Moscow: Rostelecom Cup, GPF Qualifer Short Program (1.08)

[yuri_plisetsky]

The Rostelecom Cup is the last event of the 2014 ISU Grand Prix of Figure Skating series. In the men's figure skating division, two competitors -- Otabek Altin of Kazakhstan and Christophe Giacometti of Switzerland -- have secured their places in the Grand Prix Final. The remaining four slots will be determined by the final standings of the six skaters competing in Moscow, based on their scores in previous ISU Grand Prix events:

- Michele Crispino (Italy): 3rd Place, NHK Trophy
- Yuuri Katsuki (Japan): 2nd Place, Cup of China
- Seung-gil Lee (Republic of Korea): 2nd Place, NHK Trophy
- Jean-Jacques Leroy (Canada): 1st Place, Skate Canada
- Emil Nekola (Czech Republic): 3rd Place, Skate Canada
- Yuri Plisetsky (Russian Federation): 2nd Place, Skate Canada

As the competitors arrive in Moscow, two particular skaters are the focus of much press and fan speculation. Fifteen-year-old Yuri Plisetsky is making his senior debut in his first major competitive event in his home country, after a strong showing at Skate Canada in Kelowna, British Columbia. At the same time, Japanese skater Yuuri Katsuki has arrived in Moscow with his coach, the long-reigning world champion Viktor Nikiforov, and based on his remarkable performance at the Cup of China in Shanghai...

...but all of this is only to be expected from the official press coverage.



On the ground, the reality is a little more complicated than that.

Comments

[yuri_plisetsky]

There's a burst of loud, enthusiastic applause when Yakov Feltsman's group enters the banquet room -- though only Yakov would know from the sound of it that it isn't quite as loud or enthusiastic as it has been in previous years. A little hesitant, even, in way that it hasn't been before. (The ghost in the room, unseen but unforgotten, with them still.) But soon enough, an impromptu receiving line forms, and the whirlwind of introductions begins.

It's a mostly older crowd, mostly men, mostly with drinks in their hands. Yuri has to let go of Mila's arm when the handshakes start, though thankfully they're never more than a few feet from each other the whole time. He knows how to give a firm handshake -- his grandfather had taught him that from a young age -- and it's a tiny boost to his wavering confidence every time the smiling adult who's taken his hand can't quite conceal his or her surprise at the strength of his grip. All the same, he's grateful when the immediate press of crowds seems to recede a little and one of the hotel's waitstaff hands him and Mila drinks as well: some sort of sour cherry kompot, he notes with a faint scowl, so obviously different from the alcohol that nearly everyone else around them has in their glasses. But then there's a crackle of microphone feedback, and suddenly Yakov's voice booms out over the room's speaker system, momentarily too loud until an unseen hand hastily adjusts the volume.

'On behalf of myself and my skaters, I would like to thank you all for your kind hospitality and support here in Moscow this year. We hope that our performance in this penultimate event in the ISU Grand Prix of Figure Skating' --

('In case you've drunk enough to forget why you're here already,' Mila murmurs right next to Yuri's ear, forcing him to turn his snort into a cough.)

-- 'will continue to showcase the internationally renowned strength of Russian figure skating, and give you an indication of the bright future that we expect to have for many years to come.' There's a pause, and though Yuri can't actually see where Yakov is standing he can tell that everyone appears to be raising glasses in preparation for a toast. 'Mila Babicheva and Yuri Plisetsky -- to their success!'

As the toast echoes around the room, Yuri quickly buries his nose in the sour-sweet kompot so he won't have to make eye contact with anyone who might be looking his way. This is only the start of the evening, and his mouth is already as dry as dust.

[fivetimechamp]

"Maybe at first."

It would be patronizing and incorrect to tell Yuri he's wrong. He sees it all the time, as comments on his social media profiles, fans asking when he'll be coming back, hears it from reporters and coaches and other skaters. When the World Champion suddenly drops out of competition, it rocks the boat more than a little. There's a large hole in the line-up that the skaters this season are scrambling to fill, and none of them, even Yuri, are quite managing it.

It's even more complicated here, in Russia. He's belonged to them, given them something to boast about, the strength of the Russian figure skating programs, the collection of gold medals that were nearly as much his country's as his own. After years of hard work and strife, rotten ice, crooked judges, dismal training facilities, he'd risen to become their favorite son.

Then he'd left, but they haven't given up on him, still call him their own, and maybe that's all a little more than one person should have to shoulder, but he'd never considered it a burden. Still doesn't, even now, even if thinking about it all makes him feel a little uneasy, like he'd forgotten to call an old friend and was past the point of being able to apologize about it.

So Yuri isn't wrong, but even if Victor has to admit it's probably true, it isn't the entire story. "But not once you've finished."

Eros will win them over. Yuri will win them over. Eros is all about the seduction of someone who doesn't want or expect to be seduced, isn't it?

His thumb runs up and down along Yuri's side, a small motion meant to comfort. "They'll never be able to resist you once you start skating."

He certainly couldn't.

[theglassheart]

Maybe he wishes it wasn't the truth. Just a little. Could picture just barely, hazy images, that are more like hazy would-not-feelings, what that might be like. But not long enough to hold on to it. He doesn't want to keep thoughts that aren't true. That will just get gummy and slip him up. He thinks enough things in a day that aren't true to not have anything kind of want to pick up more of them if he can help it.

It would be easier if it wasn't true, here or anywhere else, but especially here, but Yuri isn't certain -- especially laying there, looking into Victor's eyes, that even as much as he wants this (a comeback worth forgetting the last year, a good year to go out on, to make it to the Grand Prix final) -- that he wouldn't pick Victor, too, if there was a chance that he could see Victor skate, perform, compete instead of himself.

He'd loved Victor, and Victor's rise, and Victor's constant record-shattering, like the rest of the world for more than half his life.


Still something in his troubled expression softens the smallest bit against the feeling of Victor's fingers running along that small section of his side, through his night shirt. Soft warmth, he has no defense against, snaking its way through his skin into the spaces between the loops and knots in his stomach, and after a few seconds of that, he finally gives into turning on to his side to be able to face Victor.

[yuri_plisetsky]

Once the toast is over, Yuri hands his empty glass to one of the passing waitstaff. Trays are going round with zakuski, light and heavy hors d'oeuvres, hot and cold, but none of it appeals to him. He has pirozhki back in his room; not one of the snacks on offer here tonight could even tempt him. But his mouth is still dry, so he manages to get another glass of kompot just to have something to hold in his hands like everyone else. He manages to take exactly one sip of it before the knot of people around him and Mila shifts and parts, and suddenly Yakov is there in front of them, somehow managing to look exactly as stolid and unsophisticated as he normally does in spite of the nicer-than-usual suit he's donned for the evening.

'Mila, I believe that Lilia wants to introduce you to someone who works with the Bolshoi's corporate relations division. She'll be with you shortly.' Yakov manages to get a hand around Yuri's back, half-pushing and half-pulling him forward. 'Yuri, come with me.'

Mila's apologetic smile is the last thing Yuri sees before he's hauled off, and she's swallowed up by the crowd.

It's another whirlwind of introductions, only this time he's actually expected to do more than simply shake hands and say his name and a polite nice to meet you. The Rostelecom contingent is large, but there are also a number of other ISU sponsor representatives -- everything from high-end watches to financial services to sporting goods -- in addition to the rest of the Moscow figure skating community. And they're all at least a little curious to meet this young kid (a two-time Junior Grand Prix and Junior Worlds champion, but a kid nonetheless) who seems to be Yakov Feltsman's new golden hope in the aftermath of Viktor Nikiforov's sudden and baffling departure.

So with Yakov right at his elbow, Yuri keeps his answers simple and bland. Yes, he's happy to be back in Moscow. Yes, he is proud to represent Russian figure skating at the Rostelecom Cup. Yes, he's being very well looked after by Coach Yakov, and yes, he is truly privileged to have the opportunity to work so closely with Lilia Baranovskaya. And of course, he greatly appreciates the continued support of the skating federation, which has allowed him to devote himself wholeheartedly to the sport. One or two of them try to coax a few more personal details out of him, and so he feeds them acceptable morsels in return -- he's fond of listening to Rachmaninoff, he's been reading the poems of Anna Akhmatova for school, he's never tried to play hockey but he would be happy to teach the Dynamo Moscow lineup to do quad salchows if it'll help them win the Gagarin Cup. (This last remark, said to a group of sports ministry officials, gets a roaring laugh from all of them, though Yuri suspects it has more to do with their vodka than his wit.)

All in all, things could be going a lot worse. Until one of the Rostelecom middle managers, four glasses in and eager to show off what he looked up on the Internet shortly before coming to the hotel, unwittingly asks Yuri the absolute wrong question: 'You must be very proud to have a short program choreographed by Viktor Nikiforov. Are you looking forward to showing it off here in Moscow?'

[fivetimechamp]

Yuri turns towards him, and the room is momentarily full only of the soft, quiet sounds of bodies shifting against sheets, until Yuri is on his side and Victor's arm is draped over his waist. He doesn't look wholly convinced, but there's none of last week's shattering anxiety, either, and Victor will take that as a good sign. "Besides, I don't want you worrying about them. Skate the way you love best."

In the end, it's never about the audience, as much as Victor always performed for them. Every skater is out there alone. As much as the audience can help or hinder, it's always up to the single person on the ice to determine their own fate.

...Although it helps to have a goal to try and attain.

A thought that makes him grin, slow and fond, laughing at himself as he lifts his hand to brush Yuri's hair back, tuck it with deft fingers over his ear. "If you can seduce me, you can seduce anyone."

It's funny because it already happened, because Victor never stood a chance. Yuri swept him off like a piece of driftwood in a storm, and he's never been able to make his way back to shore ever since.

[theglassheart]

His phone ends up on the bed between them, but that's fine. He doesn't need it right now.

There's nothing he'd rather be looking at on it, in comparison to the sight right here in front of him, even if he's still not anything like adjusted to and entirely comfortable with the abject intensity of Victor swelled to a higher key, that's comes in waves so suddenly often this close now. It tangles up his tongue, and his thoughts, and everything between his chest and his stomach at different times.

Especially when Victor talks about Yuri seducing him with an even, easy self-amused simplicity like it doesn't take the air and the ground from Yuri. This reference, changed entirely, to mean something more like this and less like the muddle of gray confusion and misplaced reactions that were at least their own kind of normal. Unlike the one now that stumbles, coltish confusion in the wall of his ribs, his lungs, his heart.

More than half the time he can't help that he still looks for some of the mad genius in that, the exaggeration and overinflation he's translated those word into for all of these months. Before. Maybe even might be waiting to see if it's just a joke or phrase that is just a current amusement Victor will just forget. Except none of those thoughts stick as well when Victor's hand raises toward his face, and suddenly his fingers slide, soft as a breath, across the soft thin skin above his ear, and just barely the shell of his ear, tucking back piece of his hair.

It probably won't stay pressed back all that long,
but that doesn't keep Yuri's eyes from closing just a little at the touch, with a soft, "Okay."

The smallest, shortest trail of soft friction in Victor's touch, and the way somehow he wonders if he's been waiting for all of this since ... yesterday? This morning? Somewhere just before? At the same time as not knowing if it would? Whether it should? If he'd just utterly missed some strange ache for it, only noticing suddenly as it seemed like something else, somewhere else, instead loosened itself a few centimeters, and he seemed to recognize its existence only as it grew lighter.

[yuri_plisetsky]

What Yuri ought to say, with Yakov right next to him and an awareness of the importance of good etiquette towards the sponsors' representatives at the forefront of his mind: I was able to gain a lot from Viktor's guidance while learning the short program choreography, and I have been working hard to refine my technique and skill for it ever since.

What Yuri does say, with absolutely no effort to disguise the contempt in his voice, as he lifts his chin to look the man dead in the eye: 'I am not here to show off anything. I am here to win. And when I do, Viktor Nikiforov won't be the one with the medal around his neck.'

Yakov's hand comes down on his shoulder in a vise-like grip before he can say another word -- and Yuri immediately shuts his mouth, but he doesn't blink or look away. The Rostelecom representative blinks instead, startled and confused, as if he's just heard a cat bark like a dog and doesn't quite know what to make of it. 'Well, of course he wouldn't....' he says, and then stops, and then tries again. "That is, I didn't mean to -- '

As an act of rare mercy, Yakov puts the man out of his misery. 'Yuri's programs are as strong and challenging as any program that we will see here this weekend,' he declares, 'and his performance will reflect the training and dedication he has put into this season. I suggest you watch it for yourself.'

(Yuri, it must be said, isn't the only one who is rather tired of hearing Viktor Nikiforov's name at the moment.)

After an awkward little dance of strained good wishes (from the Rostelecom manager) and cold but cordial thanks (from Yuri, with Yakov's hand still locked on his shoulder), the conversation ends. Once the other man has wandered off in search of a refill for his glass, Yakov finally turns to look at Yuri, his eyes dark and severe. Yuri's already braced for what he knows will come; even if he hadn't sworn, hadn't dropped into impolite language, he'd still run off his mouth to someone from the tournament's primary sponsor.

But to his astonishment, it doesn't come. 'Go find Lilia and Mila,' is all that Yakov says, and lets his hand fall away from Yuri's arm. 'I need to check in with Georgi.'

This time, it's Yuri's turn to blink. Only when he's positive that Yakov is serious does he nod -- looking more than a little confused himself -- and turn to go and make his way across the crowded room to where he'd last seen either of them.

[fivetimechamp]

His hand stays there, lightly curved over Yuri's head, thumb resting just above his ear. They've practiced this piece every way Victor knows how: in every small piece, skated over and over again to the point of exhaustion, slowly, quickly. It's been adjusted and readjusted innumberable times, argued over by himself and Minako, fought out on the barre and on the ice and in every painful step of every exhausting run. There's nothing left to do except do it. Keep perfecting it until Yuri peaks precisely when he's supposed to, at the Grand Prix Final in another month.

Until then, they have tonight, and tomorrow, and the day after that, and the routine of competition to keep them busy. "Did you check over your costume and all your gear already?"

He's got a small kit to fix anything that might need to be fixed –– fabric glue for rhinestones that have come loose, scissors for loose threads, needle and thread for any tears –– and it wouldn't be the first time. It's an old costume, after all, even if it's done nothing but sit folded in storage for the last decade.

It can help calm nerves to go over the fabric and check for anything that needs a last minute fix, or to check his boots and blades to make sure they're perfect. Yuri might not be able to run off to the Ice Palace here to skate figures in the middle of the night until his head clears, but there are plenty of other small but attention-consuming activities he can use to take his mind off things instead. Staying in and sleeping early is the best option, but they can always go out and walk the streets of Moscow if he needs to.

Even if Victor would rather not get up just yet, even to change out of his street clothes himself.

[theglassheart]

Yuri's mouth twists at the question, and he shakes his head, some annoyed discomfort with it. He hadn't wanted to do much once he came back up. A strange settling and unsettling slosh between Victor in the lobby with all the reporters, and Yurio in the elevator talking about demolishing him, and leaving with Victor, and everything that was everything about those in Russia of all places. Unnerved, and tired even from the too easy, nothing to done but travel, day.

It's a reluctant mostly apology. "Not yet."

He hadn't looked over his things since they got back to the room, any more than he'd decided to actually take a shower. He hadn't looked at it all since the first cursory check that everything had made it through travel in the same shape and condition it was packed in, hanging it up, before Victor had drug him out into the streets of Moscow. As further reluctant, but rather prepared for some a too soon division from this, here, Victor and a refocus back on everything it has to be, already is, he adds, "I can do that now."

Check his costume and his skates meticulously. Lay out on the counter what he'll need for tomorrow morning. Check over the rolling bag he'll need for the locker room, transporting, his everything ready but those most important pieces that don't get added until the last minutes before leaving.

[yuri_plisetsky]

It's too much to ask that either Mila or Lilia will be in the same place as they were when their party was separated, but Lilia's height makes her easier to locate. Yuri spots her talking to two younger women, both of whom are listening to her with rapt expressions that make it clear that they're not going anywhere any time soon, so he makes a mental note of where she is and goes up on his toes in an effort to track down Mila. It takes him longer than he wants, but finally he catches sight what looks like the top of her hair, and he's off on the hunt again.

As he approaches, he sees that Mila's talking to an older man with a blotchy red nose. Drink, possibly, but the room is getting a little too warm from the press of bodies and the old hotel's overzealous heating system, and Yuri wouldn't be surprised if he's a little red in the face himself by this point. The man looks vaguely familiar, probably someone from the initial round of introductions; they'd all gone by so quickly that there's no telling exactly where he's from, which means that it's Rostelecom until proven otherwise. Mila's talking, and the man is listening attentively, so it would be rude to just butt in. Still, Yakov had said to find her: Yuri does have an excuse for cutting in.

Mila notices him before he can speak, and her face lights up. 'Oh, Yuri!' she says, smiling. 'I was wondering where you were. Were you looking for me?'

In spite of her cheerful greeting, she's not reintroducing him to the man, which is as clear an indication as any to Yuri that she doesn't necessarily want this conversation to continue. Yet the man, by contrast, doesn't seem so inclined to back out gracefully. Instead, he smiles and nods a greeting to Yuri, as if to include him in their earlier discussion. 'I was just asking your lovely fellow skater about her program for this weekend, and her signature moves,' he says. 'Is there something special that we should be looking to see you perform here as well?'

It's better phrased than the other Rostelecom jerk's question, and doesn't mention Viktor at all, but Yuri notices that the man isn't really making eye contact with him when he says it. It would be easy to attribute that lack of eye contact to nerves or something, but the man's eyes aren't darting around. In fact, they seem to be fixed quite steadily on one place, slightly to Yuri's right. And unthinkingly, with a dancer's trained eye for assessing spotting techniques, Yuri flicks his own gaze quickly in that direction -- to discover that the man's line of sight ends right at Mila's breasts.

For the second time that day, a bolt of pure rage clears Yuri's head like a dash of cold water to the face. You absolute piece of shit! But this time he can't lash out, can't react on instinct alone to smack the creep away from them both. He can't do that to Mila; she doesn't need to end up in the middle of a huge scene just because of some filthy pervert who'd probably deny the whole thing anyway. But for fuck's sake, he has to do something --

'A quad axel,' he says suddenly, with a perfectly straight face. He hears Mila choke slightly next to him, but doesn't look over at her just yet. 'Mila's been helping me with the strength training for it. She can bench-press my entire body weight and then some.' Only then does he glance up at her, to see that she's trying not to burst from the effort of holding back her startled laughter. 'That hockey player you were dating found that out the hard way, didn't he? When you caught him cheating on you?'

[fivetimechamp]

"Mm."

It's mostly agreement, but Victor doesn't move, or lift his hand. There's plenty for them both to do, between changing and brushing teeth and washing faces and checking costumes and outfits and badges and skates, but it feels like they've done nothing but rush around for the last two days, and it won't hurt to take a second to breathe, for both of them. Yuri, with his worries about tomorrow, and Victor, who is only just beginning to feel relaxed after that run-in with Yurio downstairs. "In a minute."

It could all be worse. Yuri's panic the morning after the Cup of China upon discovering the explosion of their faces all across social media has mostly been unfounded. There have been questions, of course, but Victor was trained by Yakov in more than just figure skating techniques and has left more than one reporter wondering why they felt so frustrated by his opacity when their question was fully answered. Social media has been another story altogether, but he's kept his promise to Yuri, and he hasn't said or posted anything else that might be construed as evidence of their relationship.

(He thinks. Probably.

To be perfectly honest, it's really quite hard.)

So the chips have been falling without any particular guidance, and even if the whole world saw what happened on the ice after that free skate, at least he hasn't tossed more fuel on the fire.

... Well, not a lot, anyway. Not nearly as much as he normally would.

It's all in the pursuit of the Rostelecom gold, anyway, and most nights they've been too tired to do much more than scroll through their various feeds, but that doesn't mean he hasn't had it all on his mind. On the ice, it's been all work, drilling technique and style, but off ––

He's really not sure how he made it through those days and nights before he couldn't just shift forward, like now, and press a gentle kiss to Yuri's mouth.

[theglassheart]

There's that rumble of pressed agreement from Victor, and Yuri nearly frowns or sighs, not even settled on which, one or the other, because he knows he should have perhaps done more. Even if it only was a few minutes wasted. But Victor doesn't move, in fact, to let him shuffle himself off and the bed and across the room. Doesn't lift his hand from the side of Yuri's face, gentle at the edge of his hair still. Staring at him. Giving him, after another second, a reprieve from his one reaction. In a minute.

It's not the first time he's heard those words, and whether he think each time might be the last, the last one wasn't and Victor is saying it again. Not with his face pressed to something new and delightful, needing to know everything about it, while Yuri is trying to remind him when they need to get home, or that they were doing something, heading somewhere, had someone waiting. But he's not mesmerized about some in a window, across a room, on a plate, etc.

It's just Yuri he's staring at it, and Yuri can't help the way his mouth tremulously tries toward a smile.

Not that there is long for that smile to sit, shy and building, a trill of warmth behind his breastbone, before Victor leans in closer to him instead. Always just a little surprising, but something about where they are, there somewhere under that a little confusingly a small windfall of relieving, too. He doesn't think about whether to kiss Victor back. That part having sunk in like taking a breath. Almost effortless, both calming and nothing really, entirely, like calming.

This close though, Victor smells a little like winter they'd only just been walking around in not too long ago. Like he dragged it in with him, like it hadn't wanted to let go of him either. Snow and something else Yuri can't quite place here, that's completely different from the same season they just left in Shanghai, and back home. There's a soft hum of sound and Yuri can't help that he opens his eyes when it breaks. He's not sure he'll ever have enough time to get used to Victor this close, and how beautiful he really is.

That somehow, someway, for however long or short it lasts, it's still his another few more minutes.

[yuri_plisetsky]

'Y-Yuri!' Mila's voice comes out almost strangled, her laughter too close to the surface for her to do anything but avert her gaze from Yuri's completely serious expression. To pass it off as shock and embarrassment, she glances back at the man, and shakes her head with a long-suffering sigh. 'Please, don't mind him. Even at the rink, it's like having a terrible little brother to babysit sometimes.'

'You're not babysitting me here.' Yuri's sulky tone is genuine enough. 'Anyway, Coach Yakov wanted me to find you and Lilia. I saw her over that way a few minutes ago, so I came to get you first.'

'Fine, fine.' Mila finally has her own expression under control, and she slips her arm through Yuri's, as if she's taking him in hand like a responsible older sister figure should. Yuri huffs under his breath, but doesn't pull away from her. 'Will you excuse us, please?' she says to the man, giving him an apologetic smile that would never pass as sincere to anyone from the Sports Champions Club. 'It was very nice talking to you. I hope you'll enjoy the skating -- we appreciate your support.'

'Yes, er, certainly.' There's really nothing else that the man can say at this point. But there's a bit of a pause before he adds, his gaze darting between Mila and Yuri, 'Best of luck to you...ah, to both of you.'

As they turn to leave, Yuri manages to catch the man's eye, and gives him a look that leaves nothing to the imagination: She can kick the literal shit out of you, you sick fuck. Don't think that I wouldn't do the same if I could.

Once they've made it a respectable distance away from anyone who might have been in earshot of their previous conversation, Mila chortles softly and bumps Yuri's side with her hip. 'Yuri Plisetsky, you are the worst,' she says, bright and fond, with a real smile this time. 'Quad axel. Whatever made you come up with that one?'

'Just forget about it, Baba.' Now that it's over and they don't have to deal with that creep anymore, there's no point in talking about it, is there? Or such is Yuri's opinion on the matter. 'Yakov's with Georgi somewhere; Lilia's over this way.'

(And for once, Mila doesn't press him further. But her arm tightens in another little squeeze, as the two of them make their way over to Lilia and the women who are chatting with her.)

[fivetimechamp]

If he was pressed, he'd probably have to admit that the timing of all this hasn't been ideal, exactly. If he'd had the choice, he'd rather not have started navigating this new part of their relationship right in the middle of the Grand Prix season. He'd have to agree that Yuri should only be focused tonight on tomorrow's performance and everything he needs to get it done as perfectly as possible. He shouldn't also be trying to pick his way along a path that suddenly shifted under his feet. Maybe if Victor were a better coach, he would have held off on all of it until at least after Rostelecom, if not the Grand Prix Final itself. Even he knows all of that is true.

It's just that it's difficult to remember why it's true when Yuri is making that small, soft sound against his mouth, and opening his eyes slow and relaxed to watch him with that expression on his face that Victor hasn't quite been able to pin down or interpret over the last five days. It's not quite the way Yuri watches him, intent and focused, when he's on the ice showing him how a certain part of the program goes, and it isn't really the same as the surprised uncertainty from those first few months in Hasetsu. It seems to be something else altogether, but similar to both.

He enjoys it, whatever it might be. Yuri's attention, and Yuri's faint smiles, and the way Yuri has stopped stiffening or flinching when Victor leans in close to him. The hesitation that had been in his kisses only days ago is already almost entirely gone.

It's hard to remember why he should be responsible, when Victor has never been so happy.

Well, it isn't as if they don't have some time tonight, before they have to sleep. Jet lag will get Yuri sooner rather than later, and tomorrow will be a non-stop rush as soon as their alarm goes off, but it would be a shame to pass up the chance to steal a few moments, here and there, in this last hectic weekend before they go back to Hasetsu. Even then, they'll have to focus on the Grand Prix Final, if Yuri's going to be able to peak at precisely the right time.

Who could blame him for wanting to take this chance?

(How could anyone question why he would give up his whole life, put his career on hold, for this? Isn't it obvious?)

Thumb moving lightly over Yuri's hair. Idle, gentle strokes back and forth, just to feel how smooth it is, how warm Yuri is beneath his hand. "What do you think of Moscow so far?"

[theglassheart]

How he was ever supposed to truly be prepared for any of this, even each new day, was beyond him.

The way Victor's hair collects against the bridge of his nose on his side, sometimes, but not always staying back even when moved. The way Victor looks at him, out if those too summer sea-sun blue eyes, tingling all the way to his toes. The way Victor smiles, almost the same smile as when Yuri finally gets something right they've been working on forever. Pride, and pleasure, and something ... else. That happens only here. Something soft and yet strikingly intense.

Yuri's eyelids flicker almost closed, just for the beat of part of a second, when Victor's finger starts stroking his hair, sending a shiver down his neck, through his shoulders and part of his back. The question that happens at the same time did make him a little speculative at least. Thinking over the blur of everything he'd seen and done since the plane touched down in the airport he'd very obviously still get the name of wrong.

"The Luzhniki was nice." If the Small Sport Arena was nothing like its name, seeming nothing like small from the outside, with its grand columns, and wouldn't seem small at all tomorrow. Not when it was filled with more than eight thousand people, cheering and screaming and going so quiet it would feel like you couldn't miss the hiss of blades on ice even.

"I'm not sure I knew what to expect," might be dithering. He has looked, and some he hasn't, because he has Victor is home, or at least the next best thing to home. He hadn't expected the advertisement he'd caught a glimpse of, but he should have. Still his brow crinkled and he searched for something that wasn't those words. "The really tall buildings in the middle? It's almost like they seem out of place."

Wait. That probably sounded rude. Which wasn't his point. Just that the gleaming glass structures stuck out.
"Like-" Yuri pursed his lips. "-shining gods looking down on the rest of the city so much further down all around them."

[yuri_plisetsky]

If Lilia has any opinions when she sees Yuri and Mila approaching her, arm in arm -- a protective little pair, though it's hard to tell who is protecting whom -- she keeps her own thoughts to herself as she moves back a step to widen the circle of conversation. 'Mila, Yuri, let me introduce you....'

The two women she had been speaking to are sisters, one of whom is married to a Rostelecom marketing director and the other of whom is a doctor at a Moscow hospital. Both are avid fans of the ballet, and consequently are eager to see Lilia Baranovskaya's choreography on the ice. Even after the interruption for introductions, their conversation quickly falls back into ballet talk...which comes as a strange sort of relief to Yuri. After months of all but living in a dance studio, it's easy enough to discuss turnout and tours en l'air with them, or to listen quietly when Mila talks about her own programs and the extra focus she'd put on center work in the studio in preparation for her jump combinations this season. In this overheated, overcrowded room, it feels good to have something to think about that isn't his own performance, the one he's doing right now or the ones he'll have to do this weekend.

(Until other thoughts start to trickle in, sending his mind in other directions. Did his grandfather go home and do the stretches that he was supposed to do for his back? Did he need to take a painkiller? They don't go down well on an empty stomach, but maybe there was a pirozhok or two left over for him to eat with them. And if he can get a good night's sleep....)

The moment of faint respite doesn't last nearly long enough; conscious of how long the conversation has lasted, the women make as if to excuse themselves. One of them, the Rostelecom director's wife, almost shyly asks for Lilia's autograph, and her sister encourages Yuri and Mila to sign as well. It's better than being chased through Sheremetyevo for a selfie, at least, so Yuri tries to make his signature a little neater than usual when he signs the little notebook that the woman holds out to him.

'Not much longer now,' Lilia says to them, once they've all shaken hands with the women again and parted ways with well wishes and thanks. 'You'll need to stretch before bed.' She glances at Yuri. 'Did Yakov tell you where he would meet us?'

[fivetimechamp]

Yuri's description makes me huff a faint laugh, while his hand traces a warm line down the curve of his neck, towards his shoulder. One might think he'd glutted himself on touching Yuri by now, but there never seems to be enough: rather than making Victor want it less, every new touch only makes him want to reach out again and again, for more. "It's an old city. The newer buildings can sometimes look out of place."

Japan has its fair share of old cities and buildings, but the distinction between them never seems quite as abrupt as it does here. Perhaps they simply have better city planners –– although it's not a theory he'd want to mention in front of Yurio, whose Moscow roots are a source of pride.

Except thinking about Yurio makes him feel uncomfortable, so he pushes past the thought without mentioning it aloud. "I wish I knew it better, so I could make sure you see the best it has to offer when we're finished with the competition ... but we'll just have to make do."

He isn't the best tour guide available, but he can at least promise to be a dedicated one. That's a thought he doesn't mind, and it makes him smile as he leans forward to kiss Yuri again, before pulling back with purpose, letting go of Yuri's shoulder and pushing himself back and up towards sitting, aiming to get off the bed entirely. "But until then, we have to focus on your programs. Let's go through your things now, so you can get to bed and get a good night's sleep before morning. We'll be up early for breakfast and practice, so I want you to be ready to go."

[theglassheart]

They'll just have to make do. As though Yuri's entire idea of Moscow hasn't already been defined by two places since before he arrived. The first being the sports arena that he'd spend more time in, during the next two days, than anywhere else. Which was one. The other was wholly defined by beyond there. Beyond this weekend's days. By the potential and possibility (and something like promise) of the Red Square.

Which didn't stop the alternative from drilling up, in whispered refrain in his head. Even with Victor's hand coast to his shoulder, making him so aware of those fingers, and the curl of that hand, and Victor's expression. None of that stopped the parallel idea of the opposite side. Not that they ever had entirely, before now and Russia and less than a day until, but now it took root with a solid image to back it.

Yurio staring straight forward at the elevator doors, not even deigning to look at him, saying that he'd beat Yuri and he'd take Victor back once he had. The other side of two days, and the two promises waiting there, taking root, with definitive shape and words in well-known voices, each as certain as the other. Digging themselves into his bones, spine and ribs and everything there was of him there to grasp. Each newly focused upon and realized inch of him as Victor's fingers coasted over his shirt and shoulder.

Yuri medals, and they go skating.

Yuri doesn't, and Victor leaves with Yurio.

Cemented with another quick kiss, like a seal, before Victor is pushing himself up and into motion, and Yuri knows he has to go with it. Picking up his phone and pushing himself up to follow Victor. He scoots off the opposite side of the bed from Victor, his other hand rubbing at his face, trying to push his thoughts back, and goes to plug his phone in. It could charge while they went about what they have to do. "Okay."

[yuri_plisetsky]

Yuri shakes his head. 'He just told me to find you and Mila. He said he was going to find Georgi.' No mention, of course, of the reason why Yakov had sent him off on his own in the first place.

Lilia scans the sea of heads around her, then looks back at the two skaters. Yuri is clearly fading fast, remaining upright only through some combination of determination and spite, and even Mila has just had to stifle a yawn against the back of her hand. These events, however necessary they may be for ensuring that the sponsors feel that they are getting their money's worth, always go on for too long. After enough alcohol, any sensible and useful conversation devolves into the same gossip and jokes that make the rounds year after year. If they are to dispel the smiling, silver-haired ghost in the room, it would not do to leave too early...but Mila's yawn has just made Yuri fight back a yawn as well, and that decides it for her.

'Head over to the doors that lead to the hallway,' she tells them. 'I will find Yakov and let him know that the three of us will be leaving, with or without him and Georgi.'

Fucking finally, Yuri's expression says, though around Lilia he would never voice something like that aloud. He starts to turn to go, but when Mila doesn't follow immediately he pauses, and tugs on the end of her wrap. 'Are we doing this thing or what?' he says wearily, holding out his arm for her to take.

Mila presses her lips together to hide her surprise. Yuri must be exhausted for him to make an offer like that, with no outside motive or prompting. Still, he'd be mortified and withdraw it in an instant if she pointed it out to tease him about it, so she accepts his arm without comment. 'We'll wait for you just outside the door, Lilia, if that's all right -- it's a little too warm in here.'

Lilia pauses for a moment to watch them leave, her gaze lingering on Yuri's retreating back until she is confident that no one will hinder their departure. From what she has observed this evening (and will mention when she compares notes with her ex-husband later), the general opinion on Yuri is favourable -- a vague, cautious, guarded sort of favour, but favour nonetheless.

(Yuri Plisetsky's not approachable in the same way that Viktor Nikiforov is, of course. Not nearly so ready with a smile or a laugh, a cheerful word or an attentive ear, or that casual charm that any marketing team would kill to have as the face of their product. He apparently has a youthful, dedicated fan-following on the Internet, but he's by no means a proven attraction either on or off the ice. But for someone so young, the boy's clearly got plenty of fire in him -- by this point, most everyone in the room knows that he'd given Feltsman the slip and stalked Nikiforov to Japan of his own accord in a white-hot rage earlier in the year -- and among those who have heard about the confrontation in the lobby, in this crowd of old Muscovites there's more than a bit of pride at the thought of one of their own going toe-to-toe with someone from the St. Petersburg set and not backing down. Consensus seems to say that if Feltsman thinks that the kid's good enough to have a fighting chance on the senior circuit before he's even old enough to shave, there's no reason not to watch him tomorrow.)

The rest will be in Yuri's hands on the ice this weekend.

[fivetimechamp]

Yuri rolls up and off the bed, and Victor follows after a second, heading to pick up the jacket and sunglasses he'd tossed aside to put one in the pocket of the other and hang both in the closet, next to his suits. It might be worth taking the black out to air –– even after having it cleaned and pressed in Shanghai, the trip might have creased it –– but he leaves it for now. He can always press out any stubborn wrinkles in the morning, and let it steam in the bathroom during his shower.

While Yuri's checking his gear, then, he sorts through his luggage for his the small but stylish black case containing his toothbrush and accompanying accessories, and tugs out a soft black shirt and light pants to wear as pajamas. It feels strange to be self-conscious around Yuri –– only last week he would have thought nothing of stripping down where he stands to change, or even just sleeping in briefs, as usual –– but if anything, the shift in their relationship has left Yuri looking even more awkward about exposed skin. Victor's, specifically, followed closely by his own.

Which is not to say Victor feels any sort of shame in tugging his shirt over his head to replace it with the black one, or in toeing off his shoes, tugging off his socks, and shedding his casual trousers for the sleep pants, but it does niggle at him in a way he isn't used to. How he can still be himself, while making sure Yuri isn't uncomfortable. Why would he have to change how he does everything, or start thinking about what is or isn't appropriate, when the only thing that's changed is Yuri's knowledge?

It feels changed. He's not sure he likes it, but he also isn't used to changing in the bathroom like he might be ashamed of who sees him.

(They're just going to have to figure out the best options available, he supposes.)

At any rate, it doesn't take him long, and Yuri is busy with his gear, so he lays his clothes on top of his luggage to fold later, before disappearing into the bathroom to brush his teeth and wash his face, chatting along the way. "Traveling this much always leaves me feeling so strange! At least we're getting it done one right after another, we don't have to wait weeks and weeks between competitions. Maybe it's better to get them both out of the way together."

[theglassheart]

The phone plugged in, Yuri waits on Victor hanging things up before taking down the first of the two returned garments bags hanging in the closet and brings it back to his bed. Sitting on the end and pulling first the laundry tag off, from Victor sending them both out for a quick pressing before they'd gone out, and then pulling the costume itself out.

His hands are careful and studied, even if there might have been a moment he got momentarily distracted. Eyes mostly on the slippery black eel of fabric in his lap. But. Also, Victor not far to his side changing, and the faint tightness deep at the bottom of his spine, and his stomach. That urge to just let his gaze slip to the side, even still fixed on his lap. Or. Even. To just look up and over. Even if maybe he shouldn't, or maybe because he could, because Victor has said that some many times about so many things, he just can, all of it gummed up warmer toward his ears.

At least his fingers move deftly trained, even without all of his thoughts behind them. Checking at the sturdiness of all the fastenings. Every sewn and situated piece. Every added gem. Testing every seam in cloth and mesh and skirt, for any loose string or give more than it should be in any place. Even his now -- or, perhaps, just, his for now -- he can't help but hold a reverence for it. Tomorrow he won't have time to think about it like this. There will be too much else.

It's another part of Victor's legacy passed on to him. His costume, and all of his training. Extended even further into the flip this week. He'll never be Victor, and maybe this winter is the first time he's thought of that, even occasionally, as though it weren't a cutting failure. He doesn't want to be. When he can think clearly, he knows he doesn't want to be. A copy. To be seen as anything or anyone else.

Pulling it back on a hanger. It's half of his own age, and it still makes him feel lucky just looking at it.
Makes him feel half his age again, fingers pressed to a grainy tv, in awe of its contrast against the ice.

But something completely else, too. Something that's a heated chase and all of him, and only him, in motion.


He doesn't have to be Victor, if he can continue to show Victor that it is worth his time, that he can continue to reach higher.
That he can show the world that he's was worth it. Being chosen. Trained. That's what he needs to make them see tomorrow.

Yuri blinked, at the words, and looked toward the wall, and the light coming from the bathroom where Victor had gone and water was running. He zipped the bag back up slowly, making sure not to catch anything. Then, stood back up to walk back toward the closet. He could change out the one for his skates next.

"I would have thought you'd be used to it." Victor, of all people. Used it. Possibly barely noticing it.
This had been his life. Every year, and every competition, of every season, for near long as Yuri could count.

[yuri_plisetsky]

There's several degrees difference in temperature between the banquet room and the corridor outside, and both Yuri and Mila let out audible sighs of relief at the feeling of the cooler air. But then Mila shivers, and Yuri lets go of her arm so she can pull her wrap more closely around her.

'Ready for your signature quad axel?' she asks, and smiles at the heavy-lidded glare that Yuri gives her in response. 'Really, you did just fine tonight. You'll do fine tomorrow, too.'

'Mmph.' Yuri leans back against the corridor wall, squinting up at the ceiling. He'd like people to stop telling him that he'll do fine. That's not what he's here for. He here's to win the gold medal, to utterly crush the pig and Viktor, and to humiliate that prick JJ, in that order. (The last two have been battling it out for second and third place in his personal list of priorities all week, but this afternoon officially downgraded that asshole Canadian to the bronze medal slot.) Everything else is just noise.

It isn't long before Lilia appears, without Georgi. Hardly a surprise; he's not skating tomorrow, and with the Russian Nationals coming up at the end of December it's important for him to remain visible to the skating federation and the sponsors until they're all put on parade again at Sochi. But Lilia seems content enough to leave both him and Yakov behind, and so Yuri follows her and Mila to the lifts, fighting the urge to yank off his necktie and loosen the top button of his shirt. (It's feeling a little tight in the shoulders...and that's not a good sign if it means that he's starting to outgrow it.) On their floor, Yuri's room is the first they pass by, and Mila gives him a little wink of goodnight wishes as Lilia pauses, and says, 'Five minutes.'

The room is blissfully dim and quiet, with only the reflected glitter of the Moscow night sky through the window providing any external light. Even before the door can shut all the way, Yuri is sprawled face-down diagonally on the bed with one foot hanging off the end and his face half-mashed into a pillow, muffling his loud groan of frustration and exhaustion. Tempting as it is to simply not move ever again, when Lilia says five minutes you can set your watch by it, so after perhaps another half-minute of his boneless flop he lets out a series of grunts as he wriggles enough to first kick off his shoes and then push himself back to his feet.

The suit and tie come off immediately, everything deposited in a heap on the room's desk chair, and Yuri heads for the bathroom. He doesn't even bother with a glass, but turns on the faucet and bends down to drink directly from the tap, the rush of cool water dripping down his face as it washes the last traces of sour cherry juice from his mouth. Rinse, swish, gargle, and spit, not once but twice, and then he splashes some more water on his face and gropes for a towel. By the time that Lilia knocks on his door with a folded exercise mat under her arm, Yuri has changed into sleep clothes, devoured one of his two remaining pirozhki in three massive bites, and pulled his costumes and skates out for inspection.

[fivetimechamp]

"I was."

There are times when he wonders how well he actually knows St. Petersburg, spending weeks and months in the Sports Champions Club training, only to jet off to Barcelona, Tokyo, Helsinki. The season was spent traveling, until he knew these old hotels better than his own apartment, Maccachin left behind to be walked by a sitter or penned up in a kennel. Living out of a suitcase had never seemed like an inconvenience to him: as long as he had his skates and his costumes and a rink to borrow or rent for a few hours, he was fine. Had it always left him feeling this grimy and tired, or is this something new?

Or is it just being in Moscow?

His reflection in the hotel mirror doesn't look all that different from the one he remembers from last year, but something has changed, whether he can see it or not. Even during the summer breaks, he used to travel: sometimes on his own, sometimes with friends, sometimes with traveling shows, sometimes just for fun. Maybe it's just that this is the first year in more than he can count that he feels like he has something to leave behind.

Still, his voice is cheerful, if muffled beneath the towel he's using to pat his face dry, before he sticks his head out from the door to wink at Yuri. "Maybe I'm just getting old."

From Yurio, it would be a sullen, growled aside, like a cat swiping at someone who was just walking by, and he would find it annoying. (And has.) Yuri would probably find it too rude a thing to suggest, and if it slipped out, he'd turn red and bow his head repeatedly until he was laughed off and forgiven.

Maybe it is true, mused as he turns back to the mirror to finish his toilet. His knees and back don't ache like Yakov's, but they're getting to be a little stiff on cold mornings. The shoulder he'd hurt years ago occasionally reminds him it isn't as flexible as it used to be.

And in the midst of traveling, he's already thinking about returning to Hasetsu.

Well, it probably has more to do with being in Moscow than anything else –– he's looking forward to being in Barcelona again. "How does everything look?"

[theglassheart]

Yuri's back on the bed, with one skate at his side, and another turned sideways in his lap. The boot part itself is still in good condition, but he polishes them to keep up the leather and continue to seal against all of the possible water damage from the ice, spending the most of his attention as needed on the soles. The laces were still fine and in need no need of replacing. But he lingered on the blade, running a thumb against the line of it as Victor popped his head out, winking.

Yuri rolled his eyes. Maybe from anyone else it would sound like an actual complaint and concern. But anyone else wouldn't be sticking their head out the bathroom door, smiling and winking while making that suggestion. Sure, Victor is getting well into the years where skaters did stop, but Yuri's been on the ice with Victor more days of every week than not. There's nothing he seems to be even close to incapable of doing just as well as he was doing right before he arrived in Japan.

That's Victor, too. It always has been. Blowing away every expectation and human restriction for ice skating since he started. Victor not ending up back on the ice, breaking all of his records again as he went on surprising the world, seemed a nearly impossible thought to more than joke about like this. Yuri couldn't even begin to imagine it. It would be a great sadness and loss for the whole sport, and Victor. He couldn't really imagine Victor without it, either. Which tugs at the edge of his thoughts, twisting another new path to send him down.

He's caught up in that thought when Victor asks about his checks. "Everything is good. No tears, and no rust."
A reflection on both of things he'd already looked over, even as he was still completing the second one.

His blades were still sharp from the need for them to be as grippable on the ice as possible during all the flip training, but sometime next week he'd probably need them resharpened again. Either way, win or lose, he'll be home by that time and they'll go into the hands of people he can trust with the task and not someone he doesn't know and doesn't really want holding the chances of giving him more reasons to suffer in a performance. He was bad enough at that, for and against himself, already.

[yuri_plisetsky]

Yuri doesn't say anything when Lilia comes in, but silently lets her guide him through a familiar series of long, slow stretches, deep breaths in and out under her quiet count as he holds each one, wincing only when her firm touch helps push him deeper into a split or encourages him to reach a little further than his body would otherwise attempt on its own. After hours of sitting on an airplane or in a car, or standing cheek by jowl with hundreds of strangers, he can feel how tense his muscles have become even without the effort of exercise. So this simple routine, more than a chance to loosen all the kinks that have developed in his shoulders and back and legs throughout the day and evening, feels a little like piercing blisters to drain the fluid within. Tomorrow, the stretches will be a little more dynamic, aimed at keeping him warm and limber; tonight, they're meant to soothe and heal.

'Your costumes?' Lilia says, once they're finished and the mat is set to one side. Without a word, Yuri goes to look them over as Lilia shakes out and folds his discarded suit -- and again, it's the routine that he knows he's learning, being responsible for examining seams and hems and decorative pieces, that's meant to enforce a calm discipline over his fragmented thoughts. Everything seems to be in order for both Agape and Allegro, so he turns to check his skates. He'd had them sharpened in St. Petersburg, tested the critical R.O.H. with a run-through of all his jumps for both programs; they should be in ideal shape for tomorrow. Both he and Mila have spare sets of pre-sharpened blades secured in one of Yakov's bags, just in case. But he examines the leather and the laces, one final review, and gives them a quick buff with a soft cloth before he wraps them up again for transport.

(Not so different from Lilia's own years of breaking in and maintaining pair after pair of pointe shoes, sewing on the ribbons and loosening the shanks and scoring the soles with a sharp knife. Even though Yuri would never dance en pointe, she had still walked him through the practice as an essential part of a prima's training -- and he'd followed it all with rapt attention, trying to absorb as much of it as he could.)

He packs his bag for the morning, warm-up clothes and water bottle and everything he'll need. Lilia slips the Agape costume into a waterproof garment bag to keep it clean, and as she hands it to Yuri it's time for the final instructions of the evening. 'No more than ten minutes on your phone tonight,' she says, though from the way Yuri's eyelids are drooping she suspects that he won't even bother with that much time. 'Listen to quiet music only -- and not your program pieces. Drink two glasses of water before you sleep, and have one more glass as soon as you wake up. Do you need anything else?'

Yuri shakes his head. The evening routine has helped clear his head somewhat, but the events of the day have left him feeling like a wrung-out washcloth. All he needs right now is the last of his grandfather's pirozhki and eight hours of not having to think about anything. 'Good night, Lilia,' he says, a tired but polite routine of its own. 'Thank you for your help.'