taste, and switched to drinks. One, two, three. She sat down beside him around the time he hit four.

“Yuuri called,” she said, and ordered one for herself. Minako was a beautiful woman, and a fierce drinker. Victor wouldn’t go so far to call her a drunk, but… “He’s worried. Wondered if I’d seen you. Luckily, he didn’t have the sense to ask his sister where you’d gone, or he’d be here instead of me, finding you like this.” The owner placed a glass before her; she emptied it with an efficiency that bordered on professionalism. “Want to tell me what’s going on?”

Victor shot her a sidelong glance and swayed a little in his seat. Against himself, he felt his heart start to race. Could she know? She couldn’t possibly know.

Maybe she should .

Victor opened his mouth, then closed it again.

“Ah. I thought so.” She gestured for another round for the both of them.

Obligated to finish the old before he started a new, Victor shot back the rest of the liquor. He really wished these barstools had backs; his spine was starting to ache. He forced a smile and a tone of cheerfulness when he said, “That obvious, huh?”

Minako shrugged. This drink she took a little slower. She wasn’t frowning, per se, but she wasn’t smiling either. “I’ve seen more pathetic moping, if that’s what you mean. So, obvious? No.” But she did turn with a shrewd eye to look at Victor. “If you’re sour because he won’t sleep with you, I’d try to get over that. Yuuri isn’t that kind of person, even for you.”

Victor choked on his drink and coughed his way through it. Minako gave him a hard slap on the back that did nothing to help his situation. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Minako-san.”

“That’s not what he said,” Minako grumbled. “Asking a nice boy like Yuuri to sleep with you on your first night in town.”

Victor flustered—it was an uncommon, unpleasant feeling for him. It wasn’t often that someone knew the right buttons to push to get him riled up. “I didn’t mean that lish—literally!”

“Not entirely literally?” Minako asked with a perfectly plucked, perfectly arched brow.

“...not entirely,” Victor agreed, and turned back to frown into his glass. He tapped the edge of it against the bar with just shy of enough force to prevent his drink from sloshing. “I didn’t actually expect that, though.”

“So what did you mean?” Minako asked. She leaned back, balance impeccable, and peered at Victor from beneath her long lashes. Objectively, Victor knew she was beautiful, but she was no more interested in him than he was in her. She had known too many star-level athletes to take any flirtation seriously; Victor fancied himself too different from Yakov to ever get involved with a prima ballerina, even a former one.

Yakov and Lilia had always been better served as associates and friends than lovers, anyway. ...maybe Victor and Minako could be good friends as well?

Victor looked back contemplatively, his tipsy mind not processing his thoughts as well as it normally would. After a while, Minako sniffed, impatient, and took an irritated swig of her sake. Her cheeks were starting to pinken.

Victor frowned to himself and looked down into his drink. “...sometimes, when we were away for competitions, Mila and Georgi and I would go to Yurochka’s—ahh, I meant Yurio’s—room with our blankets, and we would all shh... sleep on the floor. Yurio was young, though. Thirteen and scared to be away from home, at the Junior World Championship. We looked out for him. Yakov was still yelling at us for letting him drink soda. I just… remember how much fun it was. How much I learned about them.”

Victor took a slow sip; he was nearing the bottom of his glass again. Perhaps he had come on too strong. He felt a little guilty about it now… how odd it must have seemed to Yuuri, how presumptuous. Their bond wasn’t one of teammates, it was of a coach and pupil. It was fundamentally different. There was a power balance that Victor had to be aware of in that.

He hadn’t been thinking, though. Not like a coach. Not like a champion skater, either.

Once he was around Yuuri again, Victor had forgotten that he was someone that intimidated others. Maybe he just hadn’t realized that his personality could wear on Yuuri, too. He just wanted to be… normal. He was a little old for sleepovers on hotel floors, perhaps, but normal nonetheless.

“To the public, you’re a flirt,” Minako said in reply. “Yuuri’s been a fan for his whole life. He knows your reputation. What was he supposed to think you meant?” She turned to look at him and frowned. She didn’t look angry, now, just… serious. Contemplative. “He thinks he knows you, in a way. He’s good at reading people, but he rarely goes against his own assumptions. If what he sees doesn’t line up with who he thinks you are, he’ll just decide he’s wrong. So if he is wrong, you gotta find a way to show him that.”

Victor wasn’t sure if he wanted another glass of sake. It was getting late. But neither did he want to go home quite yet. “...why would you help me?”

“Because you’re just a person.” Minako reached back; her tipsy flush was starting to spread down her neck, so she tied her hair back in a loose bun. “Yuuri doesn’t get it yet. He still sees the medals and the fake smile first. He’ll get past that eventually, but not now—not when he thinks you’re going to leave and go back home in a day or two.”

That drew Victor’s attention. He sat up straight and put his cup on the bar, and wheeled around to look at Minako—her pretty face, her long hair, her dancer’s body. All meaningless to him, though there was a time Victor was sure he would have been interested, at least in idle, passing appreciation. Not now. “I’m not going to leave. Yuuri is going to win.”

She stared at him for long enough that Victor started to feel a little shaken. But he was sure of this. She could stare him down all the wanted. Finally, her lips tilted into a small, genuine smile. “I know that. But until he knows that, he can’t see you as a person. He sees you as a goal to achieve. For now. You understand?”

Slowly, Victor nodded. That made sense. Right now, Victor wasn’t Yuuri’s friend. He couldn’t be. To Yuuri, he was the medal to be won.

Oh.

In a way, that was… flattering. And insulting. And Victor was pretty sure he should be offended somehow, but mostly he was just… warm.

He smiled.

“Idiot,” Minako sighed, and she sounded fond. “Let’s drink some more and talk shop. You can crash on my couch if it gets late. But!! Yuuri’s free leg, when he rear-extends—he sometimes forgets to point his toe. You have to be strict with that, I’ve been training it into him for ten years…”

When Victor stumbled into the rink the next morning and saw Yuuri and Yurio practicing quad salchows together, he no longer felt like a failure of a coach, despite his pounding hangover.

And later, when he saw Yurio drift across the ice with singular peace and grace…

It was the first time Victor felt worried. Because no matter what he thought, this public exhibition’s results would be based on popular opinion, not his own. He didn’t want to think that Yurio could win… not because he wasn’t talented, but because the alternative…

Ah, but still. Perhaps motivating Yurio could motivate Yuuri, as well.

“Great job, Yurio,” Victor said offhand as they took their break, and tried not to feel guilty at the stricken, panicked look that came over Yuuri in his peripheral vision.

Yuuri would rally, and he would win. He had to.

Victor tried to come up with better words, something to say, something that would help and make something click, but nothing came to mind. He searched and searched for the rest of the practice day and into the night, even when he invited both Yuuri and Yurio up to dig through his old costumes for the exhibition. What could he say that would help Yuuri find his motivation? How could he take him aside and say it, when he did?

The costumes they chose didn’t even occur to him, really.

Not until he saw the glimmer in Yuuri’s eyes as he picked out one of the older ones.

Oh, that one. It had been one of his favorites, but had been long too small for Victor to ever reuse. He’d hit another major growth spurt at eighteen, and the leather-and-lycra-and-mesh one-piece from his Junior days was nothing if not unforgiving to a form it wasn’t made for. But Yuuri, slightly shorter, with his slim waist and the cardio-resistant convex curve of his hips…

His smile was bright in his expressive face when he said. “I choose this one!’

Victor laughed to himself at his enthusiasm, but… “Go try it on, first,” he said with a shooing motion. “You need to be able to skate in it. Make sure it’s the right height and fit.”

Yuuri flushed and scooted off to his room down the hall, while Yurio dug through the rest. “Too tall… too tall… Victor, these are all too tall, you bean sprout.”

“I think the older ones are in the suitcase Yuuri was in. Check those first,” Victor instructed mildly.

Yuuri had looked excited. More excited than Victor had seen him all day.

Someone knocked timidly at the doorway. Victor and Yurio looked up.

Yuuri poked his head around the corner, but hadn’t come in. “Ah, Victor? Can you… um, I can’t reach the zipper.”

“Oh! Sure,” Victor said, and stood to weave through the piles of suitcases.

“Modesty is worthless in figure skating!” Yurio called after them both.

“Pipe down and pick one out,” Victor replied. “One of the short ones.”

“Hey!”

In the dimly lit hallway, Yuuri’s arms were crossed over his torso, and he… well, his glasses were on and his hair was ruffled and pushed back, probably from the rather strenuous process of getting into a skater’s costume. He wriggled and his limbs pulled in on himself, and Victor could see how self-conscious he felt.

“Um. I think this will be okay, but the zipper’s too far down my back…”

“It’s no problem, Yuuri,” Victor said with a smile. “Turn around, I’ll get it for you. You didn’t have to wait in the hallway, you know. Yurio was right that modesty…”

Yuuri turned. The zipper started at left hip and ended at right shoulder, following the line of where the mesh ended and the soft black leather began, and since Yuuri couldn’t reach by himself, the entire pale, elegant plane of his back was exposed.

Victor went silent.

“Um, I know,” Yuuri said quietly. “But... call me stupid, but if it doesn’t fit, I don’t want him to laugh at me.”

“I would never call you stupid,” Victor said. He swallowed. Of course, he had even seen Yuuri nude at this point. It was silly to be shaken over a little bare skin. But somehow, this wasn’t the same as communal bathing. This felt… more. Intimate. “But it’ll fit.” Victor was sure.

Yuuri was wider in the shoulders than Victor had been, and a little fuller in the hips, but the stretch of the fabric was more forgiving than Victor remembered it being when he’d worn it himself. Though the costume pulled tight across Yuuri’s chest, the zipper closed, and when Victor hooked the zipper latch at the top, he was breathless.

“Good?” Yuuri asked, and without confirmation, he turned.

“Beautiful,” Victor answered, maybe a little too honest. Yuuri flushed sweetly pink and pushed his hair back away from his face again, and Victor just… reached. Stopped his hand mid-sweep. Yuuri looked up, surprised and alarmed, and Victor couldn’t stop himself from saying, “I like your hair like this. I think I have some hairspray left that you could use tomorrow, if you wanted.”

“I… I don’t think I’ve ever done anything with my hair for a competition,” Yuuri said. Victor nearly laughed. If only. He had done his own hair so many times, for so many years, that a little hairspray intimidating Yuuri was an adorable concept.

“I’ll help,” Victor promised with a smile. He moved a stray lock of hair from Yuuri’s eyes and finally let his hand fall. “But yes, I think… I think that’s definitely the one.”

Yuuri’s replying smile was not nearly as shy as Victor had grown to expect. His happiness, though, was as stunning as his skin peering through that provocative uniform. “I think so, too. Thank you, Victor. I… I’m actually going to go over and practice with Minako for a bit, if that’s okay.”

“This late?” Victor was surprised.

“I had a thought about something,” Yuuri answered, and made a tight spin to show his back again, and reached back with both hands to push his hair away from the nape of his neck. Victor’s mouth went dry. “I want to talk to her before the competition tomorrow. Sorry, can you unzip this?”

Unzipping it was perhaps even more difficult than zipping it in the first place, and it had nothing to do with the fit. Victor wasn’t sure how he managed to keep his hands steady, professional.

“Thanks,” Yuuri said softly, and was already peeling his arms out of the top half and the mesh over his chest. Victor averted his eyes. For propriety’s sake, and his own, he had to.

“Oi, Victor! Come help me with mine, I’m stuck!”

Right. Yurio was still waiting. Of course.

“I’ll see you later,” Yuuri said. “I might be home late, but if your lights are still on I’ll stop by to say goodnight. I want to do something tomorrow night, after the competition, and I want to see what you think. But later, okay?”

“Later,” Victor agreed, and Yuuri was already dashing back toward his room.

“Victor, come on!” Yurio demanded.

Something was different in Yuuri. Victor couldn’t put his finger on exactly what it was, but he was sure he would be thrilled to find out.

Chapter Text

Victor stayed up long after Yurio had gone to bed. There wasn’t much to do; the choreography was solidified, the rink was set for tomorrow’s event, and all things considered, he probably should have just gone to sleep.

But… he wanted to wait until he knew Yuuri was back.

Makkachin slept pressed against Victor’s hip; his legs twitched as he dreamed. Victor smiled. How simple it must be, to be a dog. To love, and to run, to do whatever you wanted when you wanted, and to always be happy. He patted Makka in his sleep.

He was glad he’d taken this year off. Makkachin was old, and Victor knew that their time together was limited. Being here, with Yuuri… it was the easiest way to make sure that Makkachin knew he was loved and cared for.

It helped that Yuuri and his family loved Makkachin, too.

“Oh, you’re still awake.”

Victor looked up—he hadn’t heard Yuuri return. He looked… frazzled. But satisfied.

Good.

Victor smiled and leaned forward to pat the edge of his mattress. “Welcome back. You talked to Minako?”

“Mmhm.” Yuuri dropped his backpack on the floor as he entered with a heavy thunk , and in an exhaustion-fueled move that took Victor aback, crawled onto the mattress and sprawled across the foot of the bed. Victor wondered if Yuuri knew that his waist was pressed directly across Victor’s shins when he lay on his side like that. Probably. It couldn’t have been comfortable, no matter the warmth Victor felt in his chest because of it.

Oh, he really must be tired. Victor smiled sympathetically. Yuuri’d had a long day, and he was sure to have another one tomorrow. “You should get some sleep. Don’t deprive yourself on my account.”

Not that Victor minded the company, but it wasn’t him who had to skate in a public exhibition tomorrow.

Yuuri made a soft sound of dissent, and turned his face out of the blankets to look up at Victor. “No, I wanted to talk to you. Tomorrow… today…” (Yuuri flushed when he caught a glance of the time.) “Later. I think we should take Yurio down to the beach and… we should all spend time together. Because… well, no matter who wins… someone’s going home tomorrow.”

Victor looked around the room, at his belongings that he’d only just gotten settled the way he liked them. He didn’t want to have to think about putting them all away. He liked to think that Yuuri would have more confidence in himself than that, but…  “Realistically, it would take me a few days to pack.”

Ah, maybe Victor shouldn’t have said that. He did have a way of putting his own foot into his mouth, sometimes. Yuuri’s crestfallen expression was sharp, a tad too real.

“I’m listening, though,” Victor rushed in an effort to distract him, and forced a smile. “So, take Yurio to the beach, huh?” It did sound like fun, he had to admit.

“Ah… yeah.” Yuuri allowed himself to be distracted. Victor sighed in relief as Yuuri lay his head back down, every inch of him curled toward Victor. “I found some sparklers in the storage shed left over from the new year. We could take them out, now that it’s warmer. Take pictures together… to have for memories.”

Victor really should have been more careful about what he said, so he considered his words more carefully now. “That would be nice. I’m sure he’d like to remember his time here once he’s gone.” And then, more earnestly, “He likes it here, though. I know that no matter what he says, he doesn’t want to go.”

I don’t want to go either, Victor wanted to say.

He didn’t.

But… it was less about Hasetsu. As much as Victor liked it here, as different as it was from St. Petersburg and Moscow and Sochi, it wasn’t about the place. It was about Yuuri. It was about his energy. His dedication. The way he frowned when Victor suggested something, and didn’t smile again until he got it right.

But… that could happen anywhere.

Victor sat up straight.

If by some slip of fate Yuuri lost tomorrow… maybe he could come back to Russia with them.

Victor opened his mouth to say as much—

—but stopped.

How would it be fair to negate Yuuri’s hard work in such an offhand way? He’d worked tirelessly for a week on this routine. He was more than capable of winning. He had the skill. He had the experience. He had the dedication.

The easy fall-back in Victor’s brain wasn’t for Yuuri’s benefit. It was for his own.

And if he shattered the challenge he’d made before it was complete, it wouldn’t be fair to anyone. Yurio would never learn. Yuuri would never grow.

No. Yuuri deserved more of his faith than that.

Victor was ashamed of himself.

Yuuri had seen his change in posture. He looked up at Victor—hair mussed, eyes tired, glasses crooked, but watching. Curious. “What?”

It didn’t matter, though.

Yuuri was going to win. Neither of them were going to go anywhere.

Victor forced his camera-ready smile, then reached out with careful fingers to straighten Yuuri’s glasses on his nose. Only one of those things felt genuine. “You’re right. We should try to do something special for Yurio’s last night here. I think it’s a great idea.”

Yuuri’s eyes went wide when Victor’s fingers brushed his cheeks. “Oh.” His skin grew hot underneath Victor’s touch. “Um, thanks.” He jackknifed upright and scooted just out of Victor’s reach. Embarrassed, always so embarrassed. Yuuri looked down at his own hands and started to push back his cuticles in a simple, focused movement. He swallowed tightly and didn’t look back up.

Victor snorted softly when Yuuri’s glasses started sliding down his nose again, but that that reminded him—“Oh! Your contacts should be here in the morning. I asked the courier to bring them over first thing.”

Yuuri’s head shot up. His eyes were wide. “Is that a good idea? I’ve never skated with them in before! What if I mess up?”

“You won’t.” Victor leaned forward until he was close enough to touch Yuuri’s shoulder again; palm open, more warmth than pressure. Out of all his other uncertainties, this Victor was sure of. “It’s muscle memory. And if you think you’re making mistakes, you can close your eyes. This isn’t a sanctioned event. You can do whatever it takes to get through it. If you don’t like your contacts, you don’t have to use them in the future. I just want you to have the option. Okay?”

Yuuri’s eyes lingered on where Victor’s hand lay on his shoulder. He worried at his lower lip with his teeth, ever uncertain. “I guess…”

And when Victor moved, Yuuri’s eyes followed the motion until they crossed—Victor tapped him twice on the mouth. His lips were chapped, of course, and a little damp. “Stop that; you’re going to make yourself bleed. You can trust me.”

Yuuri balked and yanked out of Victor’s hands; he sent himself tumbling backwards.

So perpetually embarrassed. Victor sighed. He hoped Minako had made more progress with Yuuri than he had.

Yuuri rolled off the bed in a fluid motion; landed on his feet with a bright flush and a bashful laugh and scooted for the door. He leaned down to scoop up his backpack as he went, and the silhouette he created from behind was… well, enticing was the appropriate word, Victor figured. Christophe would have said delicious.

Yuuri had an incredible body. It was a shame he seemed so reluctant to let anyone help him care for it.

“Oh, I forgot! Did Yurio find a costume he liked?”

Victor’s attention was pulled from his own pouting to Yuuri standing in the doorway. He made an affirming noise. “There was a white one with sequins—”

“From the Junior European Championships?”

Victor blinked.

Yuuri froze, then gurgled. He clapped his hands over his mouth to temper both.

Victor started to smile… then it grew into a grin. “Yuuuuuu–ri… ”

“Ah, goodnight!!” Yuri backpedaled into the hallway and tripped over his own feet in his haste. Victor heard a thump as he fell out of the room and into the wall, then skittering footsteps as Yuuri bolted for his own quarters—a quiet, pained nandayooo as his door closed behind him.

Sometimes, Yuuri made Victor wonder if he was crazy for the attraction he felt. And then he went and did something like that.

Cute. Victor had to get up to close his door, now, anyway. When he stood at the threshold and saw the light still on from underneath Yuuri’s, he cupped a hand around his mouth and called, “Goodniiiiight, Yuuri.”

Another strangled noise, and the light turned out.

Victor laughed to himself as he closed his door and turned out his own lamps. He hoped Yuuri got some sleep, at least. He would need it tomorrow.

One way or another.

The morning was a flurry of nervous activity. When Victor woke up, Yuuri wasn’t there at all. It seemed he and Yurio had both had trouble sleeping, and had gone out for an early-morning run with Makkachin—and without him.

Victor decided to take it as a sign of his superior coaching that they got along so well, rather than personal offense that they left him behind.

Really. He did.

But once they returned, they each took off in separate directions to get ready for the day, and Victor wasn’t sure who he should follow. How should he offer support? Did they want his support? (Well, Yurio probably didn’t.) But Yuuri—

Wandered by with a single-minded focus, clutching a small cardboard box.

“Are those your contacts?” Victor asked as he wandered out of the kitchen. He hadn’t noticed the courier arrive.

Yuuri stumbled when he whirled around in surprise; his shoulder slammed into the wall. Victor winced. “Victor! Um, yeah. Mari said they showed up earlier. I was going to try to put them in, but… I don’t know if I’m going to be able to see them well enough to…” He trailed off with an embarrassed, uncertain look at the box, and admitted, “…to be honest, I have no idea what I’m doing.”

Victor huffed out an amused breath. “I can help you, if you’d like.”

Yuuri hesitated… and relented. His shoulders sagged, and truth be told, he looked a bit relieved.  “Sure. Yeah, that would be good. Thank you.”

Victor looped his arm through Yuuri’s with a smile. “Lead the way, Katsudon.”

Yuuri spluttered when Victor made use of Yurio’s usual nickname for him. But later, when Victor had fished the second contact out of the solution and onto Yuuri’s fingertip, and Yuuri finally popped it into his other eye in front of Victor’s bedroom mirror, it was Victor who was rendered speechless. Yuuri blinked, his face screwed-up and odd at first, but once he got used to the feeling of the lenses…

“Wow,” Victor said. The dark hair. The warm eyes. Then he shook himself out of it—now was hardly the time. “How are they?”

“Itchy,” Yuuri whined, petulant. His hands curled into loose fists and he reached up—

—Victor snagged him by the wrists and guided him to sit on the edge of the bed. He stood and watched Yuuri with a sharp, careful gaze. “Hey. Don’t rub, you’ll shift the lenses. Give it a moment.”

Yuuri blinked repeatedly; his eyes watered, and he frowned up in Victor’s general direction. “It’s uncomfortable.”

“So is a contact on the back of your eye.”

“Wait, does that happen–?!”

“Yuuri. Breathe.”

Unbelievably, Yuuri did as he was told. After a minute, Yuuri’s irritated blinking slowed, and the reactive tears that had spilled over started to die down. Yuuri’s sport jacket was neoprene, non-absorbent, so Victor used the hem of his own cotton v-neck to swipe underneath his eyes.

“Ah, you don’t have to–”

“Is that better?”

Yuuri blinked again, and then— “Oh,” he said, quiet and surprised. “I can see you.”

Victor smiled at the careful amazement in Yuuri’s eyes. The fact that he wore his emotions so clearly for others to read was as endearing as it was dangerous. Victor tapped him on the nose. “I hope that’s a good thing.”

“Well, usually I couldn’t unless you were six inches from my face.”

His smile widened. “That can be arranged.”

“Huh?” Once Yuuri realized what Victor had said, he held his hands up between them—and subsequently realized how close they were to Victor’s crotch. He scrambled backward on the bed, only to further realize that left him squarely in the middle of the mattress. When he collapsed flat on his back and stared helplessly at the ceiling, Victor couldn’t help but laugh at him. Yuuri muttered something unintelligible in Japanese, and Victor was intensely curious to know what he’d said, but didn’t want to push the moment and ask.

Finally, Yuuri raised himself up on his elbows and said, “Victor, I need to get ready.”

Victor bit down on his smirk. “I’m not stopping you. This is my room.”

“You—” Yuuri stopped himself, and when he rubbed one hand over his flushed face, it had nothing to do with the contacts. He sighed and deflated and mumbled, “You’re impossible.”

Impossible good? Impossible bad? Victor tilted his head and considered. He hoped he hadn’t made Yuuri angry, wasn’t quite sure how to ask.

Instead, he took a step forward and held out his hand.

Yuuri looked at it, then up at him.

“You’re right. I don’t want to distract you,” Victor said by way of an olive branch. He wiggled his fingers in the hopes of getting some reaction other than that blank face—a smile, maybe. Something. “The contacts look good. But if they get uncomfortable, you can take them out. You should skate this program how you want, Yuuri. I may have choreographed it, but this is your experience. Your journey.”

Yuuri’s lips parted. He blinked slowly.

Finally, he took Victor’s hand, and Victor pulled him to his feet. Yuuri stood on the mattress above him—the power between them, shifted.

Yuuri wobbled precariously and reached out to steady himself on Victor’s shoulders precisely at the same time that Victor’s hands found Yuuri’s waist as a counterbalance.

They stared at each other.

Victor wanted to say something.

He didn’t get the chance.

“Oi, Victor! Can you help me with the zipper again? It’s stuck! Ugh, this costume is as stiff and lifeless as Katsudon’s free leg—”

Two things happened very quickly.

One: Yuuri blanched, and was immediately and visibly consumed with uncertainty about the nonexistent issue with his free leg.

Two: Yurio froze in the doorway, half-in and half-out of Victor’s old costume. He looked between Victor and Yuuri, then his face twisted with all the infuriated self-righteousness of any fifteen-year-old… though, admittedly more self-righteous than any teenager in spandex had any right to be. “Are you kidding me, Victor? Are you taking this seriously at all?!” He reddened as his anger frothed.

He pointed accusingly at Yuuri. The fringe on his shoulders whipped through the air like a tiny, murdersome bird.

“You look stupid without your glasses. And you look stupid with them. I hate both of you!” He turned on his heel and stormed off in a huff. “Mari! I need your help with this dumb fucking  costume!”

Victor looked at Yuuri. Yuuri stared back with wide eyes.

“Yurio, watch your language!” Mari’s muffled voice called back.

And then, miracle of all miracles, Yuuri started to giggle. It bubbled out of him in streams, in waves, and Victor couldn’t tamp down his smile if he’d wanted to. Yuuri’s hands fisted in the shoulders of his tee, and he collapsed forward into Victor’s waiting arms, overtaken and off-balance and the most relaxed Victor had seen him all day.

He was still smiling when Victor lifted him down and his feet touched the floor.

“For the record,” Victor said with a reassuring smile, “there is nothing wrong with your free leg.”

“I’m going to miss him,” Yuuri replied simply. I’m going to miss you, his enduring grip on Victor’s shirt added.

Victor’s hands dropped to Yuuri’s hips and rested there comfortably. But now was not the time for comfort. Now was the time for action. For change.

“Go get ready.” Victor tapped the backs of his hands to uncurl Yuuri’s fingers, and took a step back. The distance between them was needed. This moment was more important than his impulses. Even so, he couldn’t help the happiness he felt. Yuuri’s trust was not easily earned in held hands or stolen smiles. Any little bit felt like progress—progress that Victor liked too much. “You should get some time on the ice with your contacts in before people start arriving.”

Yuuri nodded. “Yeah, okay. I—uh.” He took a step back. “Will… you still help me? With my hair? I want to try what you said, last night.”

Victor choked. He hid it well. “O-oh. Yeah, of course.”

“Thanks. I’ll, uh…”

Victor nodded quickly. “Yeah, go.”

“Okay.”

They both looked at each other.

“VICTOOOOR!! Mari can’t get it either! By the time I get up there, Katsudon better be gone!!”

With a hysterical giggle, Yuuri fled.

Victor sat on the edge of his bed.

“Gospody.”

Yuuri was shaken.

Truth be told, Victor was, too. They all were.

But Yuuri was quiet, despondent. He isolated himself and wouldn’t make eye contact, even as the white noise from the audience filtered through to the locker room. He wondered if Yuuri was even listening to his music, or if the earbuds simply helped to filter out the chatter.

Yurio was all restless energy, bundled in his Team Russia jacket, hiding in his headphones. Victor could see the teeth marks on the strings of his hoodie as clearly as he remembered.

And Victor…

It would all come down to this.

He put on a good face for the cameras. He promoted local tourism, a subtle payment for the Katsuki family’s kindness. His word would mean a lot toward that sort of thing. It was maybe the one benefit of his fame that he felt he could use well.

He talked a good game for Yuuri and Yurio.

But an abstract fear played in a feedback loop between the three of them.

Victor should have been the strong one. He didn’t know why he couldn’t be.

Maybe because these routines were pieces of himself, hammered into art and forged in another’s body? Maybe because he was so invested in the outcome? Truthfully, he didn’t know. But as eager as he was to see a new side of Yurio emerge from the dust of his Junior self, as breathless as he was at the thought of Yuuri’s hard work with Minako the night before… he couldn’t shake it.

He was nervous.

Yuuko’s endearing optimism was a much-needed balm to Yurio’s nerves. Victor probably should have been able to provide him that. Would Yurio have believed him? …no, probably not.

For that reason, he appreciated it all the more.

(When was the last time he had been nervous about a competition’s outcome? His first year of the Senior division? Juniors? Before? How many years had it been since Victor had felt any kind of nerves at all?)

When Yurio took the ice, Victor knew he had to follow. And in truth, he was as invested in Yurio’s growth as he was in Yuuri’s… but in a different way. A proud way.

An agape sort of way.

And he was talented. By far the most talented young skater that Victor had ever seen, bar none. Perhaps he had been wrong to not regard Yurio as a threat to Yuuri because of his inexperience. What he lacked in technique he made up for in confidence.

But confidence was not the name of the game, either.

Yurio skated a pristine program. His jumps were high and clean with good distance and adequate rotations. However, it became clear to Victor within the first minute that while this was his best attempt to date, and his emotional progress had come far, Yurio wasn’t focused. He was distracted, whether by the lights or the sounds or the applause or the unfamiliar location, Victor didn’t know. But he did know that Yurio was skating a clean program, not an emotional one.

The audience applauded in all the right places, followed his motions with interested attention, but there was nothing rapt or breath-stealing in what Yurio was doing.

It was a good program. Great, even.

But it was an inexperienced one.

Victor leaned forward against the boards, his hands folded over his face, and breathed a little easier.

It would get better with time. No doubt, with a few months’ more practice, Yuri Plisetsky would make a formidable opponent to any of the more seasoned Seniors. But that wasn’t him yet. That wasn’t him now.

When Yurio turned out of his final pose, Victor saw the flash of despair. Ah, of course. Yurio knew as well as Victor did that his performance, while admirable, was not what he’d wanted.

But he was leagues above what he’d been last year. That was what counted, here. Not winning—personal growth.

“Yurio!” he shouted. “That was the best performance I’ve seen from you so far!”

Yurio whipped around in the direction of his voice, and his chest heaved with exertion. He bent at the waist to catch his breath.

“Go on, greet the audience!” Victor insisted.

Yurio steeled himself. When he stood straight again, his smile was bright and shining; radiant in the spotlight, a shimmering, benevolent spectre in his costume.

He really was a fantastic young man. What he usually lacked in personal decorum, he made up for in his presence on the ice. Under the lights, and to a crowd of gracious supporters, Yurio glowed.

Good. Victor smiled to himself. Good, good.

He had only a few minutes to find Yuuri before his performance began.

Victor had distanced himself from them both in the effort of not appearing biased. He wove through the crowds with his eyes wide open in the dark, searching—the blue and black JSF jacket, the familiar shape of Yuuri’s body, his slicked-back hair styled with Victor’s careful fingers… anything.

Where was he?

There.

Collapsing inward, much like Yurio, but without the strain of physical exhaustion. Crumbling, before Victor’s eyes. Alone.

Oh, Yuuri.

Victor approached, but Yuuri didn’t seem to hear his footsteps. Instead, he heard Yuuri’s gasping breaths, muffled into his hands. The people around him were looking over curiously—surely, Katsuki Yuuri wasn’t breaking down. Deep breathing, maybe. Who would believe the truth about Yuuri if they didn’t know firsthand about his anxiety?

No one. For such a talented person to feel so much despair was unimaginable to most people.

Victor was not most people.

“Yuuri,” he called gently. “It’s your turn.”

Yuuri looked up, wide-eyed and terrified. He clamped his hands over his mouth, but the strangled, terrified gasp had already bled through his fingers.

Yuuri met his gaze in the dim light. He was shaking.

“Um, I’m—” he started. Stopped. Started again, but with more force, more feeling. “I’m going to become a super–tasty katsudon … so please watch me.” Yuuri swallowed, hands trembling. He fell forward to cling to Victor, the only safe haven on an open sea.

His face was warm against Victor’s shoulder, and Yuuri begged, “Promise.”

Victor hated to see him like this, but Yuuri making the effort to reach out for comfort was more than Victor could have hoped for. His hands rested on the small of Yuuri’s back, and when Yuuri’s hair brushed Victor’s cheek, he had to resist turning his face to chase the sensation.

Whatever Yuuri needed, he would be happy to give.

It wasn’t for Victor to take.

He wanted nothing more than to hold Yuuri within an inch of his life, to shield him from this and shred his nerves and offer a more comprehensive comfort, but… he couldn’t.

This was Yuuri’s moment. His alone.

(But he was as warm as Victor remembered. The weight in his arms felt familiar.)

“Of course,” Victor murmured. “I love katsudon.”

Yuuri’s hands fisted in Victor’s coat.

He gave Yuuri a little push at the hips that was anything but rejection. More like a quiet go on, then that lingered just a few seconds too long to be true to his intentions. “Show me what Minako taught you.”

Yuuri backed away, complicit. When he met Victor’s eyes, he nodded once, a perfect synchronization in time between them.

Yuuri removed his skate guards and pressed them into Victor’s hands.

Then he stepped up to the gate and onto the ice.

The announcer was distant, unimportant in Victor’s ears. More important? Witnessing Yuuri.

From the moment he took his starting position at center ice and the spotlight turned on, Victor could tell. The posture was…

…off was the wrong word.

One hip hitched upward, chest angled out—there was nothing off about Yuuri, except that it was already so incredibly not-Yuuri that Victor couldn’t tear his eyes away.

Seductive. Seductive was the word he was looking for.

And he was captivated.

When the introductory strumming riff started to play, the sweep of Yuuri’s arms was weighted and momentous. And when he turned to give that coy, half-lidded smirk at Victor, it was the first time he knew for sure that Yuuri could see where he stood.

It was meant for Victor because Yuuri wanted it to be.

When he whistled back, it was equal parts a reply and a gesture of fierce appreciation. I see you, too.

And oh, he did.

Yuuri had always moved easily on the ice, but with this program specifically, he had struggled with capturing the emotion in his footwork. Not anymore. He cut his figures on light feet, with playful extensions of his limbs that bordered on sensual. And the elegant lines the costume created when the fabric flared out around his hips, the flash of ruby red…

Victor could not have chosen it any better himself.

Beautiful, Yuuri. Just beautiful.

His spin was tight with strong velocity—leg perpendicular to his body, a perfect right angle. Victor had seen worse technique from people more highly ranked on the competitive circuit. The only difference between them and Yuuri? Their confidence.

But if anyone had tried to tell him that now, Victor would have laughed them off the ice.

Whatever Minako had done to help Yuuri move in such a fluid, tempestuous way… clearly, he owed her a drink.

Or maybe Victor was not giving Yuuri as much credit as he was due.

Still… Yuuri’s spread eagle into his triple axel was too short, not enough distance for the audience to fully absorb the graceful glide before it was lost in his jump.

Victor watched with a critical eye. Anything was impressive from a boy Yurio’s age.

Victor had different standards for Yuuri.

A step-out on his quadruple salchow. Yuuri was preoccupied, distracted—Victor could see that from here, and he didn’t need contacts to do it. But the audience around Victor gasped and leaned forward; they were so drawn-in that the suspense made them more attentive.

He was stunning—a fleeting smile on the edge of a blade. He told a story with every reach, every spin, his open palms trailing softly as a lover’s touch through the air. He danced uninhibited in a way that set him apart from those watching—present and teasing one moment, only for him to dash away again, out of reach.

Yuuri wove the crowd in loops until he had them tangled in his fingers. It would have been a lie to say that Victor wasn’t snared as well.

He built his speed, his fluidity, into a wave, and when Yuuri crested into his quad-triple toe, he swept the crowd away. Their cheers echoed off the ceiling, off the concrete floors, off the dense sheet of the ice, and created a cloud of love and praise so loud that even Yuuri’s fears would not be able to drown it out.

When Yuuri struck his ending pose, he tore his web apart—the red threads loosened just enough from around his throat that Victor could breathe again.

But then Yuuri searched for Victor in the crowd—a lone silhouette in the sea of nearly a thousand, but Victor knew. From the moment Yuuri caught sight of him, he knew.

The rallying cries of ganbatte and okaeri —Yuuri didn’t care about that.

But he cared about Victor.

Hair askew, chest heaving, Yuuri stared hopefully in his direction, and Victor could not deny him. “Yuuri!”

Yuuri sprinted to the edge of the rink when Victor called his name. Victor pulled him into his arms without a second thought. “That was the tastiest katsudon I’ve ever seen. You were wonderful.”

Yuuri stilled with shock. Maybe exhaustion. Maybe a little of both. “Th… thank you.”

Victor decided not to take it personally, and drew back enough to look him seriously in the face. Before he could give Yuuri sufficient praise, he had to point out what flaws he’d noticed while they were fresh in his mind.

But, well… maybe it was too much. It didn’t matter, though, because the people around them—they were all still cheering.

Victor held his hands as Yuuri stepped off the ice and gave him back his skate guards once he was steadied. “Don’t take my advice to heart right now; we’ll have time. Enjoy this. You were amazing.” The words he murmured between them were not made for anyone else. Not for the photographers. Not for the fans. Just Yuuri.

“Yeah?”

Victor nodded emphatically in response to Yuuri’s tentative smile and held out his hands again… for balance. Yuuri stepped into the blade guards one at a time, and Victor held him upright all the while. “Absolutely.”

Their palms fit together nicely.

And when it happened, it was like the sun. Victor lived for each moment as the realization crossed Yuuri’s face, one dimple at a time. He shone with fierce, wondrous pride; conversely, his sweet and tenuous disbelief. “You’re staying?”

The crowds were closing in around them. Victor reached out and grabbed Yuuri by the flare of that damning skirt before they could be broken apart; anchored his fingers in the black, in the red.

The lights were out, and the reporters were converging with their blinding flashes, but Victor spun him around until he could look Yuuri in the face.

This was important.

He’d earned this.

“Yes, of course I’m staying.”

Nothing after that mattered, really. Not the public, nor the newscasters, nor Yuuri’s fragile nerves when all the lenses turned on him to record this moment for history’s sake.

What mattered was the shape of him beside Victor on the top tier of the podium. How he leaned back against Victor’s chest when Victor’s arm encircled him. The uncertain pledge to his fans that together, he and Victor would aim to win the Grand Prix Final.

And how, when it was all over, he reached out for Victor’s hand first. Come on, I want to make sure Yurio is okay.

As long as Yuuri didn’t let go, Victor was content to let him lead wherever he liked.

Chapter Text

When Yuuri and Victor arrived home, there was already one hard-shelled leopard-print suitcase waiting by the door. It was bittersweet, knowing that Yuuri’s success would lead to Yurio’s departure.

Victor was fond of them both. But if he had to choose one, well. He’d made a commitment to be Yuuri’s coach, and he’d already fulfilled his promise to Yurio when he’d choreographed his new short program.

Still. It had been good to have someone who could push Yuuri to be better. His victory, hopefully, would feed into his confidence. Not the mention that Yurio had his own adventure forward, now—and in the meantime, Victor would have to find a way to be Yuuri’s motivation instead.

But not yet. Not tonight.

Yuuri’s gaze was locked on that suitcase. Even in the wake of his victory, he was still thinking about someone else.

“Let’s find him,” Victor said, and nudged Yuuri forward with a hand on his lower back. He was starting to shiver now that the sweat on his body had cooled from their walk home; the sun was starting to set, and the day would turn to night in short accord. “Do you want to take a bath first?”

“No. Now is good,” Yuuri answered, and blinked out of the daze he had faded into. He glanced at Victor and hitched the athletic bag up on his shoulder. “Yurio probably hasn’t had time to bathe either. Maybe we can all go together one last time.”

Victor smiled. Yuuri was sentimental, it seemed. It was a nice thing to know about him. “I don’t think I worked hard enough to deserve it.”

Yuuri brushed by him on the way to the staircase. “You choreographed both routines. That’s hard work, don’t you think?”

Oh. Victor hadn’t thought about it that way. Choreographing just felt like second nature—feeling the music with the thought of someone else’s physical capabilities in mind. It felt more natural than anything else. He’d been skating for so long, had such an ingrained understanding of the point system and program difficulty and the technical experience to back it up that it was hard to consider that visceral knowledge as work .

But it was an accomplishment, wasn’t it? To see how much they had both progressed with his help.

Victor smiled and followed him up the stairs. He reached around to hook one finger into Yuuri’s open jacket pocket, a strange little comfort that he couldn’t place, or maybe just a good excuse to stay closer. “Maybe you’re right. That’s very thoughtful of you, Yuuri.”

Yuuri glanced down when he felt the tug at his jacket. Surprised, he stumbled and wavered precariously backward. Victor was quick to steady him with both hands on his waist.

“Be careful,” Victor insisted. “You still have ice legs, huh?”

“Um, yeah,” Yuuri mumbled as Victor pushed him back upright, warm under Victor’s palms. Yuuri glanced back over his shoulder and balked as the thought of falling down the stairs crossed over his features. “Thanks. That would have been…”

He trailed off into silence. Victor gave him a little nudge, and Yuuri scooted up to the top of the staircase and away from his touch. He turned and crossed his arms over his chest; shivered a little. “…Um, just, thanks.”

“You’re not going to fall down your own staircase on my watch,” Victor answered with a grin. “I can’t believe you’re clumsier with your contacts in than you are when you’re wearing your glasses.”

Yuuri pouted, but there was a glint in his eye that looked almost like happiness. Victor thought he saw Yuuri’s lips twitch toward a smile. “I’m not used to seeing everything. It’s an adjustment.”

“Do you like them, then?” Victor asked, and stepped onto the landing.

Yuuri considered this. “They’re okay. I’ll wear them for the rest of the day, but I think I prefer my glasses when I’m not competing.”

“Fair enough. For the record, I like both.” Yuuri’s cheeks went pink (Victor smiled—but turned as a sound caught his attention). “Mm, I definitely hear Yurio.”

“I hear you too, idiot,” a muffled voice retorted.

Victor and Yuuri turned the corner into Victor’s room; Yurio’s door was ajar, and he knelt on the center of his bedroll, clothes strewn around him. He looked so young, clad only in a plain black tee and his boxer-briefs, all bare colt legs and skinny hip bones poking out; he was right in the middle of another growth spurt. A few sweat-damp strands of his hair were falling out of the messy bun he’d pulled it back into. It was hard to believe that a leggy teenager like Yuri Plisetsky could be an internationally-ranked athlete, but here they were, and there he was.

His second leopard-print suitcase was open, filled with tightly-rolled clothes packed in surprisingly-organized lines. It was efficient, Victor figured, to roll them like that. And Yurio’s fashionable acquisitions in Japan had been numerous, even if they lacked diversity beyond animal patterns and graphic tees.

Well, to each their own, he supposed. Fashion made way for the bold.

Behind Yurio, the costume he’d worn for On Love: Agape was carefully zipped and hung up—the one pristine element of an otherwise chaotic room as he packed to leave Hasetsu behind. (He’d even straightened the shoulder fringe. If it wasn’t so soft and unlike Yurio’s brash and careless nature, Victor might have laughed. He didn’t.)

“What do you want?” Yurio didn’t look up at them, didn’t try to cover himself, just grabbed another shirt and laid it out flat, folded in the sleeves, then in half again to a long, thin strip. He started at the bottom and rolled it up tight, then packed it inside his suitcase in line with others that looked just like it. Shirts, jeans, his skates packed at the bottom, close to the wheels. His laptop was beside him, iTunes open and paused in the middle of a song.

Yuuri’s shoulder rested against the doorway. “I was going to take a bath, actually. I was wondering if you wanted to join me.”

Victor was content to observe this moment. Somehow he knew that how this moment was handled would probably define them all someday. And though he was playing his part, it was up to Yuuri to decide how he would approach it all.

And it was up to him to see what kind of person Yuuri was, both in defeat, but also in victory.

Victor leaned against the other side of the door jamb as Yurio looked up at them both. The lines around his eyes were tight, uncertain—self-conscious, though he didn’t show it in his posture. “Why would I want to do that?”

“Because we both worked hard and we deserve it,” Yuuri answered kindly. “And I want to do some more things together before you go.”

Yurio’s nose wrinkled. He frowned down at his suitcase, and the lines of his shoulders grew tense as he considered Yuuri’s offer.

Victor knew him. Yurio would rarely take the things he wanted for himself unless he could demand them without first being offered. It was his own way of creating space for himself in the world. But the moment someone tried to hold out something to him, to do something kind, he often shied away.

Victor had hoped that agape would help him understand that sometimes good things could be freely given.

“Plus, my mom said she would make katsudon for all of us again.” Yuuri’s tone as he said this was casual, but Victor knew a subtle bribe when he heard one. “To take with us when we go to the beach.”

“It’s already getting dark.”

“I guess we’ll have to be quick in the bath, then,” Yuuri answered.

Yurio paused in his packing. His hands fisted, then he rubbed his palms on his own bare thighs. Finally, he reached out to grab two rolls from his bag—one black, one navy, then stood with them in his hands, clutched close to his chest. “Fine, but only because I haven’t showered yet, and I’m hungry. And if I pack everything now, I won’t have anything to wear on the way home tomorrow.”

“Makes sense,” Yuuri agreed easily. He turned to smile at Victor, then back at Yurio. “We’ll meet you down there. I’ll tell my mom and Mari you agreed; they’ll make some fresh. Give me a few minutes to get out of this costume, okay?”

Yuuri stripped out of his jacket as he headed back for the hall; Victor saw him turn toward the staircase without so much as asking for help with the zipper of the costume, then turn to throw his jacket back toward his room. He heard the muffled thump and sliiide as it hit the closed door and must’ve fallen to the floor.

And then he was gone.

“Is he for real?” Yurio asked.

Victor turned. “Mm. Yuuri doesn’t do anything that’s not genuine, I think.” He laughed a little and rubbed a hand over his face, exasperated. He changed courses. “You did great earlier. You should have stayed for the podium ceremony.”

Yurio scoffed at him and leaned his hip against the doorway where Yuuri had just vacated. The storage room he had taken up residence in was small, and Yurio even smaller. But Victor could see the man he might become someday: tall, lean, chiseled (if not delicate) features. Some things showed themselves only with age. How Yurio would mature would be up to a code no one but his own body could crack.

“Why?” He asked. “And humiliate myself? Katsudon had the home-field advantage. He won, I lost. Simple as that.” Yurio butted his shoulder against the wall as he shifted his weight from leg to leg. Victor wondered if he was sore, or maybe just cold.

“People wanted to congratulate you,” Victor replied. He slipped by Yurio and into the storage room, carefully avoiding his strewn belongings as he reached into one of the still-packed boxes for a set of clothes; a white button-down and black jeans. He frowned, and pulled out something else—dark-wash jeans, and a black shirt, thin and worn with age. Hmm. Maybe he should’ve checked the temperature forecast. “This is a town that loves skating. They know who you are, Yuri. You haven’t humiliated yourself.”

Yurio hesitated when Victor called him by his proper name, enough that when Victor moved away from the boxes, he looked… vulnerable. He leaned out of the way when Victor passed. “I couldn’t skate Agape. Not the way I should’ve.”

“You skated a difficult routine with near-flawless technical elements. That’s nothing to be ashamed of.” Victor put the clothes down on his mattress, then started to unwrap his scarf, shuck out of his coat, his gloves, his boots, until he was down to his shirt and pants.

“I didn’t feel it, though. With… with Katsudon. He felt it. You could tell. Any idiot could tell he wasn’t skating about a real katsudon.”

And once again, Victor was left with the sense that, like most children left to their own devices for too long, Yurio was preternaturally perceptive. “Emotional experience comes with life experience. Short of that, you need a talented teacher…”

Victor stopped. He went quiet. He spun on a dime. “You still dance, right?”

“Uh, yeah. Why?” Yurio asked. He cocked his hip and frowned, no longer uncertain and rocking back and forth. Instead, he was his usual self—and growing, still growing. There was still time.

“I need your phone,” Victor said, and held out his hand. “Please.”

“Hell no.” Yurio set his jaw and braced himself in the doorway, ready to fight in his tee-shirt and his messy hair and without any pants. “Why?”

“I need to text Yakov.”

“Use your own!”

“Do you want my help or not?”

He contemplated this. Then, in one quick movement, he shoved the clothes he’d been clutching against Victor’s chest, and dove onto his bed to dig for his phone in the mess of blankets and strewn clothing. The honeycomb case with the lion’s head on the back was striking, Victor had to admit. Maybe Yurio had some fashion sense after all.

Victor did not feel a twinge when he opened the messages and found a thread of unanswered texts demanding Yurio’s exact location. “You should’ve answered him, you know. He worries. He’d never say it.”

Victor realized the irony; there was a similar string of unanswered texts on his own phone.

Yuri: >>Lilia Baranovskaya

Victor figured this was self-explanatory. Then he frowned and added,

Yuri: >>Flight leaves tomorrow at 6:45am. JAL 345. Flagged as unaccompanied minor, no layover. Projected 10h 15m.

Yakov: >>ok

Yakov: >>i will ask. no promises

There was no thank you from Yakov to Victor, and Victor didn’t expect one. He snorted softly. It was about as good as he would get—he knew Yakov was still angry with him for leaving, and there was no love lost between him and Lilia right now, either. Their divorce had been recent and bitter, after twenty long years of not quite enough .

(Victor didn’t want that for himself. It was one of the reasons he had stopped dating casually. He never wanted to mistake complacency with love.)

He hoped Yakov could put that all aside for Yurio’s sake.

“Victor! Will you grab me a change of clothes?”

Yuuri’s voice filtered up the staircase, and Victor smiled. He handed back Yurio’s belongings and went to collect the clothing he’d laid out. Both sets, then. “Sure!”

“Thanks!”

Victor’s smile was private, small. Not made for Yurio, but not hidden from him, either. Victor considered him one of the few people he trusted—and perhaps that would be odd to others, between someone of Victor’s age and a teenager like Yuri Plisetsky. But across a generation, they shared a bond of brothers, of countrymen, of skating, and of having their lives forever altered by Katsuki Yuuri.

The Agape costume caught Victor’s eye. “You should have that dry-cleaned when you’re home. I wouldn’t get the shoulder fringe wet.”

Yurio followed his line of sight. Once he did, his head whipped back around to Victor. “What do you mean, when I get home? That’s yours, idiot.”

Victor laughed. The idea of trying to squeeze into such a tiny ensemble now that he was fully grown was laughable—and entirely the sort of thing he could imagine Christophe trying to capture for his Instagram. “Yours, now. Take care of it. I’ll find the garment bag later tonight so you can bring it with you.”

He went for the staircase and paused in the doorway when Yurio hesitated behind him. The boy looked at him with his wide sea-glass eyes and lips parted, a gentle, tentative expression Victor was not used to seeing on him. “You’re giving it to me?”

Victor blinked, then nodded. He smiled. “Of course. You act like I’ve never given you anything before, Yurio.”

Yurio glanced down. “This is different.”

Victor paused. He touched a finger to his lips in consideration, then laughed quietly. “Between you and me, you’re Yakov’s best male skater now that I’m gone. You have a lot of talent and energy. Georgi is good, but he lets his emotions get the better of him—which is almost worse than not having enough emotion. Skating is all about control. You have that. So I want to see you succeed.”

He tapped his mouth a few times, then added, “Now you have a great short program. Your free skate will be up to you, but you have a solid foundation for an amazing season. So don’t let your loss here impact your year.”

Yurio tapped his bare foot idly against the wooden floor. He didn’t look up at Victor, but his cheeks looked slightly pink. “...Thanks.”

“You’re at the beginning of your career; Yuuri is at his prime, and he has the experience to back it up. You have all the time in the world to catch up to him. Don’t be too hard on yourself, okay?”

Victor turned to leave. Yurio stopped him again.

“I’m going to beat him. By the end of this year, you watch. At least once. I’ll beat him.”

Victor smiled. “It’s good to have a goal, but that means you’ll be his rival, and mine. Are you sure you’re ready for that?”

There was a fire in Yurio’s eyes when he met Victor’s gaze head-on. “You heard me.”

Victor’s smile widened; he hoped Lilia Baranovskaya would agree to take Yurio on as her pupil. It would make for an interesting year. “Good. I’ll see you downstairs, then.”

Victor turned around the corner and headed for the stairwell. He hoped Yurio was ready for a challenge in the coming months. But in the meantime…

“Yuuri, I have your clothes! Do you need help getting out of that costume?”

The water of the hot springs was pleasantly relaxing; Victor imagined it was soothing for their muscles after the strain of competition. Yurio sank down to just above his nose and breathed out a stream of bubbles, the warm towel coiled atop his head; Yuuri stuck toward the edges, the radiant heat from the rocks pressed against the sore areas of his back, eyes nearly closed. He looked tired, like he could drift off at any moment—if Victor didn’t know that Yuuri had plans for tonight, he would have probably shuffled him off toward bed for some well-deserved rest.

Instead, Victor pulled him into conversation of little substance (but great importance)—about his life in Hasetsu, the places he liked to eat, the kinds of music he preferred. When suitably engaged, Yuuri’s demeanor changed and he seemed to rally behind the dregs of energy that remained.

(He learned that Yuuri started skating when he was six, that aside from his love for katsudon he also had a fondness for spicy soba, and his music taste spanned the generations of everyone around him).

And despite Yurio’s impassioned declaration to Victor in private, he made no mention of it after it was done. Instead he was quiet, pensive, but allowed Yuuri’s chatter and warm acceptance with minimal backlash against him.

It was nice to see them getting along. Yurio could use more friends.

The sun bathed them all in warm light as it started to dip below the horizon, and though the water never cooled in a natural spring, they all managed to find the motivation to get out when their fingers began to prune.

While Yurio was busy in the locker room bundling into his boat neck sweater, and Victor was securing each of the buttons on his shirt, he saw Yuuri pause. Yuuri pulled at the legs of his pants when he noticed they were a bit long; shot a subtle glance to Victor’s pants, and then to his own. Then he looked at the soft, black shirt in his hands a little closer.

“Something wrong?” Victor asked, and idly rubbed a towel over his hair.

Yuuri rubbed his thumbs over the age-worn fabric. “Um. I just. Isn’t this…?” Yuuri trailed off into silence and started again. “Isn’t this yours?”

Oh. Victor’s heart beat a little faster, though he made every attempt not to show it. “I didn’t think you’d mind. I can—I can get yours, if–”

“I don’t mind!” Yuuri replied swiftly, and before Victor could argue, had tugged the shirt over his head. The three-quarter sleeves were a little loose around his forearms; Yuuri ducked his head before he pulled it all the way through the collar, which caught on the bridge of his nose and the apples of his pinkened cheeks. He glanced at Victor through his lashes, cozied into Victor’s old clothes. Victor didn’t have to see Yuuri’s mouth to know he was smiling.

Victor could feel his heart beating in his throat. He swallowed it down.

“Thanks,” Yuuri murmured.

“Ugh.” Yurio threw his wet towel and hit Yuuri in the back of the head. Yuuri’s blush turned embarrassed as he rounded on him; Victor smothered his laugh with a hand. “Can we go? This was your grand plan, Katsudon, not mine.”

That took the wind out of Yuuri’s sails. “Oh, you’re right. Okay, give me a few minutes, I’ll be right back!” Yuuri balled up the towel and tossed it into the hamper as he scooted from the room.

Victor straightened his hair with his fingers, his own towel wrapped around his fist, and followed after him.

Yurio beat him to the hamper and slammed the lid with one hand. His expression, which was carefully crafted to look intimidating, was somewhat lacklustre when his hair was in wet tangles around his ears and his skinny collarbones were exposed by his sweater. A wet kitten, maybe—a tiger, he was not.

“You may think you’re cute with this whole thing with the coaching and the boyfriend jeans. But I meant what I said.”

Victor sighed, more amused than irritated, and draped his towel over Yurio’s face.

Yurio recoiled, horrified. “Victor, ew! This touched your ass, you heathen!”

“Yuuri!” Victor called, and weaved around Yurio on his way to the kitchen. “Do you need help carrying anything?”

The sea breeze was crisp, but the night was warm; Victor could feel summer impending in the wind, in the way the reddened traces of the sunlight lingered above the horizon, not quite faded. All the windows of Minako’s car were open as they drove the short distance from Yu–topia Katsuki to the nearby beach—Minako driving, with Mari in the front and Makkachin pressed tight between her legs and the dash; Victor, Yuuri, and Yurio pressed hip-to-hip across the back of the narrow sedan.

It was hard to notice Yurio’s grumbling with the way Yuuri leaned into him. Still, Victor allowed himself to get swept into the banter and Yurio’s teenaged complaining.

When they reached the beach, they made quick work of unpacking Yuuko’s car as she pulled in beside them—the triplets spilled out of their booster seats and toward the water, and Yuuko ran after them, shouting as she chased her energetic children, her husband trailing after her.

Victor grinned when, after carrying the first bag to where the grass met the sand, Yurio set it down and took off on his agile dancer’s legs after them—and effectively left Yuuri and Victor with the work. Makkachin, never one to turn down a good romp, sprinted after the group with no aim or care but to run and play, forever a puppy in his heart.

“Figures,” Victor said good-naturedly and shook his head for Yuuri’s benefit.

Yuuri grinned in response, the warm color of his eyes more obvious without the shadow of his glasses. “Don’t complain,” he replied as he set the last of the canvas totes on the grass. “Chasing the triplets is the hard part.”

Yuuko, Takeshi, and Yurio each eventually caught up to one of the girls; they’d all ignored the picnic area, but the lights were just bright enough to reach where Mari had spread out a blanket, and set each of the portions out for them.

In all honesty, the blanket was far too small, the katsudon was not quite hot, and Victor couldn’t see particularly well as the sun set in earnest, but he didn’t care. By nature of trying to fit everyone on the blanket, Yuuri had shuffled over against Victor’s side, and this… felt like family. With Yuuko and Makkachin in her lap, and Takeshi and the three chattering girls who had forgotten their mother’s social media in favor of snacks, with Minako passing around lukewarm beers to everyone but Yurio and the triplets, with Mari playing unfamiliar music through her phone’s speaker that filled all the spaces the idle conversation couldn’t reach.

Victor laughed when Mari snatched her half-drunk beer away from Yurio’s curious hands—but when his grumbling and pouting got pathetic enough and her bottle was near-empty, she passed it over with an eyeroll and immediately burst into gut-aching chortles when he sputtered at the bitter taste. With Yurio’s interest in their alcohol gone, Yuuri and Victor split the last beer, passing it back and forth between sips, casually intimate in a way that no one seemed to think twice about. Mari lit a cigarette not long after and rolled onto her back, her legs thrown across Yurio’s lap and her head resting against Minako’s thigh, and blew smoke rings into the open air that the triplets marvelled at. Victor was sure that if they were indoors, she never would have smoked around the girls—and neither would Minako, who accepted a drag from Mari’s offered cigarette with an ease that spoke of years of practice.

When Yurio reached for that, too (more cheeky than expecting), Mari smacked his hand away and turned her baleful gaze away from her shuffle playlist. “Hell no. You’ve bogarted enough of my cigarettes already, you underaged klepto.”

Yurio froze, then Mari rolled her eyes and handed her phone to Minako—the triplets came soon after, clambering after the bright light like moths after a flame, drawn by social media and chat room nonsense that Victor couldn’t even imagine, and probably didn’t want to.

When Minako hit the sleep button and Mari’s resulting lock screen was their only result, the girls whined with disappointment.

(The rumors they were looking for in regards to his retirement were inconsequential, Victor told himself. He would return when he was ready, and he would come back victorious, with Yuuri, or not at all.)

“I have something better,” Yuuri mumbled, and rolled backward to avoid Minako’s outstretched legs beside him. Victor watched, the absence at his side feeling distinctly cold; Yuuri dug into one of the bags and made a satisfied sound with what he’d unearthed—a narrow, thin box with writing that Victor couldn’t read, but quickly distracted Axel, Lutz, and Loop as they reached out with expectant hands and innocent glee.

“Mm, great idea,” Yuuko said when she noticed. Her smile was genuine and bright as she watched her daughters scramble for Yuuri’s attention and the gifts he bore.

“Need a light?” Mari asked. She reached one arm behind her, zippo proffered toward her brother; Yuuri took it in nimble fingers and sparked it to light with a casual ease that drew curious questions to Victor’s mind—quickly distracted as the three skinny sticks between Yuuri’s fingers burst into shimmery streaks of light, and the girls grabbed for them in response.

“Careful. Watch your fingers,” Yuuri instructed, but even Yurio now had sat up with wide eyes as the girls snatched their sparklers away and took off in trails of color toward the water.

This time, Yuuko and Takeshi seemed content to watch, reclined together against the bundle of bags with fond smiles. Victor smiled when Takeshi snuck in to kiss her cheek—it was sweet, how they loved each other, he thought. They must’ve been young when Yuuko had gotten pregnant, but their love was clearly alive, bubbling with contentment and familiarity and years of intimacy.

They looked happy. So why did his chest ache just a little, why did he feel—?

“Hey,” Yuuri said; when Victor broke out of his reverie to look at him, Yuuri was holding out an unlit sparkler with a smile. “Come on.”

And Victor was never one to hesitate when it came to Yuuri.

Of course, Yurio was not far behind, and shoved his phone into Yuuko’s hands with a question that sounded like can you get a ton of cool instagram photos? But Victor couldn’t be sure, because Yuuri had taken his hand and hauled Victor to his feet with surprising strength, and Yurio was only seconds after them.

They stood together with sparklers in hand as Mari found a song she liked and turned it up loud—something jazzy and electronic with a good beat and a resonant voice. Yuuri handed the lighter to Minako, who held it up above her head so they could all ignite them together, and then they were running.

Blue, green, yellow, red. Yurio’s eyes lit up as he started drawing nonsensical patterns in the air, and Yuuri laughed and twirled in a stream of light and Minako shouted, “That’s beautiful, Yuuri!”

Yuuri looked at her with what seemed from a distance like hope and joy, and with Yuuko holding Yurio’s camera, and now even Mari and hers, he started to dance.

Victor was quick to unlock his phone and burned his fingers with stinging sparks as he pushed it toward Minako; when she looked back at him, he thought she might get it. He wasn’t sure how to explain what he was feeling, but it was so much , and he wanted to keep it. Document it, if something like that could be documented.

And Victor, like someone much younger than he was, ran to join the fray.

He’d never seen Yuuri move like this on land before. On ice was one thing; there were certain wavelengths of movement that were possible when skates were involved. But on his own feet he made leaps he would never make on a blade’s edge, mid-air splits and en pointe leaps (or as close as he could manage in those worn running shoes; he and Victor had put the miles in those soles together). Yuuri threw his body into motion in a completely separate way when there was level ground below his feet.

He never could have danced so effortlessly with his glasses on, Victor was sure. Probably wouldn’t have without the beers they’d drank, either. But it was so different when Yuuri moved with intent, instead of fuelled by champagne. This was more than fun, and it was more than a drunken dance-off after a devastating loss, because this was joy.

This was Yuuri’s joy. And Victor could choreograph a whole season of it without thinking, lay down everything he was, that he wanted, at Yuuri’s feet in exchange for being allowed to watch.

This night would forever be imprinted on Victor’s senses. Sparklers. Ocean air. Cigarette smoke. Warm beer. Cold katsudon. Foreign music played through a speakerphone.

(Stars overhead. Stars on the ground. Stars in their hands. Stars in his eyes.)

Victor didn’t fully realize when his sparklers burned out and Yuuri had run to get new ones, because he was frozen. Awed. Open-mouthed and captivated, Victor’s heart pounded in his chest.

Here, surrounded by friends and family and Hasetsu and Victor, Yuuri looked so happy.

Oh, Victor thought, and when he turned around and saw Yuuko and Takeshi with their arms full of their girls and his tuckered-out Makkachin, he only smiled. There was no tightness in his chest, no loneliness like he’d felt in his empty apartment in St. Petersburg when his old dog had been his only company. This is what life is supposed to be like for both of us, isn’t it?

“Oi, Victor! Dance with us or move out of the way! I need a new profile picture!” Yurio hollered as he tore by with sparklers pinned between his fingers like shining mutant claws. He would be gone tomorrow, Victor knew—on his way back to their shared homeland with his belongings and the memories they’d all made.

That didn’t matter, though. Not when there was still time left for all of them, here, together.

Yuuri turned back toward them with laughter bubbling from his mouth and radiant warmth in his eyes, all of it pinned, all of it focused on Victor.

He had a choice. To step aside, or to dance.

Victor knew what he chose.

He knew who.

Chapter Text

The next morning, Yuuko volunteered to drive them all to the airport to see Yurio off. He grumped and grouched the whole way, but Victor insisted on getting him to the gate in person. But at the moment they said goodbye, Yurio didn’t look as irritated with their enthusiasm, he just looked… young. Uncertain. Embarrassed by their antics as they wished him farewell, but altogether soft. He didn’t like to share that side of himself, and Victor had seen it less and less as he had gotten older.

But then Yurio was gone with a scoff and a waved goodbye, a promise of competitive vengeance, and an ill-timed yawn that took his threat from a ten to a three. Yuuko sent him off with a hug, Yuuri with a nod, and Victor with a ruffle to his hair.

By the time Yuuko pulled her car up to the onsen, it had started to sink in—Yurio was gone, Victor was still here with Yuuri dozing off against his shoulder, and this was really happening. He was really Yuuri’s coach, and their training was about to begin in earnest.

Well, Victor thought as he gently shook Yuuri’s shoulder, maybe not today. “Yuuri. Yuuri, wake up. We’re back.”

Yuuri turned toward the sound of Victor’s voice in his sleep, his forehead creased with the strain of waking. The movement rolled his face into Victor’s neck. He nuzzled closer, still not fully aware. “Mm, no.”

Warmth. Sleepy and cuddly and petulant was perhaps his favorite side of Yuuri yet. Victor smiled and mussed his hair, then pushed the strands of Yuuri’s bangs out of his eyes. “Come on. If you want to go back to bed, you can take a nap inside—not in Yuuko’s car. I’ll let you take a day off since we were up late last night. Well… we can start in the afternoon, at least.” Victor smiled and tapped Yuuri’s forehead with his index finger. “Yuuuuuuri…”

Yuuri grumbled; he squinted and blinked slowly. And then, all at once, he recoiled and nearly headbutted Victor’s chin in the process. His eyes were wide, cheeks pink—shocked, staring back at Victor. “Why did you let me fall asleep like that?” He demanded, then covered his face with his hands.

“Aww, Yuuri,” Yuuko crooned from the driver’s seat. “You were so tired at the airport; you both sat in the back to get some rest. We didn’t want to wake you.” She followed it up with a flurry of Japanese that Victor couldn’t quite track.

Yuuri’s cheeks heated as he replied emphatically to Yuuko. Victor pouted in lieu of a frown—he wanted Yuuri to have his privacy, of course, but it was never any fun being left out of a bilingual conversation in which he didn’t understand the other half.

“You looked peaceful,” Victor replied, and Yuuri’s attention snapped back to Victor.

“That doesn’t matter. You shouldn’t have let me—” Yuuri retorted, then his energy abruptly fizzled, genuinely upset.

Victor felt a slight pang of disappointment. “If I knew you really didn’t want to touch me that much—”

“What? No, nononono. That’s not what I meant. Victor. I…”

But Mari was coming outside to greet them and Yuuri didn’t finish. He untangled himself from Victor and scrambled out the car door. Mari watched as her brother rocketed past her and turned back to cast a perplexed look toward the car.

Victor sighed; Yuuko turned in the driver’s seat back toward him, her frown deep, her eyes worried. “Yuuri really admires you,” she said simply. “Please don’t give up on him.”

Victor laughed. He wondered if she knew that Victor was the kind of person that could be truly bullheaded in his stubbornness—that Yuuri’s quiet anxiousness was a different kind of barricade, but one that Victor was determined to figure out all the same. “Yuuri asked me to be here. I’m not going to leave him.”

“What do you mea—”

“Yuuko-chan!” Mari interrupted and approached the car; she started into another string of hurried Japanese that promptly excluded Victor.

Yuuko replied; Victor huffed. He couldn’t understand what they were saying, but he knew they were talking about him. He got out of the car.

“Oh, Victor!” Yuuko called as Victor rounded the front of the vehicle. Mari stood in front of the gate with her arms crossed over her chest, but her scowl had softened to something a little less accusatory. Yuuko stuck her head out the car window, then popped herself out of the seat entirely to lean across the roof toward him. “So there’s no one on the books for today, but we’ll still usually have afternoon sessions and public skate at the rink. I’m going to reserve mornings for you and Yuuri to practice. We open at eight, but if you want to skate earlier than that, Yuuri has a key. I’ll make a copy for you, too, and a print-off of the schedule. Okay?”

Yuuko’s kindness was a jolt back to reality. Victor was being unreasonable, wasn’t he? He was the outsider here, the strange element—he had no reason to be frustrated with them going about their own lives, speaking their own language, being worried for Yuuri when he ran away. They were all doing their best to make room for him. Victor just… wasn’t the center of attention.

It was an adjustment.

He forced the tension out of his shoulders, then took a breath; when he smiled it felt genuine again. “Thank you, Yuuko.”

She nodded and smiled back, and then Victor came to Mari. She looked him up and down and offered a one-shouldered shrug. Whatever Yuuko had said to her had tempered her suspicion of him. Mari glanced back toward the front door where Yuuri had disappeared, then at Victor. “He does that sometimes. Do yourself a favor and don’t take it personally. He doesn’t mean it. But you might want to leave him alone for a while.”

Slightly dejected but not unsurprised, Victor shrugged in mild agreement. Her pitying look made Victor’s skin crawl, but then—

“Oh, what the hell. Come on. You’re not completely helpless in the kitchen; you can help with prep for lunch, keep your hands busy.” Without waiting for his acceptance, Mari grabbed him by the sleeve and tossed a casual wave back to Yuuko, then started dragging Victor toward Yutopia. “I walked Makkachin an hour ago, so he should be fine for a while. I’ll make a line cook of you yet. Heh— Victor Nikiforov, working in my kitchen.”

Victor laughed to himself. Well, okay. Staying busy wasn’t the worst thing that could happen. She knew Yuuri best, after all, and Victor trusted her judgement.

Victor had fun helping Mari with the kitchen prep. She taught him the Japanese words for different vegetables and utensils, and taught him the most efficient way to peel an egg. By the time Yuuri found them a few hours later, Victor was up to his elbows in diced vegetables, Hiroko’s apron tied around his waist, with several of Mari’s bobby pins criss-crossed to hold back his bangs as they filled orders for the lunch service.

Yuuri froze in the doorway—he had obviously been prepared to grovel and be embarrassed with those pink cheeks and the slump of his shoulders, but the shock of seeing Victor had his jaw dropping open. “What are you wearing?”

“Yakizakana, up!” Victor slid the grilled fish onto the pickup window, then turned to grin at Yuuri. He plucked at the ties of the apron. “Your mom let me borrow it. Very practical. Have you been busy?”

Yuuri flushed at being put on the spot—just like that, he was back to being bashful, familiar Yuuri. Still, he stole glances up at Victor’s hair clips, even as he tried and failed to avoid eye contact. “I, um… yeah, I guess… I was thinking about my free skate.”

“Oh.” Victor wiped his hands on the apron and leaned his hip against the prep table. “Have you thought about your theme for this season? Your music choice?”

Yuuri startled, his wide-eyed gaze locking with Victor’s at last. “Have I—? You want me to pick the music?”

“Yuuri! You can’t be in my kitchen if you’re going to distract my cook,” Mari complained, harried-looking and covered in flour. She frowned at her younger brother, then shot Victor a look. “Though I suppose I don’t really need you anymore. I can handle the kitchen myself.” She waved her hand dismissively and turned back to her skillet.

Victor unwound the ties of the too-large apron and hung it up as he followed Yuuri out the shuttered door, then up the stairs toward their bedrooms.

“Yuuko said she was going to reserve morning practice time for you, but this afternoon is still free. Do you want to head over there? We can start going over some options.”

“Mm… yeah, that sounds fine.” Yuuri turned back to face him, walking backward a few steps toward his room. “I’ll meet you downstairs in five?”

Victor nodded, and they split up for only as long as it took to change into their workout clothes and get their gear together. Victor met him in the lobby in his tracksuit, his skates safely secured in his backpack; Yuuri had left his in the locker at Ice Castle the day prior. Victor hadn’t realized it before (and the thought only made him slightly uneasy) but maybe he should do the same. He knew the Nishigori family ran a secure establishment, and that no one in Hasetsu would bother his belongings, but… it would be an unprecedented show of trust.

One that, if he wanted to prove to Yuuri he was serious, Victor would have to consider.

They jogged to the Ice Castle with Makkachin trotting along beside them, then stretched on padded mats on the locker room floor. Yuuri shivered when Victor’s hands flattened on his back to push him further into a toe-touch; Victor felt it in his fingers, in his chest, but when he backed off from the touch with that morning’s events still in mind, Yuuri shot a frown over his shoulder and said, “Why’d you stop?”

Victor’s eyes widened, his mind raced, and it took him about ten seconds too long to realize Yuuri was actually talking about the stretch. Victor stammered out a sorry and pushed Yuuri forward again.

And then they were on the ice.

It was different, skating with Yuuri when they no longer had Yurio to pressure them or demand Victor’s attention. It left everything… open. Easy. They glided in perfect unison through the Eros routine, Yuuri’s movements even more fluid and confident without the weight of a thousand eyes on him. The anxious Yuuri from earlier melted away the moment he put on his skates; he smiled at Victor, his eyes clear and bright behind his contact lenses, and adjusted graciously whenever Victor offered a correction. He flowed like water, created a wave of motion that Victor could never clearly capture on paper as a composition layout.

Yuuri was more than labeled bullet points. He was a song.

And Yuuri on ice was a force to be reckoned with.

(Victor knew from the moment that Yuuri carelessly wiped his face with his shirt and flashed the newly-toned ridges of his abs—he was doomed.)

It quickly became late without them starting anything new, too caught-up in enjoying their time together that focusing on Yuuri’s free skate had slipped Victor’s mind. He would have to pay closer attention in the future, really buckle down if he meant to help Yuuri improve—but in the meantime, he could write it off to a late start and a long day, and told Yuuri that they would begin in earnest tomorrow.

Before they left, Victor asked and was granted Yuuri’s permission to store his skates in his locker, at least until he could buy his own padlock and rent a cubicle of his own.

(And they looked good, placed together like that; silver and gold blades on fitted boots, just barely enough room to nestle them beside each other.)

They walked home at a leisurely pace with Makkachin in tow, bodies pleasantly strained from their workout, and went straight for the baths. They ate a late dinner and lounged in the living room, the low drone of the TV in the background as they talked about song choices and themes and together dismissed each one.

Yuuri off the ice was timid, uncertain. He was first to look away and first to fold under pressure, but all the sweeter when he met Victor’s eyes with a smile. There was a duality to him that was hard to get a handle on, but Yuuri was multifaceted—ultimately a much more complicated person than Victor himself, or so he was coming to realize.

Victor rarely wore his heart on his sleeve anymore. Yuuri wore his for all to see, whether he knew it or not, and Victor wanted to be like that again. He wanted to love like Yuuri; love his sport, love his friends, his family, his life.

Being so close to someone so vibrant was mesmerizing. Inspiring.

He didn’t want to choose Yuuri’s free skate music, but Victor sure as hell wanted to help him curate a piece of art in motion—a story all their own.

They parted that night with heavy limbs, weighted eyelids, and the promise to meet early at the rink. They wandered close in the stairwell on their way to bed, and their hands touched; when Yuuri was headed for his room and brushed past Victor’s shoulder, Victor had a moment where he felt a strong sense of déjà-vu.

He nearly asked Yuuri to stay, but he didn’t. How could he?

(But he was certain, so certain that he should.)

Then Victor noticed Makkachin following after Yuuri toward his bedroom, a room that Victor had never seen in person, and he let them go. He curled under his blankets that night in a bed that felt vast and empty. He thought about soft, bleary-eyed Yuuri with Makkachin snuggled against his side, and realized with a jolt that for the first time in a long time, he recognized the feeling; he was lonely.

Victor fell into a fitful sleep and craved a warmth that wasn’t his to take.

He rose early, as promised.

Yuuri was late.

Yuuri’s performance in practice that day was… not what it had been the day before. Whether it was from a night of poor sleep (possible) or a flare-up of his nerves (also possible), by the end of the day, Victor felt as frustrated as Yuuri looked, both with themselves and with each other.

Victor crawled out of the onsen and onto the warm rocks. He worked through his flexibility stretches, then into a split, careless of his own nudity; it was easier to stretch when there were no clothes to restrict his movement. His body ached in ways it hadn’t when he was younger. If there was any reasonable way to stave off the symptoms of growing old, Victor was determined to find it.

Still—a thought weighed heavily on his mind, and he pushed his hair out of his face as he stared at Yuuri’s turned back.

Would he take it well? Probably not. But it was so early in the season, and Yuuri’s performance on his jumps had been, well…

“Yuuri, maybe we should cut the three quads from your free program.” All they had so far was rough choreography and no music to accompany it, but if Yuuri couldn’t land the jumps without music, what made them think he could land it with the added distraction?

Yuuri didn’t seem to agree as he whipped around, a protest hot and sharp on his lips—

—and he met Victor’s eyes. Then his gaze flickered downward to the wide splay of Victor’s legs and his exposed, soft cock, and—

—Yuuri gasped and wheeled forward, his hands shielding his eyes. A hot flush spread over his shoulders and the back of his neck that had little to do with the simmering spring. “But i-if I want to win the Grand Prix Final, I’ll need those.”

Victor laughed under his breath as Yuuri argued; he leaned over, relishing the pull of the muscles in his waist. Endearing, modest Yuuri. Too modest, maybe, for a lifelong professional athlete, and the son of a family that owned and operated a hot spring resort.

It was true that at a higher level of competition, most of Yuuri’s competitors would be gratuitous with their quads, but Victor had never seen a skater with raw technical skill quite like Yuuri. His spins were tight and fast with no drift; his step sequences were strong, passionate, fleet-footed and mesmerizing. Though Victor would love to see Yuuri master more of his jumps, he wouldn’t be the first skater to beat out his competition with his program components.

More jumps meant more chances to fall, after all.

Victor told him as much; Yuuri didn’t seem convinced.

In fact, the very suggestion of taking away Yuuri’s jumps seemed to discourage him; Yuuri floated at the edge of the onsen and the tense, embarrassed line of his shoulders transformed into something downtrodden and disappointed. Yuuri turned to press his face against the stone, his arms curled around himself to hide his face away. Victor attributed it to exhaustion at first, but quickly realized at Yuuri’s heavy sigh that it was more than physical strain.

Victor rubbed a hand over his face and stood. Oh, Yuuri—he had been so bright once. Bubbly. Unstoppable. He’d pulled Victor in with a smile and spun his life around so fast that Victor wasn’t sure he’d ever stopped being dizzy.

The truth of Yuuri was… not what Victor had expected. He’d come all this way for a firecracker, for someone who’d begged for him, only for Yuuri to shirk away from his touch every time Victor offered.

He didn’t understand.

But Victor was starting to think that maybe Yuuri didn’t understand, either.

Victor was here for him. For him. He’d been so moved by Yuuri, so inspired by him, and it hurt to see Yuuri so hard on himself.

Maybe Victor couldn’t reverse it, but he was determined to help Yuuri overcome it.

Victor’s footsteps were muted against the pavestones as he crouched at the edge of the pool. At such close proximity, it was nearly impossible to resist the urge to run his fingers through Yuuri’s hair—nearly. “Yuuri, do you know why I decided to become your coach?” Victor asked. His voice was tempered by the ambient sounds of the water, rippling and softening the words.

“Hmm?” Yuuri lifted his head, his eyes so deep and dark and beautiful in the light; Victor reached for him, took Yuuri’s hands in his own.

“It was because of the music,” Victor insisted gently. Yuuri’s lips parted as he stared back, a soft look of confusion painted across the curves of his face. Victor drew their hands closer, felt the pruny texture of Yuuri’s fingertips against his own (so strangely personal) and smiled.

He wanted Yuuri to understand. He wanted Yuuri to know.

Victor wanted to be exactly where he was. He remembered how this started, remembered what Yuuri was capable of and how Yuuri could make people feel . He wanted to see where this could go if they were in it together. He would help Yuuri any way he could. Coach him in any way he can. Be anything that Yuuri needed him to be.

If he could do that, would Yuuri want him to stay? Would he ask for Victor’s attention again? No—Victor wanted Yuuri to demand it. He’d crashed into Victor’s life out of nowhere and all but screamed look at me, I’m the only one for you!

By god, Victor had listened.

So why hadn’t Yuuri?

“The way you skate—it’s like your body is creating music. I want to create a high-difficulty program to maximize that. Only I can do that. That’s the feeling I had.” Victor squeezed Yuuri’s hands in his own with the intimate lowering of his voice between them, gratified at the dilation of Yuuri’s pupils, the red flush of his cheeks, the flash of teeth as he chewed at his lip, and—

Victor pulled him from the water; thrilled, determined. Whatever Yuuri said, whatever Yuuri did, he had to feel this too. He had to.

“The short program validated it!” Victor added cheerfully.

Yuuri stumbled onto the rocks, his body warm and pliant in Victor’s hands and shivering wherever Victor’s touch settled.

“Come on, you need to stretch or you’ll get tense,” Victor said with a grin. Yuuri gasped as Victor scooped a hand under his shin and lifted—he pinwheeled, one arm extended above his head, and Victor reached to steady him. His fingers curled around the curve of Yuuri’s cheek as a counterbalance, and he pulled Yuuri’s leg up and out further; Yuuri leaned until his back was anchored against Victor’s shoulder.

“Maybe you should produce your next free program,” Victor suggested. Yuuri’s performance might get better with a modicum of control over his own Grand Prix experience—this early in the season, it certainly couldn’t hurt to let Yuuri try. If it crashed and burned, Victor could step in, but…

Truth be told, he was curious.

What kind of journey would Yuuri take him on if Victor let him take the wheel?

“Eh?! But my coach has always chosen my music—”

Victor tugged on Yuuri’s leg and felt the muscles jump under his fingers; ooh, tense indeed. With no small amount of smug enjoyment and fleeting attraction at the truly beautiful lines of Yuuri’s body, Victor countered, “Isn’t it more fun to do it yourself?”

“Ow, ow, ow, ow, that hurts— but my last coach—!”

Victor let up only enough so Yuuri didn’t cringe right out of his grip. “Who was your last coach? It was Ce—?”

A clatter at the door had both of their heads whipping around to meet the scandalized eyes of the other bathers, clustered at the entryway, all of whom wore shocked expressions, as well as towels around their waists to protect their modesty.

And Victor had very little care or regard for modesty, but he realized that it may have seemed a bit, well— odd for he and Yuuri to be stretching in full view of the public, completely nude.

Yuuri shrieked and tumbled out of his grip, landing with a solid thump on his rear. He quickly scrambled to cross his legs and covered his blushing face with one hand, and if Victor weren’t so exasperated and just a little bit embarrassed himself, he would have soaked up every second of Yuuri looking so unbelievably enticing.

As it was, though, it only stood to make them look more guilty of something that was so far from the truth that it was almost laughable.

Victor crouched to pick up his towel from where it was folded on the ground and wrapped it around his waist. Then with a soft huff and comforting smile, he fetched one for Yuuri and held it out to him.

“Thanks,” Yuuri murmured, and Victor turned away to afford him just that small bit of privacy. He waited until he felt a gentle touch against his back: Yuuri’s fingers outstretched, his shoulders canted up defensively, and when Victor looked at him Yuuri quickly retracted his hand. “Let’s get dressed,” he muttered.

“Mm,” Victor agreed easily, and opened the door where the bathers had dispersed to let Yuuri lead the way toward the small locker area. “Your coach was Celestino, right?” Victor remembered him ushering Yuuri away from the lobby after his lacklustre free skate, remembered Celestino getting yelled at by Yuri Plisetsky who was more than a little drunk on stolen champagne. Yakov had him doing suicide sprints for two weeks for that particular stunt, and had given him a lecture on sportsmanlike conduct that the whole rink had quoted for a month after the fact.

Celestino Cialdini wasn’t a bad coach, but Victor could imagine how his particular hands-off brand might not push Yuuri to his fullest potential. Celestino was very aware of a skater’s self-imposed limits; it was Victor’s understanding that he rarely pushed them if they didn’t feel they were ready. For a skater like Victor, that may have even worked—Victor himself was often the one to suggest new skills and practiced them with or without Yakov’s approval.

But Yuuri needed more than a soft hand. He needed someone to help him break through his barriers; without that, he would never do it himself. Yuuri wouldn’t have skated Eros if Victor hadn’t been the one to assign the routine—and look how far Yuuri had come because of it!

Yuuri needed a coach who knew how to push. A coach like Yakov.

… a coach like Victor.

“Yeah,” Yuuri admitted quietly. He turned his back to Victor and fumbled with the dial of his locker.

Victor let his towel fall without a worry or a care and made quick work of dressing in the comfortable green jinbei. “You don’t sound happy.”

“I just… I left without saying goodbye to him.”

Victor turned to face him. Yuuri shuffled his feet, still damp and vulnerable and mostly nude aside from his black boxer-briefs, his towel slung around his neck. He ducked away from Victor’s gaze to sit on the dressing bench, his phone clutched in his white-knuckled hand.

“Why?” Maybe it wasn’t fair to ask, but Victor was curious.

“I let him down in Sochi. I let everyone down.” Yuuri drew in on himself, and even now as he was pulling away, Victor couldn’t help but realize how Yuuri exposing his bare back somehow still felt like trust. “So I finished my finals and I came home. I… didn’t even walk at graduation. It was going to be small anyway—winter session, you know—but I just… left.” Yuuri shivered out a breath and pressed his phone against his face. “I should have said something. I still feel bad about it. He’s probably so angry with me.”

Victor frowned, a soft sad thing, and felt a pang in his chest at the defeat in Yuuri’s voice—it had been so long since Victor had lost like Yuuri had. In a way, he couldn’t relate. But Yuuri was worth so much more than his victories or losses—didn’t he see that? Did he really think that people had given up on him because of Sochi?

(That Victor had given up on him because of it? Was that why Yuuri had never reached out?)

But while Celestino was many things (including a bit of a lush) he had never struck Victor as an angry person. Did Yuuri really think Celestino would be upset with him?

“You should call him,” Victor said decisively.

Yuuri nearly dropped his phone, fumbling between his fingers; he craned his head back over his shoulder, shell-shocked. “What? I can’t!”

Victor reached over his shoulder and plucked Yuuri’s phone from his fingers. The case was slightly damp, but the poodle-print pattern was charming. Victor smiled to himself as he turned it over in his hands. “You should. I bet he’d love to hear from you, especially if you left without saying anything. He’s probably been worried about you, Yuuri. Checking in may ease his mind.”

Victor could pinpoint the moment a lightbulb went on behind Yuuri’s eyes, because he held out his hand for his phone. Victor placed it in his palm.

“Do you think so?” Yuuri asked. The doubt was creeping back into his voice. Victor was quick to head it off.

“Definitely. Coaches are our closest things to parents when we’re away from home.Yakov yelled at me when I left him, but I know he still thinks about me—and Yakov is much more grumpy than Ciao Ciao.” Victor grinned to himself as he turned back to his locker. He gave Yuuri a moment to consider his words.

What he didn’t expect was the soft trill of a dial tone; Victor glanced back over his shoulder as he heard Celestino’s muffled but exuberant voice offering Yuuri an enthusiastic greeting.

Oh. That was unexpected. He’d thought Yuuri would have taken longer to mull it over, to worry about the possibility of being brushed off—not that Victor was unhappy in the least with the result. Maybe skating Eros had helped Yuuri become a little more bold, more decisive.

...it was a nice thought, anyway.

Victor smiled to himself as Yuuri greeted his former coach, his voice thick with nerves. Well, Victor wouldn’t let him stumble through the conversation alone. What Victor had done when he left Russia was big news in the skating community. It wasn’t like Celestino wouldn’t know he was there.

“Ciao ciao, Celestino!” Victor greeted cheerfully as he dropped onto the bench beside Yuuri. Yuuri shot him a surprised glance, then switched the phone over to speaker and offered it wordlessly. Victor took it with a smile that he hoped offered Yuuri some comfort in the knowledge he wasn’t alone. “It’s his coach, Victor.”

“So you’re playing at being a coach in Japan? Cut it out, already.”

Victor was taken aback at the unmistakably irritated tone. Yuuri’s eyes widened, expression stricken.

Victor felt heat rise in his cheeks, unbidden and embarrassed and a little bit angry. Playing at being a coach, he said. Like Victor’s years of experience in skating and choreography and five World Championship medals meant less than the gouges in his rink.

Like Victor had nothing to offer Yuuri.

Victor pursed his lips, subtly humiliated at being put on the spot when he had only wanted to be friendly. Well, it wouldn’t do to get upset about it, not when Yuuri was waiting, watching, listening.

“Hey, hey,” he started and made a quick bid to change the subject. “Why didn’t you let Yuuri choose his program music?”

Now it was Yuuri’s turn to react. He balked; the line of his shoulders went tense and he reached to take his phone back like he could pull Celestino’s reply away before it could reach Victor’s ears. He blushed, chin ducked, as Celestino laid the truth bare—

—Yuuri had brought him music, but only once. When he’d asked if Yuuri believed he could win with the piece he’d presented, Yuuri had buckled under the pressure of having his choice questioned. Celestino had ended up choosing Yuuri’s pieces after all, and Yuuri had never brought him anything ever again.

“Yuuri never had confidence in himself,” Celestino said over the line, but this time not unkindly. “I told him time and time again to trust himself more, but…”

(…Yuuri had brought Celestino music once? Why hadn’t he shared it? Why hadn’t he brought it up? Why had it taken Celestino Cialdino to bring to light something Yuuri had once wanted so much?)

Victor understood. Yuuri’s problem wasn’t a lack of skill, it was a lack of resolve.

Well, he aimed to change that—in his own way, on their own time.

“Okay,” Victor said. Message received. “Thanks.”

Why didn’t he bring me music? Does he not trust me?

“Um, Celestino!” Yuuri cut in quickly. He hesitated; cut a glance to Victor in the moment that his voice seemed to fail him. Victor offered a nod of encouragement, and Yuuri continued. “I’m going to redeem myself at the next Grand Prix Final.”

Confidence.

A dissonant warmth rose in Victor’s chest, and the harsh blow of Celestino’s earlier shot was softened. Hadn’t it been only yesterday that Yuuri had begged for Victor to watch him perform, even in a crowd of a thousand people? Of all the eyes there, Yuuri had decided that Victor mattered most.

It seemed that Yuuri had made that decision again. That together they would do what Yuuri couldn’t manage before.

But to hear him say it, and to say it out loud to his former coach, while he sat warm and close to Victor’s side…

“That’s what I wanted to hear you say at last year’s Grand Prix Final.”

There was an air of finality to it, resignation. Whatever had happened, Yuuri was home now, and Victor was with him.

Yuuri is mine now.

The severity of the thought surprised Victor—but it didn’t feel wrong.

As Yuuri’s shoulders slumped with relief, Victor took that thought and carefully tucked it away. Yuuri would only stay his so long as Victor could fulfill his promise; he had every intention of doing so. He’d make Yuuri the best he could be, even if it meant breaking the carefully-built walls Yuuri had cemented himself within.

And that started now with Victor’s own curiosity. He was a slave to it, after all.

“Yuuri.” He leaned in close, warmth and uncertainty at war in his stomach; selfish, wounded pride won out in the end. Yuuri was caught stock-still and tense under the weight of Victor’s heavy gaze. “Can I hear this music he mentioned?”

“Uh—”

Victor pushed further, voice pitched low and probing between them. Had Yuuri been sitting on this music all this time and just not felt secure enough to share it? What good was being Yuuri’s so-called coach if Yuuri didn’t even trust him? “Why didn’t you tell me? I’m your coach, aren’t I?”

“Right.” Yuuri’s eyes were downcast, his hands balled into fists on his knees. “Sorry.”

“I’ve decided…” Victor murmured, and reached up to push Yuuri’s bangs out of his face. Yuuri’s eyes shot up to meet his, and Victor took that moment to swipe his phone out of Yuuri’s hand. He scrolled through the apps as Yuuri made a shocked sound of protest, but ignored the photo gallery and private messages completely—that wasn’t what he was after. Instead he searched out the music app and opened it, but was immediately buried in a flood of music that was, of course, titled and organized entirely in Japanese. Unreadable. Nothing he could navigate. No secrets he could parse out on his own without Yuuri’s explicit acceptance and assistance.

He huffed, and shot Yuuri a sidelong glance; Yuuri, who had been frantically looking over his shoulder, realized what Victor had been searching for and sighed.

Victor sat up; their shoulders touched. Side by side on the bench, Victor obligingly pressed the lock button and handed Yuuri’s phone back, defeated.

Yuuri let the silence linger as Victor’s thoughts raced. But then—

“You’ve decided…?” Yuuri prompted quietly.

Right. Well, there was nothing to it, now. Yuuri would either decide to trust him and share, or he wouldn’t. But Victor’s decision was unchanged.

“You’re going to pick your free skate music. Whether it’s the one your friend wrote or something else—you’re going to choose it. So I want you to bring me something that you think will win. Okay?” Victor’s hands flattened on his thighs; he exhaled through the strange, bitter feelings at still not knowing so much about Yuuri, still feeling like such a stranger to this person he’d flown across the world for. How come every time it felt like he was getting closer to Yuuri, it was like he’d looked up to realize that Yuuri was further and further away?

The onsen was quiet; most of the other bathers had filtered out and gone to bed, and they were the only two remaining in the dressing room. Yuuri’s presence was tangible beside him, a weight that Victor no more wanted to fall into than he wanted to beg for. How long would it be until Yuuri finally came to him? How much longer would he have to keep chasing him down?

Well—Yuuri didn’t reach, but he leaned. His shoulder bumped Victor’s, and the hand that was clutched around his phone, resting on his own leg, brushed over the backs of Victor’s knuckles in the process.

It felt like a reach, though. Just a little bit of one, but it was enough to calm the storm of uncertainty and bitterness that churned in Victor’s gut.

“Okay,” Yuuri replied, and that was that.

“I still want to hear the music you played for Celestino.”

“I… okay.” Yuuri swallowed, audible to both of them.

The moment stretched. Victor waited.

“I don’t have it now,” Yuuri admitted after another moment of silence. “It was… “ He sighed. “I’ll bring it to practice tomorrow. I’ll have to download it again. I didn’t keep the file on my phone.”

Victor turned his head just slightly, his eyes resting heavily on the place that Yuuri’s hand touched his. He could feel Yuuri turn to look, too—but no matter what Yuuri thought or didn’t think, he was glad for the contact.

He was always glad to touch Yuuri, really. “Why?”

“It’s complicated,” Yuuri said softly. Victor fought the urge to reach out with pinky and hook it around Yuuri’s. It was a near thing. “When you hear it, I think you’ll know. I can’t explain it in English.”

Difference. Distance. Everything between them felt like another hurdle to overcome. Victor’s own English faltered sometimes, too—words he’d never had to use before, sentiments best conveyed in his mother tongue. Even just talking to Yuuri stretched his own capabilities. But if Yuuri and all his experience with the language couldn’t find the things he wanted to say, they would have to find another way to understand each other.

The two languages they were both fluent in: music and skating.

(He wanted to hold Yuuri’s hand. But that was not a dialect he was proficient in—not yet.)

Victor nodded. “Okay. Tomorrow, then.”

It sounded like agreement, so why were neither of them moving?

Finally, Yuuri did. He climbed to his feet and turned; his cheeks and chest were flushed as he leaned forward and set his phone on the bench where he’d been sitting, screen-up. “I should get dressed,” Yuuri mumbled; his downcast eyes left his lashes fluttering against his cheeks, so simple and beautiful Victor had a hard time looking away.

“I’ll wait,” Victor said.

“Ah… you don’t have to.” Yuuri laughed, and that pink tone deepened, brightened, as he rubbed at the back of his neck. “If you’re tired, you can go.”

Victor smiled, small and helpless to Yuuri’s unique charm. “I’ll stay. Unless you want me to go.”

Yuuri huffed; he rounded the bench and Victor took care not to turn, not to keep his eyes so heavily on Yuuri, to give him some privacy as he dressed. “I think it’s weirder putting clothes on in front of you than it was getting undressed.”

Victor reacted, couldn’t not as he looked over his shoulder in shock.

Yuuri froze when his own words hit his ears, and his hands fumbled where he’d been pulling on his sweatpants. They fell down his thighs just a little before Yuuri scrabbled for them, yanked them up over his hips. He ducked his head, hackles raised as the color spread across his back and shoulders. “That’s not what I meant. Oh my god that’s not what I meant.”

Victor grinned—then he laughed. He had to. “Yuuri!”

Exasperated; charmed; mortified. All things lost in translation, all things that brought him closer to Yuuri.

“It feels more personal!” Yuuri rushed to explain as he yanked his shirt over his head; wide collar, too large, sleeves loose around his elbows. Victor’s. And it seemed Yuuri realized that at the same moment Victor did, because his arms crossed defensively over his chest like he wasn’t wearing clothes at all. “I forgot to give it back—I didn’t realize—I just— stop laughing.”

“I can’t, Yuuri, you’re so—” cute “—funny.” Victor curled his fist over his mouth. His cheeks ached with the force of his smile. “I don’t mind if you wear my clothes. I’m living in your home and your parents won’t even let me pay for my room. What’s mine is yours.”

“That’s so—” Yuuri’s expression was long-suffering in a way that Victor couldn’t quite define. Tortured in a way that maybe he had no context for, like Victor was the one who didn’t understand something of critical importance. Yuuri ducked his chin and huffed, then glanced at Victor through his lashes in a way that had absolutely no right being as damn beautiful as it was.

Victor wasn’t laughing anymore.

“You shouldn’t. Let me wear your things, I mean.”

Victor tilted his head. Well, he didn’t see a problem with it. “Why not?”

Yuuri scoffed; he darted forward to grab his phone, then scooted for the exit. Victor was hot on his heels. Yuuri wasn’t going to outrun him on this one.

“People in town would talk!” Yuuri replied as he headed down the hall and toward the restaurant portion of the inn. He added something else in a stream of words under his breath that Victor didn’t catch. He wasn’t sure if it was because Yuuri was speaking Japanese or because of the sound of their footsteps bare against the floor.

“Why? I live with you. Things happen.”

This was clearly not the right thing to say; Yuuri sped up, his steps more purposeful in his need for escape. Luckily, Victor was taller, and his longer legs were the epitome of evolutionary success.

“You’re coaching me, it’s different.”

“How?”

Yuuri froze in the lobby and rounded on him. There was still a visible stain of embarrassment on his face. “Are you always like this?”

Victor wasn’t being deliberately obtuse. He knew what Yuuri meant—he just didn’t see why it mattered. Victor didn’t mind who got what kind of ideas about them. All roads led to the same destination, as far as he was concerned.

But… Yuuri was wonderful. The best thing that had happened to Victor in a long time, the most exciting, the most fun. And Yuuri wasn’t dating anyone, so there was no one to get upset about the time they spent together. No one that mattered, anyway.

Unless—

“Yuuri, you don’t have a lover, do you?”

“What?! Victor, where did that—I don’t—I’ve never—”

Victor blinked. His hands twitched at his sides, eyes wide. Hope and confusion and sheer incomprehension warred for prevalence in his thoughts, rolled into one.

How could Yuuri have never had a lover? Months ago, he might have theorized that Yuuri wasn’t the type, but now that Victor knew him, he knew Yuuri wasn’t the type to go around breaking hearts for the fun of it. At least… not often.

And Yuuri had lots of good qualities! He was smart and he’d gone to school abroad, he was a talented athlete, and he was clearly likeable. Despite his nerves, Yuuri was such a positive person. Giving. Gracious with his family. Hard working.

He couldn’t imagine someone like Yuuri not having a history.

Is that why he struggled so much with Eros? Oh, Yuuri—

“Really? Never?”

Yuuri’s breath shuddered from his body. His shoulders bunched around his ears with tension. His heel made a solid thud against the floor as Yuuri fidgeted with nervous energy.

Victor expected a short confession, maybe an irate dismissal.

He didn’t expect Yuuri to grit out the word “No” between his teeth before he turned tail and fled. Yuuri’s footsteps thundered up the stairs, on the second story above Victor’s head, until Victor heard the distant slam of Yuuri’s bedroom door.

Victor stood in the lobby, shocked and alone, until Mari ducked her head out of the kitchen. “Was that Yuuri again? What happened?”

Victor turned his eyes on her, still awash with confusion and concern. Sure, they all said Yuuri was just like this and not to take it personally, but how the hell was Victor supposed to keep brushing these things off? “I asked him if he’d had a lover.”

“Oh.” Mari huffed through her nose and responded with a tight shake of her head, pitying and amused and irritated all in equal measures. “Idiot. Of course there’s never been anyone.”

Now he was even more confused. And annoyed. How could she say that with such casual certainty, like Victor was the one missing something obvious? “I didn’t mean to upset him. How could I have known that?”

“How could you not know that?” Mari’s look was skeptical, disbelieving, but ultimately settled on something akin to Yakov’s favorite expression, one that said all the coaching fees in the world would not be enough for this. Same song, different verse. “He’s been chasing you his whole life. When would he have time for anything else? He skates like he breathes.”

Oh. Well… that Victor could understand. If Yuuri had been focused on his figure skating career, of course it make sense that he hadn’t had time for serious relationships.

Victor himself hadn’t dated anyone in quite a long time, and never anyone seriously, never anyone that he’d liked beyond casual conversation; a few dinner dates, and short-lived hookups when he’d been younger. Nothing recently, of course. No one that caught and held his attention, not until Yuuri.

Career. Career he could understand.

Victor frowned, then he slowly nodded. “That makes sense.”

Mari stared at him balefully, suspiciously. “Does it?”

“Yuuri practices a lot. Some athletes take their training very seriously.” Ah, of course. Yuuri was probably asked to go out and decided to value his ice time more. It wasn’t the strangest thing Victor had heard of; Yuuri was very dedicated. “He chose not to date while he was competing. That’s sensible.”

Mari stared at Victor like he had left a rockfish aflame on the grill and didn’t know the wrong side of a fire extinguisher. “Right.”

Victor tipped his head to the side. Well, now he definitely didn’t understand, because her words said correct but her expression said wrong.

Mari muttered something under her breath and knocked her fist twice against the doorway. “Just go to bed, Victor. Try not to hurt yourself on the way there.”

And Mari disappeared back into the kitchen for late-night breakfast prep, leaving Victor standing alone in the lobby, trying to understand this strange and unique language that only the Katsuki family spoke and what the hell he was missing when they used it.

Chapter Text

It seemed Yuuri’s solution to the discomfort from the night before was to pretend it hadn’t happened.

That was the only thing Victor could think of when Yuuri resolutely greeted him the next morning, shot him an even, searching expression, and carried on with his routine. Victor hadn’t been planning to bring it up, though Yuuri’s reaction would have quelled any thought of it even if he had.

Okay. So that’s how it was going to be.

It seemed the best way to deal with Yuuri’s anxiety was just… not to mention it.

Which all throughout their silent morning jog was killing Victor, naturally. He wanted to talk about things. How could they continue on if Yuuri never confided in him, didn’t feel comfortable with him? They needed to jump this hurdle, otherwise they might never be able to work through the distance between them.

They were going to have to learn to trust each other. It went both ways.

And as Victor took his skates from Yuuri’s locker at Ice Castle and tied them onto his feet, he thought he had offered quite a lot of trust already.

Yuuri stayed behind to buff his blades, caught in a casual conversation with Yuuko; Victor took that time to get onto the ice, freshly resurfaced, and skate some laps to temper his frustration while waking up his heavy limbs. Yuuri still hadn’t shared that program music with him, though he’d promised he would do it today; Victor planned on holding him to it once warm-ups were complete.

Whatever Yuuri thought of the song itself, he’d asked someone to compose it for him, hadn’t he? That meant he had a thought in mind when he’d made his request—a theme, a dream, anything. Victor desperately wanted to know what kind of ideas had been stuck in Yuuri’s brain when he asked someone to compose him the song, as well as what kind of results it had yielded.

If Yuuri wouldn’t share his feelings in words, Victor would just have to pick apart the details from his skating.

It was the most exhausting way of getting to know someone that he’d ever had to deal with—

—but thus far, it had been the most satisfying.

Victor turned as Yuuri finally entered the rink and stepped onto the ice. Both met at the center, dressed and ready for practice.

“Did you finish stretching?”

“Yeah. I should be fine.” Yuuri stretched his arms above his head and yawned. “What are we working on first?”

Victor smiled against his better judgement and reached out to pluck Yuuri’s glasses off his nose. Yuuri’s eyes crossed slightly, but he flushed a little when he realized he’d left them on. Victor huffed out a breath of laughter and folded them over his own shirt collar. “Let’s ease into your jumps this morning. I want your quad Salchow to be consistent by the time competition comes around, but we can start light. Let’s focus today on the things you can land. We need to build your self confidence.”

Yuuri shrugged and nodded in sheepish agreement. “I land most of my triples, usually.”

Victor nodded. “Then we’ll use triples to start. Come on, then. You can show me that music at lunch.”

Yuuri ducked his head and nodded again, clearly reluctant. Before Victor could natter him into opening up a conversation, Yuuri was skidding away and into casual, looping spins that, while not up to ISF standards, were truly rather beautiful. Victor sighed and followed after him, once again allowing Yuuri to set the pace—of their practice, of everything.

Practicing with Yuuri was easier when Victor had a clear goal in mind: in this case, assessing Yuuri’s jumps when the pressure of competition wasn’t bearing down on him. It helped, to a degree—though Yuuri kept shooting him panicked glances on every wobble and fumble like he was expecting to be chastised. Victor frowned thoughtfully at that; Yuuri seemed to be unusually focused on Victor’s personal opinion, more than he seemed to worry about Yuuko. Didn’t Yuuri know that he expected to see improvement, and their time together was only just beginning?

They had weeks, months to go, yet. So many bridges to cross, hurdles to jump together.

Victor was careful not to criticize more harshly than he needed, and given his firm suggestions rather than anything outright disparaging, Yuuri seemed to gain confidence. He warmed up with the passing of the morning, until his toe loops and axels had solid landings, until there was a sheen of sweat on his brow and he had peeled out of his sport jacket. Victor lost his train of thought at that; it took Yuuri’s perplexed glance for Victor to shake himself back to attention and give Yuuri directions all over again.

He couldn’t help the way his eyes lingered at the exerted flush on Yuuri’s cheeks and the sweat-damp discoloration at the collar of his shirt.

When the time for their lunch break finally came, it was almost a blessing.

And without the need to pester Yuuri and remind him of his promise, Yuuri had unwrapped his earbuds from his phone and was patiently, anxiously waiting. It was the distraction Victor needed as he handed Yuuri’s glasses back and put the headphones in his ears to carefully listen.

And the music…

Well, it wasn’t bad. The piano was gentle, lilting—the melody itself was pretty, but altogether lacklustre. It had good bones, but the overall sound was… inexperienced, perhaps? It felt young , uncertain. Nothing like he wanted Yuuri to be as he aimed for his best year yet, his most beautiful choreography, his strongest season.

Yuuri was right. Victor could hear exactly what he’d been talking about the night before. There wasn’t a real word for it, but Victor could hear it all the same.

“Oh, I see, so this it what it sounds like,” Victor said, and tried not to sound quite as underwhelmed as he felt. He was mindful of Yuuri’s nervous fidgeting and tried to tone down his dismissal. Yuuri deserved better than this empty song—he could choose better than this, Victor was sure of it. “...You should think of other possibilities.”

Yuuri’s crestfallen expression was more resigned than surprised.

Victor pulled the earbuds out and looped them carefully in his hands, considering Yuuri’s defeated little nod of assent. “Yuuri.”

He looked up through the gleam of his lenses, and Victor could see an unnecessary, unasked-for apology before Yuuri had even finished thinking the words.

He headed him off. “Do you think you could win with this music?”

Yuuri paused. He blinked slowly. “I—I don’t know.”

Victor held out Yuuri’s phone to him, then placed it screen-up in his palm. Yuuri’s fingers closed around the loop of his earbud cord before it could unravel between their fingers; his fingers brushed Victor’s in the process, but he didn’t flinch away.

Victor nodded once. “What did I say last night?”

Yuuri’s eyes caught on their hands and he frowned. “To bring you music I thought would win.”

With a wry huff, Victor pulled away. He wished he didn’t have to, but there were more important matters to be dealt with. “That’s right. I want you to be confident in your choice. Think of what you just said to me. Are you confident in this?”

Yuuri met his eyes, and Victor knew he understood. “No, I’m not.”

“Okay, then. Keep looking. When you find music that moves you, you’ll move the audience. You’ll move the judges. No one can do that but you. Love your program. Love what you do. Your love is the strongest thing you can bring to the ice.”

Victor tried at an encouraging smile, but the twist of his lips felt utterly insincere. There was a bitter taste at the back of his tongue.

He was a hypocrite.

How long had it been since he’d brought love to the ice? To his program? How long had it been since he’d been excited about the performance he’d put forth?

But even so, he knew he wasn’t wrong—that in the days he’d truly loved being out there on the ice, he had had the time of his life with every skate, every time.

No matter how long ago that had been.

There was a slight furrow between Yuuri’s brows, a tiny wrinkle of consternation that, in combination with his frown, pushed his glasses up his cheeks. It didn’t speak of outright disagreement, but rather consideration as he mulled over Victor’s words.

(Victor wanted to smooth out that wrinkle with the tip of his finger.)

“Just think about it,” he said instead, and tucked his hands into his pockets. “You’re hungry, right? You’ve been working hard all morning. Let’s get some food.”

It wasn’t an immediate solution, but it was an immediate distraction. Their break for lunch was mostly filled with ambient chatter, discussion of jumps and spins, details that Victor had picked up in watching Yuuri practice. But Yuuri seemed distant, not quite present in their conversation, so Victor let it die out into comfortable, contemplative silence.

Whatever Yuuri was thinking about, hopefully it would lead to something incredible.

He could be patient.

...but as it turned out, Victor was not a patient person.

(It was a critical failing of his, he knew.)

The days rushed by in a haze of practice and physical conditioning, and Yuuri hadn’t brought him anything new. Victor was growing impatient, and he could tell Yuuri himself was getting frustrated. He spent most nights holed up in his bedroom, and Victor could hear the faint sounds of different songs played through his laptop speakers as they filtered down the hallway—

—he’d left his door open every evening for the last two weeks, hoping that Yuuri would find something, or at least open up enough to share his thoughts, ask for Victor’s advice. No such luck.

Whatever process Yuuri was going through, he seemed determined to weather it alone.

Victor’s thoughts were traitorous on those nights, and he buried his face and his fingers into Makkachin’s fur. Why am I here? whispered the cruelty of his doubts. If he doesn’t want my help and he doesn’t want me, why am I here?

More than once he had curled up into a fitful sleep, itching with hope and despair, caught between what seemed to be a fatal one-sided attraction and the knowledge that, despite this, his worries were in his mind.

Yuuri wanted him here, didn’t he? Victor just had to give him more time.

He just had to wait this out.

But as the sunny days morphed into a wet, humid season and two weeks turned into three, Victor realized that Yuuri wasn’t going to come out of this on his own. He had to give more of a nudge.

In the midst of one of their practices, Victor called Yuuri to a halt. Victor himself was bundled on the sidelines, comfortably leaning against the boards as he watched Yuuri sweep through the Eros routine yet again. His jumps were getting stronger, that much was certain. Yuuri had come a long way since Victor had arrived in April, but between his physical conditioning and the Onsen On Ice competition, as well as Yuuri’s indecisions, they were now well into June.

Choreographing a whole free skate program—well, that took time. Time that was slowly but surely slipping away.

“Where are you with choosing your music, Yuuri?” Victor asked.

Yuuri doubled over, clinging to the rink wall as he desperately tried to catch his breath. It was an attestment to his effort that even in his improved physical condition he was able to exhaust himself as much as he did.

Victor had never met anyone as dedicated to practice as Yuuri.

“Not yet,” Yuuri panted. “Nothing is… nothing is right. I’m trying.”

“What? You still haven’t chosen the music?” Victor tapped his fingers against the boards and pursed his lips. If Yuuri wasn’t any further along in his decision, then the last few weeks were just wasted time.

(Victor’s bitter loneliness notwithstanding.)

Maybe that was what pushed his mouth before his brain, and left him trying to catch up when he said, “Why can’t you trust your own decisions? Just try to remember something, like when a partner loved you.”

Yuuri’s head shot up. His lip curled in an expression unlike anything Victor had ever seen from him, exhaustion and irritation swirling together in a bitter expression as he snapped, “What?!”

Victor froze. Yuuri went stock-still.

The mortification that took over his face was swift and unrelenting. Yuuri grew defensive, deferential, apologetic, humiliated in the time it took Victor to process that Yuuri had actually yelled at him.

Yuuri couldn’t stop moving his hands, shaking his head, stuttering through his apologies. “S-sorry —it’s just that right now—I—”

“Oh, right.” The words felt strange, flat. “You’ve never had a lover.”

Yuuri ducked his head with a quiet shudder of breath. His shoulders hunched around his ears, a terrible defensive posture like Victor had attacked him personally. The tips of his ears were red, and though his chin was nearly tucked to his chest, Victor was sure he could see Yuuri’s lower lip quivering.

Oh, damn it.

Of course Yuuri never had a lover.

(He still wouldn’t even take Victor.)

Victor forced cheerfulness—he knew that if he tried to reach out now, Yuuri would only withdraw again. Best not to call him out on his vulnerability. Victor plastered on his best media smile, his only rebuttal against the coldness in his gut, one part guilt and one part pettiness.

“Just keep at it, Yuuri. I’m sure you’ll come up with something.” It pained him to be so upbeat when all he wanted to do was scream. Not at Yuuri, no—but maybe into a pillow, into the night. What more could he possibly do, what more signals could he possibly give? Would he have to lay it out before Yuuri in words to make him see?

He’d never met anyone like Yuuri in his whole damn life.

But once again, Yuuri pulled away. He didn’t acknowledge Victor’s generous concession of his feelings as he turned and sprinted back into the ice without Victor’s say-so. Yuuri threw himself into his practice with something akin to violence.

It didn’t work.

Yuuri spent the rest of the morning falling, stumbling, drifting on his spins. He was far from focused, and by the time Victor took pity on them both and called for the end of their practice, Yuuri was shooting back into the locker area without waiting for Victor to catch up.

The caught expression he gave Victor once he reached the locker room was telling—Yuuri was already wearing his backpack and just steps from the door.

He’d meant to leave without Victor.

“Yuuri, let’s go somewhere today!” Victor offered with false cheer, ignoring the sour taste at the back of his tongue.

Yuuri turned away. “No, that’s okay.”

No, no, no.

But Yuuri was gone and Victor was alone.

That sour taste, Victor realized, was what rejection felt like.

He’d never known that feeling before he’d known Yuuri.

If Victor thought Yuuri was avoiding him before, what he was doing now was nothing short of neglect.

Victor had barely caught so much as a glimpse of Yuuri for the rest of the day. Every offer to interact, every chance he gave to spend time and reconcile fell flat. Yuuri ignored his suggestion of spending time together that evening, dodged around their shared evening bath in the onsen, and by the time Victor shouted after him to suggest they sleep in the same room, all he got was the door slammed in his face.

When Yuuri didn’t show up to practice the next morning, Victor decided he’d had enough.

The walk from the Ice Castle back to Yutopia was slow, dredged in Victor’s self pity. He’d done everything he could to fit in here, hadn’t he? He was getting along well with Mari and Minako. He liked Yuuri’s parents more than he’d ever expected to like anyone’s parents.

Until recently, he’d thought everything was going just as well with Yuuri. Clearly, though, Victor had let Yuuri edge around this for too long, and now they were reaching a critical crossroads that would make or break them as coach and skater.

And also as… whatever they were.

Whatever Yuuri needed, Victor was sure he could be it. He just needed a sign, needed some sort of indication of what Yuuri wanted. Victor was determined not to fail as his coach. As long as Yuuri had the same dedication, they would find a way through. He needed to know that Yuuri still wanted this.

But if Yuuri didn’t…

Like it or not, now was the time.

They needed to talk, and Victor would not take no for an answer.

It was good that he had taken the walk to clear his head. By the time he nudged Yuuri out of his room, he looked as worn-down as Victor felt.

Something about it gentled the anger in Victor’s chest, softened the irritation and resentment.

He’d never wanted to resent Yuuri.

Maybe this conversation was exactly what they needed.

They dressed casually, for once forgoing their usual training attire. Today wasn’t about cardio or endurance, this was about them. It was about their comfort with each other and facing down the barriers that remained.

The gulls called loudly overhead as Yuuri directed them down toward the water, away from Yutopia and his family’s prying eyes. They found a quiet spot off a side street where the only sound was the waves and the birds. The sand was still wet halfway up the beach, damp from the tide going out just a few hours before.

They found a place at the edge of the concrete pavilion, a peaceful little spot. Yuuri turned to Victor with hesitation in his eyes, ever unsure.

Victor sat. With little hesitation, Makkachin settled at his side.

Now was the last chance for Yuuri to leave, if he really wanted to.

But as Victor hoped he would, Yuuri finally lowered himself to his knees, then settled on the curb and wrapped his arms around his legs. Withdrawn, even still, but present. There.

Victor looped one arm over Makkachin, feeling the rise and fall of his breath between his shoulder blades. Makkachin quiet panting blended into the strange symphony of sounds that Victor was coming to know as Hasetsu.

He looked up and took a breath, unsure of where exactly to start.

“Oh,” he said as a wave of gulls swept over the cove. “Seagulls.”

“Black-tailed gulls,” Yuuri added softly.

Victor fought the urge to close his eyes, to get lost in a time and a memory. Instead he opened his mouth and let it spill out instead. “Ever since I came here, I’m reminded of St. Petersburg when I hear the gulls in the morning. I never thought I’d leave that city, so I never used to notice the sound.”

Out in the bay, a small fishing boat crested a small series of waves, inbound from its early-morning haul. The sun was still rising through the clouds, and the light filtered through the humid sea air, chalky gray. The scent of the ocean was strong with the right breeze, sweeping the air along the beach from the distant docks.

It was the reality of a small coastal life.

St. Petersburg had been busier, more harsh than Hasetsu had ever felt. Even so, there were times when its memory hung heavily over Victor’s head, a history he couldn’t quite escape no matter how far he ran.

He was here now, though, and the last thing he wanted was to leave.

“Do you ever have times like that, Yuuri?”

Victor thought the question was open-ended enough that Yuuri could start anywhere. But with a breath and a slight furrow in his brows, Yuuri tightened his arms around himself and started to talk.

He told Victor about Detroit. He told Victor about the girl who’d pursued him and his inability to be vulnerable in a time of stress, how he’d shoved her away rather than let her get close. It was a story from a time long gone, but Victor could hear the truth that lingered underneath—Yuuri was once again under stress, and this time, Victor had been the insistent presence that Yuuri pushed away.

“But then I realized that Minako-sensei, Nishigori, Yuuko-chan, and my family never treated me like a weakling.” Yuuri leaned his face into his legs, his voice so soft that it was half-carried away by the breeze. Victor didn’t dare to move, dare to breathe if it meant he couldn’t hear. He waited patiently against the thudding of his heart for Yuuri to continue. “They all had faith that I’d keep growing as a person, and they never stepped over the line.”

So which am I? Victor wanted to ask. Which do you want me to be?

“Yuuri, you’re not weak,” Victor replied quietly. He smiled a little at the thought. No; Yuuri, while indecisive and anxious, was anything but weak. He was dedicated, brave—there was a strength in his heart that would put many to shame, and Victor couldn’t fully imagine the thought of anyone seeing Yuuri as someone weak.

He cast a quick, sidelong glance at Yuuri. Did Yuuri think he was weak?

No, Victor decided. It wasn’t so simple. Yuuri clearly had his own doubts, but if he’d truly believed he was weak, Victor would have been dragged home to Russia by Yurio weeks ago.

But Yuuri had won and Victor was here. Victor was still here, despite it all.

“No one else thinks that, either,” Victor added.

Victor sighed a little and pet his fingers through Makkachin’s fur. Even still, even with this, there was still something nagging at him. Something he needed to ask. Direction he needed , if only Yuuri would point him in the right direction.

“What do you want me to be to you?” Victor asked, and carefully kept his eyes away from Yuuri, stuck out on the water. His heart beat quickly in his chest, and it took every year of training to keep his voice level and even like a television interview. This was so much more than that. Yuuri was so much more than that. “A father figure?”

Yuuri’s voice was tired, even. “No.”

“A brother, then? A friend?” Yuuri’s vague, dissenting mumble had Victor’s heart in his throat. “Oh, so your boyfriend, I guess. I’ll try my best—”  

Yuuri jolted beside him hard, an abortive little gesture that rocked Victor even though they weren’t touching.

“No no nonono!”

Victor felt a flash of hurt as Yuuri scrambled to his feet, only to realize as he looked up that finally, for once—

—Yuuri wasn’t running away.

His cheeks were stained red in the morning light, and his hands were shaking and balled into fists, but Yuuri was steady. His eyes were bright behind his glasses, shining with conviction, and he met Victor’s gaze head-on. “I want you to stay who you are, Victor!”

Victor blinked. His lips parted.

“I’ve always looked up to you,” Yuuri continued with his wide eyes and soft expression, and when he finally looked away, it didn’t feel like avoidance. Just embarrassment—human, soft, Yuuri. “I ignored you because I didn’t want you to see my shortcomings. I’ll make it up to you with my skating.”

I want you to stay who you are.

Who he was? Who Victor was—he was… pushy. Petty. Picky. Exactly the kind of person that Yuuri had pushed away in the past, and he would likely push Victor away again, but—

I want you to stay who you are.

—but Yuuri wanted him anyway.

Yuuri wanted him anyway.

“Okay,” he replied. “I won’t let you off easy, then.” Victor’s heart was still in his throat as he held out his hand, as much an offer as it was a plea.

And Yuuri reached back.

Their hands locked as he pulled Victor to his feet, but neither of them let go. Victor was in no hurry for it as he glanced at their twined fingers. The wind off the ocean was warm, humid; it broke apart the clouds above them, and sunlight glittered off the distant waves. It was the promise of a beautiful morning, a beautiful season yet to come.

“That’s my way of showing my love,” Victor added, and prayed he sounded more confident than he felt.

Yuuri glanced up, hesitant, vulnerable. But what he saw, whatever he saw in Victor’s face made him huff out a short breath with an upward quirk of his lips.

It wasn’t… it wasn’t everything. But it was something, and something more than they’d ever had.

Yuuri squeezed his hand, and with a thrill in his heart, Victor squeezed back.

“Let’s go back,” Victor suggested with a smile as they finally drifted apart.

“Actually, I…” Yuuri huffed again with an embarrassed, awkward little smile. “I know we’re not in work out clothes, and I don’t want to jog in jeans. But since the tide’s low, it’s about a kilometer to the end of the beach and back, if… if you want to take Makkachin for a walk with me.”

Victor blinked. Then he matched Yuuri’s smile with his own and toed off his shoes in the sand. Yuuri laughed as Victor peeled out of his socks and tucked them into his sneakers. They put both pairs side by side on the curb. Victor grinned at the feeling of the sand squidging between his toes; Yuuri cuffed his jeans up around his calves.

“Makkamakka,” Yuuri said as he crouched low, and Makkachin sprang up to his feet. His tail thumped against Victor’s leg, butt wiggling in the air with his excitement. “Wanna go for a walk, Makka? Makkamakka?”

Makkachin wuffed, vibrating with excitement as Yuuri darted forward to ruffle his ears with a goofy smile of his own. When Yuuri faked a lunge and skittered his fingers down Makkachin’s fluffy sides, Makkachin took off, sprinting toward the water.

Yuuri laughed and trotted after him, only turning back when he was halfway toward the surf. Victor realized he was frozen, staring.

I want you to stay who you are , Yuuri had said.

And Victor was suddenly sure that who he was, whoever he was, was absolutely crazy about Yuuri—the Yuuri who skated like a storm, the Yuuri who unapologetically loved junk food, the Yuuri who wasn’t afraid to look stupid while playing with Victor’s dog.

“Well?” Yuuri asked breathlessly, like all the tension of earlier paled in comparison to his need to walk with a dog on a beach.

“I’m right behind you,” Victor answered, and jogged after them.

And he was.

There was no easy way to explain why things changed, but they did.

They spent they day in each other’s company, and though they barely made it in for an hour of late afternoon practice on the ice, Victor felt confident that both their morale had significantly improved. Yuuri spent time that evening on Victor’s couch for a little while, listening to different pieces that Victor played on his laptop, but ultimately disregarding each one. Even so, there was no undercurrent of frustration anymore, just… companionship.

And when Victor crawled off the bed and flopped down on the couch beside Yuuri with a book and decided that was enough work for one night, Yuuri didn’t stutter or flinch. He looked contemplative yet again, but in a new sort of way—a glimmer in his eyes that Victor couldn’t quite attest to his bedroom’s (admittedly superior) lighting.

Yuuri eventually excused himself to his bedroom, but when he did, Victor didn’t have the sense of being abandoned the way he had before.

He felt lighter. Hopeful. That night brought Victor the best sleep he’d gotten in weeks, even though Makkachin had snuck off to Yuuri’s room at some point in the evening. Victor awoke early with the certainty that Yuuri wasn’t going to skip out on him again and readied himself for a hard day of practice.

What he got in response was admittedly more than he expected.

Yuuri telling him that his acquaintance was going to redo the music was a pleasant surprise. Clearly there was something in the melody that had stuck with Yuuri; it was the strongest emotional response Victor had seen from him yet by far. And if that was what he wanted, Victor would be glad to hear the result.

But Yuuri asking Victor to teach him all of his jumps—

He’d never realized what an absolute monster Yuuri was on the ice.

He’d known, of course, that Yuuri was singular in his determination. After the weeks of training, of course he’d known that Yuuri had higher than average stamina. But it was only after the thirteenth quad salchow that Victor realized that while he could happily be ready for cool-down stretches, Yuuri seemed nowhere near done.

Victor braced himself on the boards and made a show of scraping the ice off his blades, a gentle plea for a quick break that Yuuri seemed patient enough to give. “I’ve thought this for a while, but you have pretty good stamina,” Victor said as he regulated his breathing.

“Yeah, I have that, at least,” Yuuri admitted easily.

Victor doubled over—oh, his back ached and his knees were starting to get sore. Was he really so out of practice? Maybe he was just starting to get old… for skating, at least. “You said you get hungry when you’re nervous in competition, too. You haven’t suffered any major injuries, and you’re younger than I am—”

He stopped short when he felt one damp, rink-cold finger against the crown of his head—the tip of Yuuri’s glove against his scalp.

Unbidden, the image of Yakov as he’d been when Victor was young flashed through his mind—thinning hair that eventually led to a bald crown. Victor almost whined at the thought. He wasn’t even thirty yet!

“Sorry!” Yuuri cut in, frantic and apologetic and just a touch amused. “I couldn’t help it!”

“Is it getting that thin?” Victor asked reluctantly, wounded.

“ Noooo, no, no! Everything’s okay!” Yuuri frantically shook his head, but Victor could hear the undercurrent of laughter beneath the alarm.

He sank to the ice with the thought of his former coach in his mind, and the mental image of himself bald by thirty-five. “I’m hurt,” Victor whined into the ice, cold against his cheek. “I can’t recover from this!”

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” Yuuri replied as he sank down on his knees. Victor could tell he was making some frantic (and honestly entertaining) gesture, but the spark of wounded pride was a little too much without adequate grovelling. “Please get up, I promise your hair is fine!”

“So mean, Yuuri,” Victor wheedled. The cold felt nice against his tired muscles; Yuuri could beg for a few moments longer, he’d take this as far as he could. Victor’s lips curled into a private, hidden smile that Yuuri couldn’t quite see beneath the tilt of his head and the flop of his bangs.

Pride stung as it was, Victor did know that his hair, being fine and pale, had the effect of appearing thin when it fell in unflattering shapes. It hadn’t seemed so bad when it was longer—in some ways, Victor almost missed his longer locks. But this short cut was easy to maintain and didn’t take nearly the same maintenance that his long hair had. He saved a fortune in unnecessary hair care products alone.

“Please, Victor,” Yuuri begged and tapped at Victor’s outstretched arm, splayed across the ice. “Your hair is beautiful. Get up, please, please.”

Victor opened his eyes and tipped his head toward Yuuri on the ice. He levelled him with his best pout, but the thrill of Yuuri’s words brought a wry smile to his face and a glint to his eyes. “You think my hair is beautiful, Yuuri?”

Caught, Yuuri went still. “I—um—”

Victor’s smile widened, and he turned to prop his chin up on his own shoulder. “We can keep going if you say it again, Yuuuu– ri.”

Yuuri hesitated, but only for a moment. “Your hair is beautiful,” he said quietly. His cheeks tinged pink from the cold of the rink, bright and beautiful in the afternoon light that cut through the windows. Soft as he said it, Yuuri didn’t look away; his head tilted to the side, carefully considering. “…I’ve always thought that.”

Victor blinked slowly. He hadn’t expected such a genuine answer. Touched, and a little flustered himself, he opened his mouth to reply, but—

“Now get up!” Yuuri insisted, and patted his shoulder impatiently. “Before your muscles seize up. One more jump.”

“Ganbatte, Victor!” Yuuko called cheerfully from the sidelines.

Oh, Victor hadn’t realized they had an audience. “Yuuri is so mean, Yuuko!” Victor called back cheerfully, just to hear Yuuri’s indignant squawk of protest.

“Whatever he said, he didn’t mean it!” Yuuko replied with a smile as she leaned against the rink wall. “Yuuri is your biggest fan.”

“Yuuko!”

“Whaaat?”

“It’s true!” Nishigori chimed in as he ambled past his wife and planted a quick kiss to the top of her head.

“You’re both traitors.”

“I like Yuuri’s friends.” Victor climbed to his feet with a smile that died a swift death to a series of muffled pops and pained winces. “Aaaah—”

“I tried to warn you,” Yuuri replied with a sniff, and put his hands on his hips. “Let’s keep going. I want to try to salchow a few more times.”

“A few? Wow.”

Victor spent the evening as a massive ball of sore muscles and bruised feet.

After their practice, he and Yuuri had limped back to Yutopia and straight into the baths, grumbling and groaning and soaking away their soreness. They pushed each other through stretches that their muscles were too strained to manage on their own. Victor felt blisters coming on in places he didn’t even think he could get blisters anymore.

He and Yuuri only managed to get into their underwear before they collapsed on the benches in the changing room, eager to get the pressure off their aching legs. They commiserated and compared wrapping techniques as Victor tediously applied layers of liquid bandage to his open cuts, strips of moleskin tape to his newly-formed blisters, then bag balm on his cracked heels. He applied a generous portion of Icy Hot to his calves, then swathed from his feet to his knees in cyan pre-wrap.

“You must be in worse shape than me,” Victor said with a sympathetic smile. “You’ve been doing this every day. Doesn’t your body hurt?”

“The jumps are new,” Yuuri replied, biting back his winces as he brushed the liquid bandage over the backs of his toes, red and raw. Though his body was beautiful, Victor had a hard time paying attention to anything else but the evidence of Yuuri’s pain. “I’ve been careful to stretch every night like Minako taught me, so it hasn’t been too bad, but—ooh, aah! Haa!”

Yuuri doubled over his untouched leg, which had been twisted underneath the bench. He abruptly attempted to straighten it out, but he hissed through his teeth as the muscle bulged out against the skin of his calf in an agonizing cramp.

Yuuri whined under his breath, his fingers working in futile motions, too overcome to make much headway himself as he bit back a pained cry.

Victor leaned over and scooped one arm under Yuuri’s ankle to lift his leg carefully across his own lap. Victor winced in sympathy, but dug his thumbs into Yuuri’s tense calf without mercy as Yuuri let out a short yowl of pain.

“I know, I know,” Victor soothed, rubbing deep, unrelenting circles into the knot. “Breathe, Yuuri. Breathe.”

Yuuri’s battered toes curled in, straining in the only way his body could, an instinctive reaction against the pain it had caused itself from their athletic abuse. Victor looped his arm around Yuuri’s leg to reach the other side, pushing firmly on the pressure points.

Yuuri’s head fell back, his teeth pulling at his lip, his brow furrowed in pain. He snarled out a word in Japanese that could only be a curse.

And then, as abruptly as it had come on, the tension in Yuuri’s spine faded and he collapsed backward onto the bench. He let out a shaky, pained groan that was too traumatized to be sexy. Victor continued his careful massage anyway; cramps were quick to come and go, but it wasn’t uncommon to get several in a row if one wasn’t careful.

“Better?” He asked, working down further toward Yuuri’s ankle.

“Yeah,” Yuuri mumbled to the ceiling. Slowly, carefully, he lifted his head, then winced as he pushed himself back upright. His leg flexed under Victor’s hands, but Victor carried on all the same. “I haven’t had a cramp that bad since college.”

“You pushed yourself too hard,” Victor admonished gently. His fingers worked in rhythmic motions that were somehow soothing, despite being the one to administer. “You’re drinking a bottle of water before you go to bed tonight. Coach’s orders.”

Yuuri made an unintelligible, exhausted sound that Victor chose to interpret as agreement.

There were still blisters and cuts that he could see that Yuuri hadn’t tended to yet; Victor frowned and reached with one hand toward the bottle of liquid bandage. At the first careful swipe over a raw-looking spot on the outside of his arch, Yuuri’s foot twitched.

“Oh, what are you—I can do that,” Yuuri said, squinting and drooping and so obviously exhausted that Victor couldn’t not help, couldn’t not take care of him in this simple, easy way.

“I don’t mind if you don’t,” Victor murmured quietly.

Yuuri swayed a little. Then, obviously thinking better of it, he kicked his other leg up onto the bench, leaving his leg outstretched in Victor’s lap. “I guess it’ll go faster this way,” he said, and Victor took the concession for what it was.

Any injuries he found, he administered first aid; anywhere Yuuri winced when he touched, Victor was careful to work around. The oblong sore spot on his ankle got a strip of moleskin; the sore at the base of his big toe got neosporin, non-stick gauze, and medical tape. Then, like himself, he rubbed Icy Hot into Yuuri’s shins and calves and carefully wrapped them until they both looked more like hockey players than figure skaters.

Yuuri sat up and swung his legs over either side of the bench, his feet flat on the floor. He swayed forward under the heavy press of fatigue, but he offered an appreciative smile.

Unwilling to stand just yet, Victor leaned over to snag their shirts from the open locker with the tips of his fingers. He handed Yuuri’s over and tugged his own over his head. Victor imagined he probably looked like an idiot in his white vee-neck and his black briefs and bright blue pre-wrap from the knees down, but he didn’t particularly care. What mattered was that his legs felt better, his back was somewhat appeased from the long, hot soak, and Yuuri looked considerably relieved even as he struggled to pull his shirt down over his glasses.

Victor snorted softly as he stood, then went to rinse his hands off in the nearby vanity sink before the Icy Hot rendered his hands a burning, tingly mess. By the time he turned back to Yuuri, he was sprawled out and turning onto his side, his head pillowed on his arm with his glasses crushed against his face.

“Yuuri,” Victor said with a quiet laugh. When he got no response, he gave Yuuri’s shoulder a gentle nudge. “Yuuuuri. Come on, bedtime.”

Yuuri offered a disagreeable rumble, but climbed to his feet all the same. “I’ll be up for a few more hours. I just wanted to…” He covered his mouth in a truly enormous yawn. “...shut my eyes for a second.”

“A few more hours, right,” Victor agreed with a quiet chuckle. “You’re falling asleep.”

“I’m a night owl,” Yuuri argued, and rubbed his eyes. His glasses butted up against his forehead with the press of his fists. Yuuri wandered around Victor toward the door on auto-pilot.

Victor smothered his laughter. “Yuuri, you’re forgetting something.”

Yuuri turned and squinted in his direction. “Hmm?” But he immediately looked more awake when Victor held up his shorts. “Oh. Right. Those.”

Once fully dressed, they made their way upstairs on shaky legs, shoulders bumping comfortably as they went. Yuuri still seemed half-asleep as he wandered down the hallway, bumping into the wall just outside Victor’s door as he swayed.

Victor stopped him with a hand on his arm. “If you stay up, don’t forget to take off the pre-wrap before you sleep and wipe down your legs, okay?”

“Mm,” Yuuri agreed mildly. “Do you think we could get away with going easy tomorrow?”

Victor laughed a little. “I don’t see why not. You’re coming along nicely on Eros, and without the free skate music, I think we can afford some down time.”

“I’m sorry I haven’t chosen yet.” It was the most awake Yuuri had sounded all evening. He sighed and shuffled, turning a wry, self-deprecating smile on Victor. “It’s hard for me to be confident with a choice like this. I want to make sure I choose right.”

“You’ll know when you do,” Victor replied with a small, private smile. “When you hear it, it’ll be like falling in love.”

Yuuri blinked slowly, soft and sleepy and open. Victor was sure it was his exhaustion that spurred him to say, “I don’t know what that’s like.”

Victor lingered at his doorway in the dark, the only light filtering up from downstairs and through the hall windows. The shapes of Yuuri’s face were thrown in sharp contrast from the moonlight, his hair mussed and glasses crooked.

Beautiful Yuuri, even with his foam-wrapped legs and old, worn gym shorts.

“You’ll know,” Victor said gently, and wasn’t sure whether he was talking about the music or love or both. “You’ll just know.”

“You believe that?” Yuuri asked, unsure but hopeful.

“I have to.” Too honest, too raw. Probably too soon.

But before Yuuri could ask what that meant, Makkachin came trotting up the stairs behind them and wound his way around Victor’s legs and into his room. Victor laughed.  “I guess it’s time for bed. Goodnight, Yuuri.”

“Goodnight, Victor.”

Victor slipped into his room and gently closed the shutter door, then sat on the end of his bed and lay back with his legs dangling from the end. He extended them fully; just a few moments more and he’d unwrap them, but he didn’t want to get ointment in his sheets.

Had it only been a few weeks ago that Yurio had barged in and interrupted he and Yuuri talking before the competition? It felt like months ago, a distant memory—but a fond memory all the same.

Victor reached an arm back behind him to pat Makkachin absently, the heat of his dog’s flank comforting and familiar as he shuffled and leaned into Victor’s touch with a quiet groan. Victor smiled to himself; Makkachin was probably as tired as they were after his romp on the beach the day before. Like it or not, Makkachin was old, and though he had a lot of energy on any given day, he was getting quite a bit more exercise than he’d ever gotten in St. Petersburg.

With a sigh, Victor stretched both arms above his head in the dark and just… rested. It was nice to have a moment of quiet, even as a faint sliver of light shone through the shoji door—oh, so Yuuri was awake and working after all. Victor hoped he went to bed soon; even if they were going to take it easy tomorrow, Yuuri needed his rest.

After a time when his legs stopped feeling quite so tingly, Victor unwrapped them and tossed the foam wrap into the bin beside his bed. He wiped his legs down with the edge of a towel waiting on his chair and made a vague note to himself to put it in the laundry hamper tomorrow… and to hope that Icy Hot didn’t stain. He supposed he would be answering to Mari if it did.

Victor stripped out of his shirt and shorts and crawled into bed, comfortable enough in his privacy here to sleep as he liked, especially if tomorrow was going to be a late morning. He’d be up early to walk Makkachin, of course. He slipped beneath the covers with a satisfied breath and tucked himself in, content.

It had been a good day. A sore-muscles kind of day, an exhausting day, but a good one.

Victor settled in to sleep with Makkachin against his side, and despite the ache in his back, he thought this is what happiness feels like.

What he didn’t expect was the rude awakening just an hour later by the scraaape of his door, the thunder of footsteps, and a rushed, elated, “Victor, listen!”

And Makkachin’s pained yelp when Yuuri launched himself onto the bed and squarely onto his tail.

Yuuri dropped his laptop heavily onto Victor, whose breath was knocked out of him at the impact. Yuuri flattened himself to the bed beside Makkachin with rushed, frantic apologies and gentle pats. “Oh, sorry!” Yuuri said as Makkachin nursed his tail and lapped at Yuuri’s hand in forgiveness.

What? Victor winced as he turned on his lights, then straightened the laptop and squinted at the screen, but only saw a haze of Japanese that he couldn’t understand the significance of—certainly not for Yuuri to wake him up in the middle of the night.

But Yuuri turned his bright, fierce, bare eyes on Victor and said, “The music for the free program is done.”

And then he leaned over and put his earbuds into Victor’s ears, and Victor’s eyes drifted closed (exhausted, desperate to sleep) and listened.

He could hear the melody immediately, those same familiar bones in the lone piano. It wasn’t dissimilar from the way the old piece sounded, though the arpeggios were pleasing and harmonic.

Soothing, in a word. Music like a river, clean and clear.

But nothing to be woken up for in the middle of the night, until—

One high, sustained note… and then it grew.

Deeper, drifting, sweeping. That river became a tide, and the tide became the ocean. Already Victor could tell this was something new, that this iteration of the original melody was something much improved over the last. He could see movement in the melody, see a story.

He could see Yuuri skating to this, but then—

Oh.

Oh.

So this was why Yuuri had woken him up in the middle of the night.

As the drums and the violin fell into the song, the whole tone of the piece changed. Beautiful, hopeful, powerful . Snare and vibrant staccato piano, brilliant color. The piano remained in the forefront with its incredible melody, but the build, the strength —

It was Yuuri.

It was perfect.

Victor shot upright to Yuuri’s waiting, pleading, hopeful stare. He nodded yes, yes, that’s it.

And Yuuri lit up.

Victor pulled the earphones out, breathless, elated. “You just got this?”

“Just now,” Yuuri answered, practically vibrating in his skin. “You like it?”

Victor leaned forward, sheets falling around his body. Drowsy but thrilled, he reached out to grab Yuuri’s hand without too much thought and beamed. “Yuuri, it’s perfect. She did such a great job. It’s a whole new piece. What did you ask her for?”

Yuuri looked down at his hand held in Victor’s, then up at Victor’s face. Whether it was because he was tired and this was unexpected or because he was still feeling the high of the music, Victor couldn’t bring himself to worry for Yuuri’s sake. He squeezed Yuuri’s fingers in his own, and for the second time in as many days, Yuuri squeezed back.

“I asked her to write…” Yuuri trailed off into a hushed, considering quiet. He hesitated and he flushed, but he met Victor’s eyes head-on as he swallowed, bold and sure without his glasses. “Before, I asked her to write about my skating career. But—this time I asked her to write about you.”

“Me?” Victor asked, a little slow, a little dumb. He stared at the back of the laptop and tried to process that a song so beautiful could come about because Yuuri had asked her to write about him.

“Meeting you,” Yuuri clarified quietly. “And you coming here. And everything that’s happened since then, because of you.”

“Because… of me?” Victor was still having trouble processing. But there was a feeling, deep and strange and powerful, something like hope and happiness wrapped up in the aches of his body, but— “Yuuri, the whole reason I’m here is because of you.”

Victor didn’t know if it was the right thing to say. Yuuri’s blush was pink and pretty, bashful, but he didn’t pull away. He didn’t quite acknowledge it either, that Yuuri had asked him here in the first place. Victor didn’t come all this way for a stranger, he came here for Yuuri.

“Then it’s about both of us,” Yuuri replied decisively. “And how we got here, and how I feel, and—” Yuuri’s voice broke. He looked up hopefully. “You like it, though?”

And how I feel.

“I love it,” Victor said.

I think I love you.

And Yuuri looked… pleased. “I’m glad,” he said softly, and tightened his grip on Victor’s hand. “I’m so glad.” Yuuri turned the laptop and put his free hand on the lid, sighing softly. “I want to skate this.”

“You’re going to.”

“No, I mean… now.” Yuuri laughed, sharp and bright. “I want to go to Ice Castle. I want to skate, Victor. Didn’t you—I mean—you heard it.”

“I did,” Victor answered. He looked at Yuuri, long and even, at the energy that crackled beneath his skin, the fierce emotion in his face. “You want to skate now?”

Yuuri’s determination was somehow more raw when he didn’t have his glasses to temper the auburn shine of his eyes. “Wouldn’t you?”

It had been years, years, but, “Yes,” Victor answered. His eyes dropped to Yuuri’s bare legs and bandaged feet. “But…”

“I know.” Yuuri laughed again and sat back on his haunches, their hands stretched between them; clearly Yuuri had no intention of letting go, and that suited Victor just fine. “But when I hear this song, I can’t stay still.”

And Yuuri—he didn’t always talk much. He didn’t always say what he meant. Victor had learned to interpret Yuuri’s intentions with his motions on the ice, but this… was the second most beautiful set of words Victor had ever heard him say.

And Victor couldn’t bear to waste that sentiment.

“You have keys?” Victor asked quietly.

Yuuri’s mouth dropped open in surprise. “You’re not going to stop me?”

“Stop you? I’m coming with you,” Victor replied, and reached forward to close the lid of Yuuri’s laptop. He snatched his phone and speaker off his bedside table in one hand and set them on top. “As your coach, it would be irresponsible to let you train alone,” Victor added. “So wear your thickest socks to protect your feet, okay?”

Yuuri stared at him. His eyes flickered down and up again, and he swallowed.

Victor fought every urge he knew not to kiss him.

If he kissed Yuuri now, there was no way they would make it out of this room to skate at two in the morning… for better or for worse. So the moment stretched and Yuuri licked his lips and Victor prayed to every god he could think of and then some.

“Okay. Okay.” Yuuri huffed out a laugh and finally, wretchedly let go of Victor’s hand. He scooped up the laptop and speaker and even Victor’s phone in his arms. “I’ll get my backpack. Meet me downstairs in five minutes.”

And then he was gone, vanished around the corner and Victor could still hear him moving. He patted Makkachin between the ears as he climbed out of bed, bone-weary and aching for sleep, but he’d be damned if he left Yuuri alone, if he missed this.

He could sleep tomorrow… well, later today.

Victor pulled on the closest pair of sweatpants he could find on the floor and didn’t even bother with a shirt as he pulled his hooded sweatshirt over his head. It was summer after all, and even the rink wouldn’t feel cold once he started moving. Victor carefully rolled his thickest socks onto his feet, mindful of his fresh bandages, and turned off his lights.

Makkachin lay resting on the middle of the bed, and as Victor would have liked some sleep himself, he decided to let him stay.

Victor tiptoed carefully down the hallway and stairs on slippered feet and met Yuuri in the entryway. He quickly stepped into his shoes despite his aching feet, and once they were outside, Victor swung his leg over Mari’s faithful bicycle. “Sit, I’ll drive,” Victor said.

There were no worried complaints about Yuuri’s weight this time as he clambered into the seat, and no hesitance in his hands as they settled at Victor’s waist. There was only the music buzzing in the back of their minds and the jingle of keys in Yuuri’s pocket as they rode the short distance from Yutopia to Ice Castle in the dark.

Victor had never realized how used to the gulls’ cries he had become until they weren’t there. The clicking of Mari’s bike gears and the roar of the ocean surf were the only sounds as they crossed the usually-busy bridge. It was strangely intimate with Yuuri like this; all the barriers of the day, of propriety and public opinion and their own worries had been removed. Now there was only this chemistry. An attraction, a set of feelings barely touched on and young, a fledgling thing testing its wings in the hopes of someday taking flight.

And there they were beneath an impossibly starry sky, two figures in the moonlight stuck on a song. Victor had never realized until that moment how truly alike they were—how improbable it was to chase a boy across the world and in the process find someone who woke him up in the middle of the night because he needed to dance on the ice.

A kindred spirit, a reflected soul. Two categorically impossible people who had a love of foolhardy and inadvisable things, all for the love of their craft.

With midnight come and gone, 2 AM found Yuuri on the ice playing his song from a portable cell phone speaker, the sound of a distant piano filling the empty rink in a way that felt like a prophecy of something greater. Victor liked to imagine he could already hear the power of this music on the PA system, of five or ten or twenty thousand people hearing it in a stadium, on their televisions as they witnessed Yuuri’s love.

It wasn’t a routine; there was no proper choreography, even.

But Yuuri danced with an emotion so incredible and poignant and joyous that Victor couldn’t look away. It was far from perfect, and less than half of it ISF sanctioned, but that didn’t matter. The rules didn’t matter on a night like this, to people like Victor and Yuuri.

What mattered was the bliss in Yuuri’s face as the music washed over him, the cut of his skates, the curl of his body. What mattered was Yuuri skating it again and again, different each time and having not a care in the world for it.

It was a once in a lifetime opportunity. Come tomorrow, a week from now, a month from now, this song would become a routine and the freedom would be gone. For now, though, as Victor leaned against the boards and watched, it was something new to both of them.

So he let himself enjoy it.

Because six months ago, Victor met someone who changed his world. He met a man that crashed into him and changed his life in a whirlwind, who had swept in and out without a single call. Four months later, Yuuri had called him in a siren’s song without words, and Victor had come running.

And here he was at two in the morning with his heart in his throat, the realization hitting him once more that this was the song Yuuri had someone write about him.

The song that pulled Yuuri out of bed, across town, into the rink on bleeding feet. The song he wanted to show to the world.

For Victor.

“And how we got here,” Victor whispered as he watched Yuuri jump and land again, the exaltation on his face and the shine in his eyes as he looked for Victor’s rapt approval, once and always freely given. “And how I feel.”

Chapter Text

Yuuri choosing his music was only the beginning.

From there, the days washed away in a flurry of movement, of arm positions, of scribbling in notebooks and plotting out jumps on paper. Victor called elements out of his mind that Yuuri had skated that night at the rink—and though his short-term memory wasn’t always reliable, his visual memory was strong. He could recall the elegant shapes Yuuri had made with his arms, the precise cut of Yuuri’s free leg, and he wove it all together.

Within a week, they had something that was starting to look like decent framework for a program.

They made a new daily routine. Skating in the morning, then a break for lunch. Conditioning in the early afternoon, and if the rink was available, caught a second practice slot later. Cool down consisted of their jog back to Yutopia, stretching by the onsen, and oftentimes a bath. They would bandage their battle wounds in the locker room, tearing through rolls of tape and pre-wrap and disinfectant, then catch a late dinner. Evenings were for relaxing, whether that meant watching television or reading in each other’s company, and Yuuri would retire to his own room about an hour before bed to have some quiet moments alone.

It was the most time Victor had ever spent with another person in his whole life.

And he didn’t seem to be getting bored.

Every moment spent with Yuuri was enjoyable. Even the times when neither of them particularly wanted company, it was always somehow nice to know that Yuuri was right down the hall. Conversation was easy with Yuuri, even though Victor had a long history of being distractible. Nothing about his relationship with Yuuri made sense in the context of his own personal history, but it didn’t seem to matter. Yuuri was there and Victor was enthralled by him.

Yuuri practiced unlike anyone Victor had ever met. He worked himself to damn near the bone, threw himself into every jump, and fell like someone who wasn’t afraid to do so (but had quite a lot of experience). Even still, Yuuri maintained a good mood most of the time—he seemed not to take Victor’s corrections personally, but with the sense of exasperated practicality that only someone who was used to being told their weaknesses could manage. When Victor asked him about it one afternoon, Yuuri huffed out a laugh as he stretched his arms above his head and said Minako-sensei.

The daily routine with Yuuri wasn’t easy. It kept them both on their toes, at peak form, always thinking ahead, keeping Victor sharp and aware.

And yet… life with Yuuri was easy.

So very easy that Victor had been caught up in choreography and practice and Yuuri’s overall theme had slipped his mind. But now that most of the components had been ironed out, Victor realized that despite listening to the music and offering his interpretations, he had no idea where Yuuri was coming from with his inspiration for this season at all.

He was here to be Yuuri’s coach, after all.

Sometimes he enjoyed spending time with Yuuri so much that he forgot.

“If you want more impact, maybe the last jump can be a quadruple toe loop?” Victor trailed off, tapping the tip of his mechanical pencil against his notepad, the clean paper indented with scribbles from his adjustments and second-thoughts on the pages prior.

Yuuri was a warm weight at his side, the both of them leaning against the boards, skates tied and blade guards on as they prepared for the morning’s session. Yuuri leaned in closer to look like he hadn’t heard Victor’s words, and it wasn’t until his eyes caught the page that he asked, “Eh? For the last one?”

“Mm, with your stamina I think you can pull it off.” A private smile turned up the corners of Victor’s lips as he turned his head, Yuuri close and personal. “You’d rather not?”

Yuuri pursed his lips, a stubborn glint in his eyes as he swiftly replied, “I’ll do it!”

Conviction looked good on him, Victor thought, his smile persisting as he handed off the notebook. “Okay,” he replied casually, as if he hadn’t subtly needled Yuuri into it in the first place. He turned away to shrug out of his jacket, making ready to get on the ice when his earlier thoughts caught up with him. “Oh, right. Yuuri, did you change the musical theme?”

As quickly as it had come, that strength and fire in Yuuri’s eyes died down to embers. The flush that spread over his cheeks and the bridge of his nose was as enticing as it was precious, even as Yuuri shyly ducked his head. “Oh. Um…”

Well, that was interesting. “What is it?”

Victor watched the subtle roll of Yuuri’s throat as he swallowed, then the subtle twitch as he clenched his jaw, mind made up. He looked up to meet Victor’s eyes. “The theme is On My Love.”

The silence was significant, as was the telling blush Yuuri was bravely suffering through. He had to admire Yuuri’s decisiveness, even as Victor’s heart slowly crept its way up his throat.

Eros was self-explanatory. Playful, sensual, it was an awakening on ice that would snare the audience and the judges with his swift, bold movements and sure steps.

And the new song…

The season’s theme was only a metaphor, but Yuuri was dancing to something… new. Something better. Something tentative and wonderful, wrapped up and generalized in three words that weren’t quite right, but meant almost the same thing.

Victor could hear his own heartbeat when the smile stole over his face. One way or another, this season’s theme would stick with him long after it was done. “That’s the best theme,” he admitted softly. “Perfect.”

Yuuri lit up, visibly relieved and pleased.

“Okay, let’s finish this!” Victor said, energized and motivated and bubbly. If he didn’t know better, he’d say there was lightning in the air, inspiration dancing around the two of them, just waiting to be seized—and he would, Victor decided. For Yuuri, he would. He would reach out and snag every idea, every spark of genius he had ever been lauded for and shape it, make it new.

For Yuuri.

In the midst of their constant practice came the Grand Prix assignments, as well as the knowledge that Yuuri would have to compete in a regional championship first to make sure he qualified. The idea was laughable to Victor when Yuuri finally broke through Minako and Yuuko’s rushed, excited Japanese to explain it to him in English—he’d failed so spectacularly the year before that the JSF wanted to make sure he could still hold up to foreign competition.

“They thought I was injured, at first,” Yuuri confessed later that night, tucked into the corner cushion of Victor’s couch. After many adjustments and complaints as the ice pack fell off the blistered tops of his feet, Victor had finally convinced him to forgo the ottoman and kick his legs up over Victor’s lap.

Victor glanced up in surprise at that, his fingers stiff from the chill of the cold compress he diligently held against the red and raw places atop Yuuri’s toes. “Were you?”

Yuuri shook his head. His expression was tight, conflicted—he hadn’t looked so uncertain around Victor for days, now. Maybe he’d been a fool to think they’d moved past that, but—

“My dog died,” Yuuri admitted quietly, eyes downcast. “I found out right before my Free Skate at… at Sochi.”

Oh.

What Mari had told him weeks ago somehow felt different when it came from Yuuri himself. Yuuri leaned his face against the couch cushions, half-turned away, hiding in plain sight. “Nationals was only two weeks later, and I… I wasn’t over it yet. I didn’t even come to visit. After Tokyo I went back to America. I graduated with the winter semester and tried to keep skating, but I couldn’t focus. Then I came home.”

Yuuri wouldn’t look at him. With his free hand, Victor reached out to touch Yuuri’s knee, a soft sweep of fingers that rolled toward the outer edge of his thigh. Simple. Easy. Undemanding, or so he hoped, and hoped again that his fingers weren’t too cold.

“I can’t imagine,” Victor said softly. Even now he couldn’t imagine a life without Makkachin and felt the tight squeeze of dread in his belly. But soon he would have to, because Makkachin was old, and—

—now wasn’t the time. Victor took a deep breath and let it out slowly, and closed his eyes to think of something else.

And then Yuuri’s hand found his, fingers trailing over the backs of Victor’s knuckles. “I hope you never have to.” Yuuri shifted, his legs uncrossing and switching positions to get more comfortable. Victor opened his eyes to adjust the ice pack accordingly, and when he looked up, Yuuri had a bright, albeit slightly forced smile. “After all, we both know Makkachin is going to live forever. He’s the best boy.”

Victor’s heart lept to his throat. “The very best,” he agreed emphatically. They exchanged shaky smiles. Then, seeking comfort and just a little emboldened, Victor turned his hand over so Yuuri’s fingers met his palm, then clasped them together. He squeezed once, not too hard—an acknowledgement, a silent thanks. “You looked focused in that video, you know.”

“Oh—” Yuuri laughed once, surprised, and turned his face back into the couch for another reason entirely. “I already told you I didn’t know about it. I…”  He laughed again, sharp and embarrassed. “Axel took that video and uploaded it to Yuuko’s Youtube account that she used to promote Ice Castle. I didn’t even find out until the next day.”

“You said you grew up learning to skate from copying me,” Victor said. The thought still floored him, so strange and flattering and… to think that he could be the kind of person who inspired others with the surprises he’d cultivated. To think that his hard work had paid off and he’d never even known it, all in the form of a little boy who lived thousands of miles away.

“Old habits die hard, I guess,” Yuuri answered, voice muffled by the cushions. He peeked out, glasses crushed against his face, a little bashful. Smiling too, though. “I learn well from watching, and I must’ve watched your routine a hundred times.”

Yuuri groaned like it pained him to admit, but the words hit Victor like a punch to the gut. “Really?”

Yuuri blinked. He pulled his face away from the couch and looked a little affronted. “Of course. You’re the best skater of our generation. I learned so much from watching you. No one else moves like you do. No one else choreographed their own routines. You didn’t just tell stories, you created them.”

Yuuri leaned forward slightly, jaw set, eyes alight with conviction. Victor stared back, caught in the riptide, swiftly swept away.

“There was so much I wanted to learn from you, but there wasn’t any way to ask because I lived so far away. So I practiced really hard and I studied really hard because…” Yuuri finally flushed, pulling his hand away at long last to cover his face with both. The words pressed out between his fingers; perfectly fluent English that, Victor was starting to realize, was because of this. Because of him . “I wanted to be able to talk to you someday.”

Yuuri went quiet. Victor sat back, stunned.

And then Yuuri mumbled, “I can’t believe I just told you that.”

It took a few moments for Victor’s emotions to catch up with his brain. But when they did they were powerful, brilliant, strong. He surged forward, knees tucked under his body as he sat up and reached out to grab Yuuri by the shoulders, pulling him into a hug. Yuuri yelped as he pitched forward, and without either of them being properly balanced, they both fell back against the couch.

Victor knocked his face on Yuuri’s shoulder. The cold compress tumbled to the floor, and Victor’s phone fell out of his pocket to clatter down after it.

He didn’t care.

Then Yuuri hissed as his blistered feet were jostled, and Victor pulled back, stricken. “My god, did I hurt you? Yuuri, I’m sorry—”

Yuuri hardly looked comfortable, his head craned at an odd angle, his glasses askew. His eyes were wide behind his lenses, shocked more than anything else. He stared back at Victor and then—

—he started to laugh.

Uncontrollably, breathlessly, until his glasses fell off his face. Victor sat back on his heels in confused, concerned silence, not quite sure where to put his hands, still partially kneeling on Yuuri’s legs. He shuffled and readjusted and stared and stared and stared, even as Yuuri carelessly scrubbed a hand over his eyes to press the hysterical tears away.

Victor hadn’t felt this embarrassed in a long time.

“You’re—you’re—” Yuuri sucked in a breath and burst out in laughter again. Victor swallowed, uncertain. “You’re just like Makkachin!”

Oh, but Yuuri was worth it.

Against his better judgement, Victor started to smile. Relief was cold and clear, refreshing and Victor finally breathed a little easier as he held out his hands for Yuuri to take, and Yuuri did. Victor pulled him up carefully so Yuuri could grab one of the spare pillows and jam it behind his back, still breathing unevenly and giggling every so often. He pulled his glasses out of his lap and put them back on, ducking his chin and hiding his grin behind a hand.

“Sorry,” Victor said sheepishly. “I didn’t hurt you?”

Yuuri shook his head, that amused little smile still hidden away, even though it shone in his eyes. “You don’t know your own size, do you?”

“I don’t usually have to worry about it,” Victor admitted. He shuffled back as Yuuri pulled his legs closer to his body, then leaned over the side of the couch to snag the ice pack with the tips of his fingers, his phone somewhere forgotten. Victor pressed his lips together tightly on a smile and held out the cold pack to Yuuri. “Sorry.”

“They were getting too cold anyway,” Yuuri said, and placed the pack on the L-shaped peninsula of the sofa. He turned his eyes back to Victor, curious, questioning.

And though he hadn’t done such a thing in years, Victor fidgeted . “That was really nice,” he said quietly, his eyes wandering away. He swallowed. “What you said. I…”

Yuuri sat up much like Victor, his knees tucked under his body, sitting back carefully on his battered feet. He set his hands on his knees and tipped his head to the side, wearing a small, genuine smile. “It’s okay. When I told you to just be Victor, I meant that. You just surprised me, that’s all.”

Yuuri’s acceptance was as warm as it was encouraging. Victor wasn’t usually one to worry, but with Yuuri, he didn’t want to cross a line. He didn’t want to push too much. And if his impulses had gotten the better of him—

—he hadn’t felt impulses like this for a long time, either.

He felt like a teenager, being around Yuuri. Always wanting to be close. Always wanting to touch. It had been so long, so long, but that was no excuse. He shouldn’t have—

Yuuri stood on his knees and leaned forward to wrap his arms around Victor’s shoulders. Slow. Gentle.

The frames of Yuuri’s glasses pressed against the side of Victor’s face, and Yuuri murmured, “I’m so glad you’re here.”

Victor’s breath left him in a shuddery sigh as he leaned heavily into Yuuri’s touch, his hands coming to grip at the back of Yuuri’s shirt. He was much more careful this time when his face met Yuuri’s shoulder, and Victor inhaled the scent of bar soap and damp hair and Icy Hot that stubbornly clung to Yuuri’s exhausted body, the clean linen fragrance of the detergent that Hiroko favored for all the Onsen’s laundry.

Yuuri smelled like home.

Victor closed his eyes. “Me too.”

Yuuri’s hands were not quite still; his thumb drifted idly up and down the nape of Victor’s neck to the soft fuzz of his undercut. It was a gesture so nurturing that Yuuri couldn’t have learned it from anyone but his mother and her good-natured kindness, his sister and her gruff affection.

Yuuri held him like family, touched him like family. Like someone who cared.

Victor’s eyes prickled with the bitter sting of tears.

“I’m sorry,” Yuuri said quietly. Before Victor could bite back the lump in his throat and ask why, Yuuri continued. “You came all the way here and you’ve been away from your friends and family. I’ve been thinking about how, um… touchy you are, because that’s not really normal here. But it’s been weeks, hasn’t it? Since anyone hugged you but Makkachin.”

Months, Victor’s mind whispered traitorously. The last person who touched me like this was you.

And really, that did nothing to help, especially when Yuuri’s hand cupped the back of his neck and guided Victor’s face to his neck, wrapped his arms around Victor so tightly and securely that Victor felt loved. His breath caught in his throat, and he narrowly avoided choking out a sob.

No, no. He had to be strong. He had to be Victor Nikiforov, World Champion—a picture perfect public figure.

I want you to stay who you are.

Well, who he was… he was…

Who the hell was he?

Untouchable, perfect, distant, never making a wrong move, coordinating every public appearance, every sponsorship, creating himself—

—Victor had never gotten to be himself. He wasn’t even sure who that was.

Victor nosed at Yuuri’s pulse point, taking his fill of all the warmth Yuuri offered, and wrapped himself around Yuuri’s body for as long as Yuuri would let him. If touch was a need, Victor was starving and had been for years, long before Yuuri had come into his life.

Thank god for Yuuri.

Victor hadn’t had time to attend church since he was a child, wasn’t particularly religious, but really, what other explanation did he have? To find Yuuri and lose him and find him again, it had to be some sort of miracle, even if this was the most of Yuuri he ever got to have.

If this is all I get, it’s more than I’ve ever had.

Yuuri said something that Victor missed, maybe just his name, but pet over Victor’s hair with his fingertips once more. The sensation made him shiver, raised goosebumps on his arms and back. Victor was clinging, he knew, but he couldn’t force himself to stop.

The feeling of Yuuri’s chin settling atop Victor’s head was just enough.

“Victor, if you need a hug, all you have to do is ask,” Yuuri said softly. He sounded hesitant, softly surprised, like he couldn’t even believe he’d said the words—and Victor could hardly believe he’d heard them. “Ask for what you need. Isn’t that what you told me?”

“Yuuri.” Victor was conflicted, probably too attached, not sure what this meant or how to approach, or… or anything. But he knew that he… needed this.

Yeah. He did. He needed this.

“I used to go weeks without anyone touching me,” Yuuri admitted to the top of Victor’s head. “Especially when I was stressed. I never even knew it bothered me, but Phichit’s family back in Thailand was really close and affectionate. And sometimes he asked for hugs. It took me more than a year to realize that asking me for them was his way of giving them to me.”

Yuuri sounded so fond, so put upon and put out in a way that only a close friend could accomplish. Victor knew that feeling only from his many years of being Chris’ good friend, long distance though they were. But his words brought to light one crucial, crushing realization that slipped from Victor’s mouth before he could think better of it. “I don’t know how to ask.”

Yuuri’s arms tightened around him. The next thing Victor felt was the loss of Yuuri’s chin atop his head, the soft pull backward as Yuuri readjusted his legs and leaned back against the pillow behind him. He seemed content to pull Victor with him, and Victor was more than happy to go. The pressure atop his head returned, but softer—Yuuri’s cheek resting against his hair. “Okay. So don’t ask. Just hug me and I’ll be there. If I don’t feel well or if I don’t want you to, I’ll let you know.” Yuuri swallowed, and Victor felt it with his whole body with the way they were pressed together, so simple in its intimacy and vulnerability. “You came all this way, Victor. If you’re not happy then… then what’s the point?”

Victor swallowed. But one thing itched in his mind, a lingering uncertainty. “Yuuri, is this… it’s not too much?”

“It’s not too much,” Yuuri answered softly. “I mean, I can’t always handle…. But like this, when it’s quiet… it’s nice.” Then Yuuri paused, considering. “Is this too much for you?”

Victor’s arms tightened. Yuuri huffed out a laugh.

“Okay,” Yuuri said. His hand was still stroking Victor’s hair. He snagged one short strand, rolling it between his fingers idly. “It’s getting uneven along the bottom here.”

“I’ll need to trim it,” Victor murmured. He finally pulled his face away from Yuuri’s neck, laid his chin atop the blade of Yuuri’s shoulder and just… breathed. Held on for dear life and let himself absorb the feeling. “Do your parents have clippers?”

Yuuri made an agreeing noise, and a surprised one. “You do it yourself?”

“I might need you to help me reach the back. Do you think you could?”

“Of course.” Yuuri sounded flattered. “You’re sure you don’t want to go to a salon around here?”

Swallowing down the mess of feelings, Victor slowly started to put himself back together. With a haughty sniff that was more performative than anything, Victor preened and lifted his head enough to look at Yuuri when he said, “I would trust no one else.”

Yuuri patted the back of his head with a grin. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Last time I trusted someone else to cut my hair was when I was nineteen, and I’ll never do it again.” Victor paused, waiting for the statement to catch up to Yuuri, fighting down his smile all the while.

Yuuri’s eyes widened. He sat up abruptly, so much so that he sent Victor tumbling off the side of the couch, and no hurried reaching for each other could quite stop him. By the time he hit the floor he was laughing, even as he landed heavily on his hip and then rolled over. He sprawled out on the floor on his back, laughing at the ceiling as Yuuri white-knuckled the couch cushion and leaned over with a horrified look on his face.

“I am so sorry.”

“It was a joke , Yuuri.”

Yuuri slapped his hands over his face and groaned. “Now I feel worse.”

“No, no,” Victor replied. He sucked in a breath through his teeth and turned onto his bruised side, propping his chin in the palm of his hand as he looked up toward Yuuri. “It’s nice to know you care. And that’s payback for me knocking you over. ”

“Why would you joke about something like that?” Yuuri complained, long-suffering and put-upon. “Your hair was beautiful.”

Victor pushed himself up until he sat cross-legged and scooped up his phone from where it had fallen earlier. He inspected it for dings and dents, satisfied when he found none. Tatami was softer than hardwood, after all. Victor smiled at Yuuri in such a way that Yakov had yelled at him for many times, proclaiming it smug and self-satisfied and unflattering. He had practiced it enough to know that while the first two were true, the last was anything but. “Oh? Is it not anymore?”

Yuuri, like Yakov, was now too well-seasoned to Victor’s many nuanced charms, and leveled him with an exasperated look. “You know what I mean.”

“Do I? Yuuuuuuri,” Victor crooned, and crawled to the side of the couch, sitting on the floor at Yuuri’s side. He leaned his face against the cushion, his cheek brushing Yuuri’s fingers. He batted his eyelashes rather ridiculously. “Do you think I’m beautiful?”

Yuuri snorted, and Victor could see the moment he bit down on the inside of his cheek to keep himself from laughing. Even as Victor rubbed his face against Yuuri’s hand like an affectionate cat, Yuuri let go of his grip and gently, so gently, pushed Victor’s face away. “You’ll look better without a mullet.”

He swung his legs over the side of the couch, bruised feet hitting the tatami.

And though Victor kept in mind Yuuri’s careful boundaries, he felt comfortable pushing a little bit. He was confident that Yuuri would tell him when it was too much. With that in mind, he leaned against Yuuri’s legs and rested his chin atop Yuuri’s knee, turning that wide blue-eyed look upon Yuuri that had won him sponsorships more than once. “You wouldn’t like me with a mullet?”

To Victor’s credit, Yuuri’s cheeks did go pink, though the words themselves seemed ridiculous enough to keep him going. He reached for the ice pack which had now gone mostly soft, and in a bout of exasperation, placed it atop Victor’s head. Victor flinched and Yuuri laughed, even as he retorted, “A mullet would not be very coachlike of you.”

The cold compress tumbled into Victor’s lap. He rubbed away the persistent chill at the top of his head as he finally relented and got to his feet, tucking his phone into his pocket. He held out a hand to Yuuri once he was standing and pulled him to his feet, then handed the ice pack back, pouting all the while. “Says the skater coached by Celestino.”

Yuuri snorted and deliberately bumped into Victor’s side. “Celestino’s hair is not a mullet. I saw enough in America to know the difference.”

Victor gestured for Yuuri to go first and idly switched off his lights, frowning at his carefully-placed steps that were placed too far back on his foot, attempting to be gentle on the worn and weary balls of his feet. For all Yuuri’s talk about Victor asking for what he needed, he seemed to be pretty bad at it himself.

“Celestino’s had the same haircut for fifteen years,” Victor replied drily to Yuuri’s back, carefully watching as Yuuri leaned heavily on the railing going down the stairs.

Rather than reply, Yuuri hissed as he finally hit the landing to the first floor and pushed his hair back away from his eyes. He lifted one foot and rolled his ankle, and the muffled pop was audible even to Victor’s ears. Yuuri had pushed himself too hard today, it seemed. And Victor knew from experience that if he were to practice like this tomorrow, he’d be much more likely to hurt himself and only half as likely to land his jumps.

He considered this as he followed Yuuri into the kitchen in the low lamplight, watching him put the ice pack away in the freezer, then trailing after him as he went to a small stock closet and came out with a zippered black case. All the other patrons had long since gone to sleep, but Yuuri’s movements were calculated and his voice was soft when he turned and said, “We should probably go back upstairs so we don’t disturb anyone.”

Victor nodded in acknowledgement. “Is there a dust pan I can grab to sweep up afterward?”

Yuuri blinked at him, then answered, “Um, in the kitchen.”

Victor nodded easily, and this time it was Yuuri who limped after him as he went to fetch it from where Mari had tucked it near the pantry. When he turned, Yuuri was staring. Victor frowned a bit, tapping the pan against the outside of his thigh. “What is it?”

“I just didn’t expect—” Yuuri laughed once and shook his head. “It’s silly.”

Victor tipped his head to the side, then huffed out an understanding breath, a little exasperated, but fond enough of Yuuri to let it go. “I know how to pick up after myself, you know.”

“I know,” Yuuri replied defensively. “I just never expected to see Victor Nikiforov in my house holding a broom.”

At that, Victor laughed. “Your sister keeps saying she’s going to make a staff member out of me. Maybe she’s right.”

Yuuri’s eyes widened. It was the most red Victor had seen him get all night. “She’s said that?”

“I don’t mind. I think it’s funny,” Victor replied with a smile.

“I—” Yuuri cut himself off, hair disheveled and cheeks flushed and staring at Victor before he rubbed a hand over his face. He shook his head and planted the hand holding the clipper case firmly on his hip. “Don’t let her bully you. You’re already doing enough.”

Victor laughed again at the picture Yuuri painted. Like this, it wasn’t hard to see how Yuuri and Mari were siblings. “I don’t mind helping, Yuuri. Your family is kind. They’re good people.”

“Good people,” Yuuri said under his breath as he brushed past Victor and headed toward the hallway. Victor was lost but vaguely entertained—was this what it was like living with siblings? He stepped softly as he kept up with Yuuri, his smile hidden by the darkness and Yuuri’s back turned to him.

When they reached the stairs, Yuuri finally slowed and looked up the steps with visible dread. Victor nudged Yuuri to go first, patiently following with a hand on Yuuri’s back. He wobbled sometimes, his free hand clutching the railing; Victor was a steady weight, Yuuri’s counterbalance until they reached the summit, feeling more like a mountain than a staircase.

“That’s it,” Victor decided, gently pushing Yuuri toward his room, then sitting him on the edge of the couch. Yuuri’s sigh when the weight was off his feet was enough to solidify his decision. “You’re taking the day off tomorrow. You can barely walk, let alone skate.”

Victor set the dustpan by the door and turned on one small lamp, leaving the room mostly dim. He lifted the light and placed it on the floor beside the couch as he knelt, then gently confiscated the clipper case from Yuuri. He unwound the cable from around the buzzer, picking through the extensions to attach the 3.75 blade and corresponding guide comb. He glanced up at Yuuri’s suspicious silence. “No argument?”

Yuuri looked conflicted, but not quite willing to disagree. “I shouldn’t waste any time,” he said quietly. Before Victor could cut in, he continued, “...but I could use some rest.”

Victor hummed quietly as he crawled around the couch in search of a nearby outlet. Even the shapes of their plugs were different in Japan—or so he’d learned swiftly when he arrived and needed to buy an adapter just to charge his phone. Everything was different here, but… it was a nice change.

“I’ve been pushing you too hard,” Victor said as he emerged, then handed off the machine to Yuuri. He settled on the floor at Yuuri’s feet, only hesitating slightly before he nudged them apart. He settled Yuuri’s legs on either side of his shoulders, then leaned back against the cushion. He felt Yuuri shift behind him, his quiet noise of protest. He closed his eyes as Yuuri’s fingers slid into his hair, followed by the unyielding plastic of a fine-toothed comb. “No, I have been. I should have realized you needed more time to recover. From now on we’re going to take more rest days. I know we don’t have much time, but there’s no sense in working you too hard, Yuuri. If you get hurt it’ll end everything here, and that’s not what I want. Is that what you want?”

The comb paused in separating out the bottom layer of his undercut. Then Yuuri began again. “No,” he said softly. “That’s not what I want.”

Victor nodded a little, trusting the feeling of Yuuri’s legs tucked around him, of Yuuri sectioning his hair. “You’ve practiced almost every day since I’ve gotten here. You just graduated, hmm? We should have fun this summer. We should go places you like. We’ll make practice count, but rest is important, too.”

The comb felt lovely against Victor’s scalp. Yuuri was gentle, but not hesitant. Victor leaned back into his hands.

“I can think of a few places,” Yuuri agreed easily enough. His fingers scritched along the back of Victor’s neck, and Victor arched into the touch.

Oh, that felt nice. Yuuri was so nice. “You’ll have to show me. Tomorrow, maybe? And for the rest of the summer. I’ve never gotten to explore Japan before. Bring me everywhere. And places we can take Makkachin, too.”

Yuuri’s voice was warm. “That sounds nice.” He tapped Victor’s shoulder. “Okay, sit up straight. Do you want me to just do the back and you can do the rest?”

“You can do all of it. I trust you,” Victor answered. He tipped his head back and opened his eyes, offering Yuuri a small smile. “I can trim the rest later, so just the bottom, okay? No mullets here.”

Yuuri snorted gently and gently pushed Victor’s chin so he turned back around. Victor obligingly sat up straight, and didn’t flinch as Yuuri turned on the clippers. Victor could feel him lift the longer pieces away with the comb, trimming only the under-layer to uniformity. The guide comb was set rather long, somewhere between three and four centimeters. The entire process took only a few minutes, Yuuri following the clippers with the comb to remove any smaller pieces.

“Do you want me to buzz the very back?” Yuuri asked, fingers skimming the softest baby hairs along the nape of Victor’s neck.

Victor hummed softly, contentedly. “Yes please. Thank you, Yuuri.”

The last few moments passed before Yuuri brushed off the back of his neck and turned the clippers off, the dull buzz of the blade falling silent. “There,” Yuuri said, satisfied. “No mullet.”

Victor crawled up onto the couch beside him. “Want me to trim yours?”

Yuuri blinked back at him. “Oh. Um… yeah, okay.”

“Floor,” Victor said simply, and Yuuri huffed out a quiet laugh as he obligingly slid off the couch and settled comfortably on the tatami. Yuuri pulled off his glasses and hooked them over the collar of his shirt, blinking slowly to adjust to the change in his vision. Victor carefully swung one leg around him, and the feeling of Yuuri leaning back against his shins was such a comfortable weight that Victor never wanted to move. “I’ll get the tangles out first.”

“Mmhm,” Yuuri replied. From the first long sweeps of the comb through Yuuri’s hair, Victor felt the tension start to seep out of Yuuri’s body, slowly melting against Victor’s legs. “Feels good.”

“Tell me if I pull,” Victor instructed softly. The drag of the comb held more weight as he pulled it through Yuuri’s bangs, sweeping them back from his face. “Your hair is thicker than mine.”

Yuuri huffed out a laugh, pulling a smile from Victor as well. His exhausted sigh was soft, his voice barely a mumble of sound. “Nihonjin da kara.”

“I understood at least a part of that.” Victor worked from the front to the back, gently picking apart snags with his fingers. He smiled to himself still, tucking a few errant strands behind Yuuri’s ear.

“Mm. Oh.” Yuuri shuffled, sitting a bit more upright. “Sorry. I’m more tired than I thought.”

“I’m just finishing up, then I can trim it for you,” Victor replied, a little regretfully. He rather enjoyed looking after Yuuri like this, spending time with him like this. Victor so rarely felt connected to another person, and Yuuri… Yuuri was something special. Even just the realization that Yuuri was letting him help like this made him feel warm.

Yuuri made a little noise and leaned back again. “Um, you can… take your time.”

Warm, so warm. Victor pulled the comb back through Yuuri’s bangs again. “It’s getting long.” In all honesty, Victor liked it.

And then Yuuri said, “I think I…” He yawned, “...might actually keep it. If that’s okay.”

Victor laughed softly, relishing in the rare opportunity to thread his fingers through Yuuri’s hair, rubbing small concentric circles behind his ears, at the base of his neck. Within moments, the comb had been foregone altogether. “That’s definitely okay.”

Yuuri’s weightless sigh meant more than the world to Victor in that moment, rivaled only by his darling Makkachin who he knew was already asleep on Yuuri’s bed down the hall. He knew then that he should relent, let Yuuri get some well-deserved sleep, but it was harder than anything Victor had ever done to keep his hands to himself, especially now that Yuuri had told him he could.

Victor’s heart nearly stopped when Yuuri shuffled around sideways and rested his cheek against Victor’s knee. His arm slipped around Victor’s calf, fingertips coming to rest against Victor’s ankle as his eyes slipped closed.

Oh, turnabout was fair play, wasn’t it?

He paused in the slow path of his hands until Yuuri cracked open one eye and turned a bleary, baleful glance up at Victor. When Victor resumed his gentle scalp massage, Yuuri arched his neck and sighed, long and low.

“Yuuri,” Victor said, and hoped his voice wasn’t as much of a whine as it sounded to his own ears. “We should get you to bed.”

Untangling Yuuri from his legs was easier said than done. In the end, the clippers and comb both lay forgotten on the couch as Victor helped Yuuri to his feet, then steadied Yuuri when he stumbled from the pain of his bruised soles. Victor did most of the work in walking Yuuri down the darkened hallway to his room, and he didn’t even have time to think about the fact that it was really the first time he’d ever been in there until he was.

It was small. Quaint. A desk on one wall, an alarmingly small bed on the other, and just a little bit of room between the two. A single suspended lamp, a few scant belongings, not limited to a keyboard leaning heavily against the corner, and a familiar garment bag hanging near a peg high-set toward the ceiling. There was a bookcase immediately inside the doorway that was full of academic texts and dusty trophies, none of which Victor had the ability to inspect further when he was holding Yuuri upright.

And Makkachin, whose tail thumped against the windowsill, taking up a solid two-thirds of Yuuri’s mattress.

“Makka,” he scolded softly. “Get down. Yuuri needs to sleep now.”

And then Yuuri (naturally) stumbled forward and climbed into bed without complaint, curling up atop the covers and winding himself bodily around Makkachin.

Makkachin wiggled for a moment before he settled with a contented whine. His tail thumped once more as he turned his huge brown eyes on Victor, silently begging his approval.

Victor’s heart was making a habit of crawling its way up his throat. He knelt momentarily on the edge of the bed and reached over Yuuri to scritch Makka between the ears and accepted a quick lick to his hand. Then Victor pulled Yuuri’s glasses away from his collar, swept Yuuri’s bangs out of his eyes with his finger, and beat a quiet retreat, leaving Yuuri’s glasses on his desk as he turned out the light.

“Night Yuuri,” he said softly.

A sleepy mumble was his only reply—but that didn’t matter.

There was no loneliness as Victor returned to his room by himself, only a sense of peace as he knelt on the floor to sweep up the remnants of his own trimmed hair. Only a fond memory as he unplugged the clippers and cleaned them off, then put them and the comb back together in the case. There was a smile persistently clinging to his lips as he brushed his hands through the short strands at the nape of his neck, a bittersweet feeling when he caught sight of the damp patch on the couch where the condensation from the cold compress had left a water mark.

Even as Victor set about stripping down in the humid evening, turning off his lights, and crawling into the center of his mattress, he didn’t feel alone. As he settled in for sleep, there was only a sense of keen anticipation for everything that could and would come next.