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Mila calls him Yura, even though his name isn’t Russian.
‘Vitya’s winning streak started when he was around your age, you know,’ she tells him, wiping her face with a towel after the day’s practice. Yuuri looks at her over the top of his juice box. He feels like a bird caught in the spotlight. ‘So there’s plenty of time for you to be a five-time world champion! In fact, I’d say he expects it.’
Yuuri nods, wary. He doesn’t trust himself to speak much, not yet — although Mila is the person he’s most comfortable with, among his new rinkmates in this strange city. Apparently, the Russians think Yuuri speaks English with a very slight American accent. It charms them. He’s never thought of himself as charming before.
The straw hits pure air with a noisy slurping sound. He looks down in surprise. He’s drained his juice.
‘Have another one,’ says Mila good-naturedly. It occurs to Yuuri that they all think he’s special; any de facto son-in-law Viktor brings home to the St. Petersburg rink must be special. She tosses him a second juice box one-handed, still encased in its plastic wrapping. Her aim is impeccable. ‘For Japan’s next living legend!’
He doesn’t deserve this.
Viktor is the one who’s charming, of course. He is gracious to a fault, self-controlled in a way he never allows himself to be when he’s with Yuuri. Yuuri has known this for years and years but it’s a different experience seeing him up close. Watching him makes Yuuri ache. Yakov’s greatest achievement isn’t Viktor; it’s the fact that all his students seem to be on good terms with each other. Yurio pointedly ignores Viktor as he carves his own routines into the gleaming surface of the ice, the sweep of his arms desperate and aggressive. And yet. Most days Yurio stumbles onto the rink with Mila’s arm slung around his neck, grumbling just enough to save face. Lilia Baranovskaya seems only to have eyes for Yurio, except for the single chilling moment when her gaze focussed on Yuuri. (‘You trained under Okukawa Minako?’ ‘Yes ma’am,’ Yuuri yelped, while Viktor hovered protectively in the background. ‘Good,’ she said.) Viktor barely speaks to Georgi. Looks through him, even.
And yet.
When some other Russian skater on TV turns his mouth up and raises his eyebrows (‘What have you learned from Georgi Popovich?’ ‘Nothing!’), Yurio audibly hisses. Viktor’s eyes narrow and his lips thin. Viktor has only good things to say about his fellow skaters; never lets himself be caught misbehaving on camera. This is what makes him the nation’s champion. Viktor has never badmouthed a rival — in the early years, when people still thought they could match him — or complained about being cheated out of a gold medal. He doesn’t need to. Viktor, here, has raised his voice only once: in an argument with Yakov over his new short program. He lost. Until the next day, when Yakov gave in.
Yuuri is beginning to see how terrifying it must be to have Viktor as a rinkmate.
‘I should have gone to America,’ mourns Georgi, staring bleakly at his phone after yet another argument with his girlfriend. Yuuri sits on the lip of the rink beside him, feeling incomparably out of place in the Japanese national team jacket. Mila, whenever this happens, solemnly unplugs her earphones and then lies down on the ice next to Georgi. Yuuri does not think he and Georgi are at that point in their relationship. ‘Or moved to a different rink, at least. I am about to step out of the shadows and into the light —’ Although Georgi’s fluent in English, his accent is very thick and Yuuri has to strain to understand him. ‘— I am set to take my place in the annals of skating history, I am preparing to take gold at the Russian Nationals, and what does he do? He comes back!’
‘I’m sorry,’ Yuuri stammers.
‘It’s not your fault.’ Georgi rolls over to fix Yuuri with an intimidating stare, the phone still clutched in one hand. His hair seems to be wilting. ‘You were born lucky, Katsuki Yuuri. I was not. I have poured my whole heart —’
‘Maybe just give her space,’ Yuuri offers, tentative.
‘— into my skating, and to no avail, and if that wasn’t bad enough, he had to be born one day before me! The universe —’
‘I-I’ll remember your birthday, Georgi,’ says Yuuri, very flustered. He pulls out his phone and enters the date into his calendar.
Celestino never thought Yuuri had much raw talent, and he’s right: Yuuri is made of ambition and sheer hard work, has gotten this far on willpower alone. His friendlessness in childhood was a blessing in disguise, because it gave him the hours he needed to batter his feet into what they’ve become. He’s not a born performer like Phichit.
He knows better than to voice thoughts like these in Phichit’s hearing. Phichit would give him a talking-to fervent enough to bruise, and livetweet it, and then if Yuuko didn’t find out about it through her timeline Viktor would, and he’d never hear the end of this.
‘Seriously, Yuuri, stop beating yourself up about this,’ Phichit says now, lying sprawled across the sofa in the hotel lounge with his feet in Yuuri’s lap. Yesterday they spent a pleasant evening of half-serious card games in Phichit’s room, where Yuuri surprised everyone by being able to flawlessly apply eyeliner, and Viktor surprised no one by being able to flawlessly apply eyeliner. ‘Coaching you wasn’t a waste of time. You’re never a waste of time.’
‘I didn’t say anything,’ says Yuuri through his teeth.
‘I can hear you thinking. Taking the season off? At his age? He’ll have to work to beat you and Yuri at Worlds, and when was the last time he had to work for it? I bet you he’s happier now, more motivated.’
Phichit is right, even if he can’t quite work his way around the logic of Yuuri’s head. Nowadays there’s an edge to Viktor’s gaze when he watches Yuuri on the ice, the same precision that shaves the excess movement off his spins and takes Yuuri’s breath away with the artistry of it. The keen beauty of his eyes, which are blue enough to hurt. A sense of purpose in his faint smile.
Yuuri can hardly breathe under the weight of all this.
Across the coffee table, slouched down in his seat next to Leo and leafing through men’s fashion magazines with studied boredom, Yurio snorts. ‘If Vitya holds back on purpose to give you the silver medal, I’ll kick his ass.’
‘He wouldn’t do that,’ replies Yuuri automatically. ‘Wait. Silver?’
‘Silver.’
Leo hides a smile behind his hand.
‘Ah…’ says Yuuri as a realisation dawns on him. ‘Phichit, I forgot to tell you, but if you’d been at the 2015 GPF with your score you’d have made the podium, easily.’
Phichit waves him away. ‘I know! Don’t worry about me. Listen, if this makes you feel better, here’s a tip I read: try not to say sorry. Say thank you. It focuses on the other person, makes them feel good.’
‘Nothing too large-scale, if it’s not your style,’ Leo adds hastily. ‘Maybe an anniversary present?’
‘Bullshit,’ Yurio snaps, contemptuous enough to make Leo flinch. He wets his lips and glowers at Yuuri over the edge of his magazine. ‘Go all out. Do something public and embarrassing. He’ll love it. You remember your press conference, your disgusting love confession on national television? Something like that. Except in Russian.’
‘I don’t think —’
‘What love confession?’ Phichit demands, just as Leo says: ‘Wow, Yuri, I didn’t know you watched that!’
‘The Russian Skating Federation already hates him enough. There’s no way you could possibly make it worse.’
Yuuri puts his hands against his face. He feels overwhelmed.
‘But I don’t…’ He swallows, the whole world choking in his throat. ‘We don’t…’
Phichit’s eyes go wide. ‘You guys don’t celebrate your anniversary?’
‘We don’t have an anniversary?’ says Yuuri. ‘I mean, I’m not really sure when we started dating?’
‘Get him a T-shirt,’ Leo suggests. ‘Custom-made. “If lost, return to Yuuri.”’
‘I’m changing my name,’ says Yurio.
‘I’ve been gaming since I was a kid and the only Russian I know is “cyka blyat”,’ Yuuri says. He leans forward, rests his elbows on the coffee table and puts his head in his hands. ‘I’m not cut out for this.’
Predictably, Yurio helps him. Just barely reluctant, and Yuuri knows his temper would flare if Yuuri ever hinted that Yurio was being kind. Yuuri isn’t about to approach Yakov or Lilia and go, can you tell me how to show Viktor I love him, because between him and Viktor someone’s got to have some kind of self-preservation instinct.
Yurio somehow manages to make the act of chewing look unimpressed. His hair’s pulled back into a messy bun with one of Viktor’s hair ties, and he’s making his way luxuriously through a bowl of katsudon pirozhki. Yuuri has finally learned how to cook after twenty-four years of being a mama’s boy. ‘I can’t believe I’m saying this, but — idiot, your existence is enough of a gift to him. To anyone.’
‘That’s not enough.’ Yuuri reaches out and brushes the spilled crumbs into a neat little pile on the kitchen table between them. He closes his eyes and — now, here, to Yurio — lets himself say the words into the empty silence of the apartment: ‘I’m not enough.’
Yurio smacks the table in exasperation. Crumbs scatter everywhere. Yuuri sighs and pulls a tissue from the box on the shelf, but Yurio’s leaning over and grabbing Yuuri’s phone and Yuuri gets distracted by that.
‘What are you doing?’
‘Look.’ Yurio heaves himself out of his seat and moves around the edge of the kitchen table, sliding onto the bench beside Yuuri. He pulls up the Instagram app on Yuuri’s phone and clicks on Viktor’s profile. ‘Food. Ocean. More food. Selfie with fans. Selfie with dog he saw in the street. You, sleeping. You, dancing. You… what are you even doing in this picture? Food, again. Don’t bother trying to book a restaurant for a romantic dinner date, your tastes can never match up to his and he has more money than you’ll ever have. Makkachin, you, view of the sunrise from your bedroom window — I just threw up a little in my mouth — photo with Stéphane Lambiel, nice guy, you should marry him instead, here’s Makkachin, here’s you and Makkachin, video of him making a fool of himself with Chris, okay, that’s it. I’m out. I’m done scrolling. I feel like I need to cleanse myself now. Okay, I’m going back to your feed — the fuck, why are you following Yuri’s Angels fan accounts on Instagram?’
‘I love you!’ Yuuri snatches the phone back.
Yurio rests his forehead on the (freshly scrubbed) surface of the table for a moment, and then sits up with a scowl and steals the last pirozhki from Yuuri’s plate. ‘God. How is it that he’s been living with you in Japan for almost a year and hasn’t gotten any less annoying?’
Yuuri leans on his elbows and breathes. The apartment is sparse, since neither he nor Viktor have many personal belongings, but that just means it’s easy to take care of. Easy to maintain. The high ceilings and broad spaces are filling up with Yuuri’s presence and Yurio’s. He is coaxing himself into the impossible belief that he can make someone else happy.
He still wants to try, though.
‘Sure,’ Yurio says. Yuuri startles when he realises that he’s said that last part out loud. ‘But there’s no pass-or-fail rate for these things. You can’t measure it, you know what I mean? Plus it’s not like Vitya has expectations. You’re probably the first person in years with the bad taste to love him.’
Yuuri blinks. Closes his eyes, again, letting himself inhale. Opens his eyes. Yurio’s not staying for dinner, even though he made Yuuri feed him at this deep afternoon hour; he says he’ll walk out the door as soon as Viktor walks through it. Yuuri feels a pang of — well, not loneliness, exactly, but a kind of affection so strong that it tugs at his lungs. At this point something occurs to him.
‘I’ve been wondering this for a while,’ Yuuri says. ‘Viktor’s not… he’s not… he’s not the JJ of Russia, is he?’
Yurio sprays crumbs of pirozhki all over the table.
‘You take that back!’
‘I was just wondering…! Because you don’t seem to like —’
‘I’m cancelling your engagement! You’re not worthy!’
‘Do you know you’re getting married?’ says Lilia.
Yuuri leans against the lockers and massages his chafed feet through their socks. He casts an anxious glance over his shoulder towards the rink, where Viktor is speaking to Yakov in a low voice, arms folded. Yuuri recognises that pose — skates planted solidly in the centre of the ice, that well-worn black practice shirt, quiet power leaking from every line of him — except this time Viktor is the student instead of the coach. He looks new and familiar both at the same time, and entirely, painfully beloved.
‘I never let myself believe it for long,’ Yuuri admits. He can’t meet Lilia’s eyes. He’s danced for her in the studio, and received her approval if not her pride, and seen Yurio’s eyes flash as he braces himself against the barre to watch Yuuri. Someday… someday, Yuuri’d like to dance beside Yurio the way Viktor stays at Yuuri’s side to run through his choreography with him. The same well-known motions, the same strength and fluidity. Perfectly matched if not identical. Yurio’s sharp gaze intent on Yuuri: assessing, learning. Yuuri’s years of ballet training have served him well. He does want to do that, someday. He dares to let himself imagine it. ‘I thought… I thought it couldn’t be true. I always do this. Push people away before I get hurt.’
There’s a brief, contemplative silence. Yuuri crouches down to zip his bag closed. He prays their English is better than his Russian.
‘Take him ice skating,’ Mila says at last. It’s a decent suggestion, not a perfect one, but Yuuri is learning to live with the knowledge that none of his ideas are ever going to be perfect. ‘There’s a public rink near — you know the address?’
‘He doesn’t like getting mobbed by fans on a date.’
‘Oh, Yura,’ Georgi sighs from the other side of the locker room. ‘They’d ask for your autograph too. That’d make him happy.’
The sun has set by the time Yuuri’s crossing the familiar bridge to get home, and dusk settles over the gentle buildings in his peripheral vision, sinking deep and warm into his ribs. The wind is bitter on his reddening skin, though he doesn’t mind — the cold chips away at his nose and cheeks and breath, makes him feel real. The insides of his body are stretched and worn the way they can only be after staying late to practise at the rink. It’s a good kind of exhaustion. Gold at the World Championships. He wants it. He can want it. He can do it.
Yuuri’s feet carry him through the quaint, wide streets and home to Viktor. He has the route by heart, now, and he doesn’t need Viktor at his side to read the Cyrillic signs if he gets lost. He’s mapping out the words he wants to say, instead — neither of them are very good with words but they try, and Yuuri can try —
I want to marry you, even if I don’t win gold.
I’ll win gold five times in a row if you want me to, but I want to stay with you longer than five years, if you don’t mind.
If you want me to. (I know you do.)
I want to stay with you forever —
He opens the door to their apartment. The floors are heated, for which Yuuri is thankful in the mornings. Viktor keeps putting his feet on Yuuri to warm them up when they’re cold, and Yuuri takes his revenge by rolling Viktor up in the blankets and rolling Viktor clean out of bed. He takes off his scarf and coat and shoes and goes into the bedroom.
Viktor is lying on his stomach on the bed, his feet in the air and the curve of his mouth drowsy, watching some video on his phone. Makkachin wobbles off the bed and bounds across the room to greet Yuuri, and Yuuri catches Makkachin by the paws and kisses him hello before scrambling onto the bed to put his arms around Viktor. Viktor turns his head to kiss the corner of Yuuri’s jaw in greeting, eyelashes brushing Yuuri’s cheek.
‘I have something for you.’ Yuuri tucks his face into the hollow of Viktor’s neck, drawing courage from the sweet aching scent of shampoo. He has to say this now, so that he can make sure he’ll go through with it later — live up to the promise. He breathes. ‘It’ll come tomorrow.’
‘Really?’ says Viktor, brightening. ‘What is it?’
‘Do you want to know?’
Viktor smiles. ‘Surprise me.’