Chapter Text
Yuuri Katsuki was the kind of person you didn’t think about until you saw him dressed up.
Then he was the kind of person you never stopped thinking about again.
The problem was, though, that despite the increasing number of stylists willing to work with the rising star—the number that sent him clothes in the mail, that had offered to let him keep clothes after photoshoots, or wanted a contract signed stating that he’d wear their design to his next red carpet—on an average day, Yuuri Katsuki did not dress particularly nicely.
In fact, he tended to dress like a teenage boy. And not the kind of teenage boy who was obsessively into designer streetwear. Or even the kind of teenage boy who for some reason insisted on wearing a suit for any occasion that remotely called for it. More like that kind of teenage boy who could be spotted running through a high school hallway, clutching a massive stack of books to their chest.
You know, the kid that wore the same cargo pants, hoodie, and tattered messenger bag every single day?
Yuuri Katsuki was that kid.
Except now he was 23 and well on his way to becoming a millionaire, even if the latter thing was fairly recent.
And sure, the messenger bag was now made out of leather (a gift from his sister after landing his first role) and the cargo pants were replaced with jeans (because his college roommate and best friend Phichit had threatened to refuse to be seen with him in public otherwise). But the hoodie was still just a hoodie.
And this is very likely the very reason that why the one time Yuuri Katsuki had met (i.e. been caught staring at) his idol, Victor Nikiforov, in an airport, the man had mistaken Yuuri for just another doting fan and had offered to take a photo with him.
And Yuuri, who had idolized Victor since the other man first came to stardom as teenage heart throb a decade ago, had ignored the international superstar and run off to his gate, sans photo.
Because you see, Yuuri Katsuki was, at that point in time, technically speaking not just a fan.
If he had been just a fan, maybe he would have taken the photograph. (Maybe.)
But the thing was, on that particular day, Yuuri was flying back to L.A. from New York after finally finishing off a large press tour for that holiday seasons hottest blockbuster action movie that had just premiered last weekend, and in the days since had already grossed $200 million dollars worldwide and had an 87% approval rating on Rotten Tomatoes. A movie in which Yuuri Katsuki coincidently had a rather large part in.
But Victor Nikiforov, apparently, didn’t know that.
Not that he should, of course, Yuuri recognized. The man was probably far too busy with his own life to see other people’s movies. And it was Yuuri’s first role, basically ever. And it wasn’t like Yuuri was the lead or anything—his character the computer hacker side-kick to the lead bad-ass action hero. A Q, not a Bond, if you will.
So there was absolutely no reason for Victor to have seen the movie. No reason to Victor to remember Yuuri’s face, even if he had. And certainly no reason for him or anyone who may have even seen the movie to be able to recognize the Yuuri that had appeared on screen with the Yuuri that stood gaping in the airport.
Because, well, Yuuri’s character had been carefully well-dressed in a kind of messy, nerdy, chic—lots of button downs with the sleeves rolled up, stylish glasses, and neatly styled hair. And the real life Yuuri had been up since 4 a.m. that morning to catch a flight, had run out of clean clothes three days ago and was currently wearing the same stained t-shirt he’d been sleeping in, and had also incidentally lost his comb in London last week and hadn’t bothered to acquire a new one and was pretending that bedhead look was one he could pull off.
But it was still terribly embarrassing and degrading, none-the-less, Yuuri felt. And so he’d vowed to never think, nor speak, of the incident again.
It probably wouldn’t even be that hard, anyway, Yuuri assumed. It’s not like Yuuri Katsuki was ever going to land another role.
He’d probably be washed up out of Hollywood by the time summer rolled around.
*
Yuuri did not, technically speaking, know how to audition.
It’s not that he hadn’t ever read for anything at all, of course he had.
Once.
At least, only once had he read actually knowing that auditioning was what he was doing.
But the first and last movie that he had been cast in, he’d been selected during an international casting call. And at that point, he’d only ever acted once, technically speaking, and he certainly hadn’t auditioned for anything.
And it’s not like he hadn’t wanted to, act that is, of course. Don’t for a second think that anyone managed to accidently rope Yuuri along into this kind of career. The man may have been a master of self-deprecation and self-doubt, but he had always wanted to be an actor.
But it was a secret dream of his.
Until he’d been cast in The Ice Master early in the year, Yuuri had, in fact, assumed his dream of acting was like that secret dream of being a figure skater that he also had. You know, that dream that grew incredibly intense every time the Winter Olympics rolled around, but that was obviously never going to happen because Yuuri had made a solid dent into his twenties and still only went skating a handful of times every winter.
So of course he’d assumed acting was supposed to be like that—a missed opportunity that he’d never really intended on working towards. A fantasy, if you will.
But the reality of it was that Yuuri had been 22 years old and a college senior at a university outside Detroit set to graduate with a double major in Communications and Computer Science. If he was actually going to be an actor, he would have gone to school is LA. He would have studied drama.
He would have, you know, actually tried basically at all.
But the fact of that matter was, was that Yuuri had pretty awful anxiety, so the idea of auditioning and performing in plays at his university in Detroit filled him with terror. And the idea of going to school and constantly being graded on his ability to successfully pretend to be a human being made him feel ill.
So instead he took dance classes at the college’s studio and gave the one recital at the end of every semester pretending he was dancing in an empty room. And then there was that one time where a very desperate film student had been looking for someone to act in their short film and Yuuri had timidly agreed on the notion that he was just doing a favor and he probably wouldn’t be good. (The film went on to win an award at a national competition, but Yuuri assumed that was because of the superb editing—despite the fact that the award was literally for best performance in a leading role).
But then, one day everything changed, as it inevitably always does (although rarely quite like this).
Because Yuuri had decided to tell exactly one person on the entire planet about his secret fantasies of acting. And he made the mistake of that person being Phichit Chulanont.
Because of course, when Yuuri Katsuki’s number one fan, supporter, and best-best friend, Phichit heard news of an upcoming film doing a world-wide casting call for “diverse” actors, Phichit had put together the worlds most pathetic reel of Yuuri’s short film credit and a video of a few of his dance recitals, attached his senior photos as headshots, and sent it in.
All without telling Yuuri, of course. (Because Yuuri would have said absolutely not.)
But then, about a month later and for god knows what reason, Phichit, who’d put himself down as Yuuri’s representation, got a call.
And then Phichit was emailed a script and in their little apartment in Detroit, he somehow conned Yuuri into filming him doing a reading of it—all while still not telling Yuuri exactly what was going on—and sent it back off the casting.
And then another week went by and another call came, and a Skype call with a couple casting directors was set up.
Now that one was a bit trickier for Phichit to keep Yuuri in the dark about.
But he’d still managed to none the less.
Obviously.
And so Yuuri was fed a story about how some graduate student friends of his had this experimental unscripted film project that they needed some footage of a pretend interview for. And since Yuuri was technically speaking one of the universities only award-winning actors, he should do them the favor. Phichit made it easy—told him that all Yuuri would have to do is take a skype call and act like he was auditioning, and they’d film it on their end and send Yuuri a copy of the final project in another couple months.
And so Yuuri spoke with real casting directors, acting like he was acting.
Then two more days went by, and Phichit got a third call.
But this time, Yuuri was wanted in LA for a real live screen test and to do a reading with some of the actors they’d cast so far. And so Phichit had to come clean.
But after a fair deal of yelling and crying, almost entirely on Yuuri’s part, they bought a pair of last-minute tickets to LA.
And so Yuuri showed up at a studio, which turned out to be the most intimidating conglomeration of non-descript buildings Yuuri had ever seen, to audition. And Yuuri honestly didn’t know how auditions usually worked, but he’d come to find out later, usually they don’t stick you in a room for ten minutes with the lead actor, have you read a scene, tell you you’re free to go, and then call you back in less than an hour to offer you a part.
But apparently, he and Christophe Giacometti, who’d already been cast as the lead, had just really hit it off, or something.
But it was why, now almost a year later, as Yuuri stood in a room with a couple of bored looking casting directors, a single camera boring into his soul, Yuuri felt completely out of his depth.
He had a real agent now, an Italian man called Celestino, who after Yuuri had ridden out the wave of The Ice Master, had decided Yuuri needed to start going out on auditions to look for his next gig.
And yes, Yuuri Katsuki may have, again, technically speaking received more critical acclaim in his short career than nearly everyone else who sat in the waiting room waiting to audition on that particular day of his first actual audition. But that didn’t mean Yuuri was confident.
Because the thing was, Yuuri was terribly aware that he didn’t know any of the technical aspects of acting. He didn’t know certain techniques, none the less did he purposefully practice any of them. He’d never even taken an improv class, for crying out loud. Everyone who lived in LA in their twenties and fancies themselves an aspiring, well, any industry related job has at least taken an improv class. He was sure every single thing he did was some kind of Acting 101 faux-pas.
But despite his complete lack of technical prowess, the one thing Yuuri did know how to show his emotions. He knew how to perform—he’d learned that through dance. He learned that from wanting to be able to bury himself so deeply in a role that he forgot who Yuuri Katsuki even was.
And so that’s what he did.
And then he got a call back.
And then he got the part.
*
“Why are we still roommates, again?” Phichit asked, flopping backwards over the armrest of the couch.
“Do you want to move out?” Yuuri asked, his brow furrowing, as he looked over the kitchen island and across into the living room where Phichit was now hanging upside-down off the couch. “I was barely even here the first six months we lived here, and I’m about to barely ever be here anymore again.”
“No, of course not,” Phichit said quickly, placing his hands down on the ground and kicking his feet up as he flipped himself off the couch with a soft thud. “The only way I’d ever get to live in a place like this paying as little as I do in rent is if I became a houseboy,” Phichit said as he stood up, gesturing around Yuuri’s modest but slick modern Echo Park apartment that Yuuri had hastily leased after getting cast in The Ice Master last year.
He’d honestly been too freaked out about the whole actually being an actor in a find of massive highly anticipated film to really pay much attention to the apartment hunting process though and had ended up with a much nicer place that the typically too-sensible Yuuri Katsuki would have chosen under normal circumstances. Phichit, who was helping in the apartment hunting process, may have had something to do with that.
“You say that as if you’ve given it some thought,” Yuuri said, his voice deadpan, but clearly teasing. “So what’s the problem then?”
“Well I mean,” Phichit shrugged, “You signed a deal for your second major motion picture in just over a year today and instead of going out and partying and bringing back some model with more abs than previously thought physiologically possible to your bachelor pad, you’re making your fabulous but admittedly not remotely A-list roommate katsudon and will probably be in bed by nine. We could have at least ordered in or something!”
“My mother’s recipe is better than any of the Japanese restaurants that will deliver here, you know that,” Yuuri defended. “And Cary Grant had a roommate for over a decade right through the height of his career—um, what’s his name,” Yuuri said, turning back to the task at hand and absentmindedly scrambling eggs in a bowl with a pair of chopsticks before pouring them into the pan.
“Yeah, and they were definitely fucking,” Phichit said as he walked into the kitchen. “And you, sir, have made a point of not fucking me,” he said, leaning up against the counter, crossing his arms over his chest, and looking at Yuuri pointedly.
“That rumor has been vehemently denied by basically every living relative of either of them,” Yuuri said, ignoring the second thing all together. “Can’t we celebrate platonic male friendship? I was literally just cast in a movie about that.”
Phichit rolled his eyes.
“Well of course, lest we forget the currently untitled bro-drama, my platonic love,” he said, coming to stand behind Yuuri, wrapping his arms around his waist and resting his chin on Yuuri’s shoulder. “But when a comedian makes a joke you’re gay and you sue him for slander, you’ve obviously got some kind of issues that need to be worked out.”
“That was in the 1980’s, Phichit, there was obviously a lot—” Yuuri started and then sighed, giving the pan one more shake before turning off the burner. “I’m kind of over the Cary Grant biography fact-off.”
“So you’re saying I won?”
Yuuri elbowed Phichit in the ribs
Phichit groaned and dramatically stumbled backwards.
“Oh, great show of platonic male friendship there Yuuri,” Phichit said, rubbing his side. “I can just feel the love.”
“If you don’t go sit down at the table for dinner, I’m going actually move out—good luck being approved to take over the lease without my two major motion picture signing bonuses.”
“Okay, Mr. Sassy-Pants,” Phichit pouted. “Can’t we at least eat on the couch and watch some Netflix though like normal 21st century humans?”
“Is this you setting up an entry into some kind of in very poor taste Netflix and chill joke to go along with your long running Yuuri Katsuki won’t sleep with me bit? Because we can have sex if it ends this torment.”
“First of all,” Phichit scolded. “You don’t mean that, you horrible tease,” he pouted.
Yuuri groaned. (Although of course it was true.)
“And second of all,” Phichit said with a far too proud of himself grin, “Yuuri, honey, baby, I don’t need to set up Netflix and chill jokes when you insist on having candlelit dinners with your platonic male roommate,” Phichit said, gesturing dramatically at the little glowing decorative candle holders in the middle of the kitchen table.
“They are just a couple of tealights!” Yuuri defended, his tone exasperated. “They make it cozy,” he added, his voice smaller now.
“Yeah, and you want to know why a person under usual circumstances tries to make a room feel cozy when they’re having dinner with someone?”
“I imagine you’re going to tell me?”
“Because it sets off a chain reaction of sorts,” Phichit said, complete with hand gestures to demonstrate how serious he was in laying down the facts. “It activates our primitive caveman brain parts that makes us want to curl up with someone in front of a fire and fuck.”
“I feel like that explanation is neither anthropological nor scientific.”
Phichit rolled his eyes.
“Okay, but if a pap got a picture of us sitting at your candlelit table eating dinner together—what would the headline read?”
“First of all, paparazzi do not care about someone like me, and second of all I wouldn’t care, because I, unlike Cary Grant, am secure in my sexuality and masculinity.”
“Oh,” Phichit said, quirking an eyebrow, the devil smile returning, “And then what would you do if the media found out about the secret Victor Nikiforov poster stash wallpapering your closet?”
Yuuri’s eyes widened and he blushed almost violently before shoving Phichit’s bowl of food at him and walking over to the couch to sit down in defeat.
Phichit followed after him, smiling victoriously and picking up the remote.
“So which season of The Great British Bake-Off do you want to rewatch?”
*
Yuuri woke up to the sound of his phone ringing.
“Hai?” he mumbled as he answered it, rubbing his eyes tiredly.
“I’ve got some news about the currently untitled film,” Celestino said down the line.
Yuuri’s stomach dropped and he immediately sat up.
“They’d dropped me,” Yuuri said. “Right? I’ve been recast.”
“No—although you’re close, sort of,” Celestino said, and Yuuri did not feel remotely reassured. “Apparently contract negotiations for the leads went haywire yesterday.”
“I thought J.J. and Guang Hong were basically locked down?”
“Apparently not. They were expecting for Leroy to ask for the moon, he always does, but apparently he wanted the stars this time too and they couldn’t cut a deal. And Ji was offered a role in a film that is being directed by a promising young director who is a friend of his, and so he decided to drop as well.”
Yuuri sighed and swung his legs over the edge of the bed. There was still a lot Yuuri had to learn about the film industry, but a movie with both leads dropping out when they were due to start rehearsals in only a few weeks did not bode well for this film, Yuuri had a feeling.
“So, do they have any idea who they’re going to get to replace them?”
“Well, Yuuri, that’s the thing,” Celestino said, taking a long breath that made Yuuri stop breathing, “They’d like you for Guang Hong’s role.”
Yuuri’s stomach felt like fire and ice all at once.
“What?”
“They want you for the role of Neil Reilley.”
Yuuri’s mind was spinning. He was happy with another secondary character role. It was less pressure. As a secondary character, if you were good, people might write you a sentence in their review. If you were mediocre though, they probably just wouldn’t mention you.
As a lead though, Yuuri would have to face scrutiny. He’d be up for real awards, if the film did well. People might expect him to continue to take larger roles. He might actually become someone.
Who on earth would think it’s a good idea to give Yuuri Katsuki top billing in anything?
“Well that’s unfortunate that there are so few twenty-something male Asian actors in Hollywood that a no-one like me is the next in line,” Yuuri responded, being self-deprecating like it was the only thing he knew.
“Yuuri,” Celestino sighed, “That is not it at all. They also happen to know that you’re already available—that’s a big factor too,” Celestino joked.
“If I wanted someone to tease me, I could have kept Phichit as my manager,” Yuuri grumbled.
“Seriously though, Yuuri,” Celestino said. “This is a massive deal. Your casting in The Ice Master was already more of a big break than many people get in a lifetime, and here you are getting another.”
“Who—” Yuuri asked slowly, not sure he wanted to know the answer. “Who do they want for Kensey?”
“I don’t have anything firm, but I heard from the person in casting I got any of this information from that they think they might be able to snatch Victor Nikiforov. He’s expressed some late interest in the project.”
Yuuri collapsed backwards on the bed, clutching the phone to his chest.
“Yuuri?” he could hear Celestino muffled yelling through the phone. “Yuuri!”
“I’m—I’m going to have to call you back,” Yuuri murmured as he raised the phone off his chest only to hang up and then promptly threw it across the bed like it was a grenade.
“Morning Yuuri!” Phichit said, popping his head into Yuuri’s room, wearing some sort of rather expensive looking face mask. “Woah there, buddy, what’s happening?” Phichit asked as he assessed the situation (i.e. seeing Yuuri looking like someone had simultaneously kicked every dog on the planet at once. But even worse).
“How would you feel about going back to Japan with me?” Yuuri mumbled, still staring up at the ceiling.
“Sure,” Phichit said, flopping down on the bed next to Yuuri. “Spring break Japan sounds nice. Getting homesick? Need a break from LA already?”
“No, not for spring break. Like forever.”
“What?” Phichit immediately rolled over to look at Yuuri. “Did something happen with the film?”
Yuuri just blinked up at the ceiling and Phichit sighed.
“Come on, Yuuri, there will be other projects. This was literally your first audition since The Ice Master,” Phichit said. “Come on, talk to me.”
“The leads dropped out. Ji and Leroy.”
Phichit furrowed his brow.
“What does that have to do with you? Do they cancel entire films over something like that? Won’t they just get someone else?”
“They have. Or, at least, they have some people in mind.”
“Alright, well that’s great! Who is it?”
Yuuri rolled over and buried his face into a pillow, mumbling something.
“What? I can’t understand.”
With a deep breath, Yuuri lifted his head up.
“Me and Victor Nikiforov,” he whispered quickly.
Phichit’s jaw dropped and he slapped Yuuri in the shoulder repeatedly.
“Oh. My. God.”
*
“Have you ever met Nikiforov?” Celestino asked over what he called a “working lunch” but Yuuri thought of as a wasted lunch because he never had the appetite to eat anything when they were discussing his career.
He felt even worse today, considering Celestino just confirmed that Victor Nikiforov was officially signed on to play opposite him in the film, which had also in the meantime acquired the title On Your Love.
“No,” Yuuri said quickly, hoping Celestino didn’t catch that it was a bit too quickly.
“Well, maybe I’ll call his manager and set up a lunch. Start to work on chemistry and such—particularly since you’re so new to the business. I’ve heard that Nikiforov is a very generous actor, I’m sure he’d be happy to spend a little extra time with you if it would help your performance.”
“Aren’t they going to have us read together?” Yuuri asked.
“Honestly, I think they’re so fed up with the fiasco of things they’re in a bit of a rush. They know Nikiforov will make it work no matter what, and you, despite your fairly limited career have already earned a reputation for being able to act with anyone. Your first ever audition and you walked into a room with Christophe Giacometti and didn’t faint, or punch him, or sleep with him, for Christ sakes—something that happens very, very rarely, apparently.”
“Chris is just a flirt,” Yuuri shrugged. “He’s nice though.”
“So I’ll set up lunch then?”
“Can it be like, coffee instead?” Yuuri asked. “Something a little lower pressure.”
“You want Victor Nikiforov to meet you at Starbucks?” Celestino asked, quirking an eyebrow.
“It doesn’t have to be Starbucks,” Yuuri said meekly. “It can be somewhere pretentious and private. But just—” Yuuri stammered, his voice trailing of helplessly.
“Okay, fine, coffee then,” Celestino chuckled. “Now, do you want me to get your food boxed up?” he asked, eying Yuuri’s untouched sandwich.
Meekly, Yuuri nodded.
*
“So I take it Victor signed?” Phichit asked as Yuuri came back to their apartment and immediately fell face forward on the couch.
“And I did too,” Yuuri muttered into the couch cushion.
“Come on Yuuri, shouldn’t you be excited to get to work with your idol? Meet him on equal ground?” Phichit said rousingly.
Yuuri flopped over onto his back and stared up at the ceiling and made a noise that was a cross between a whine and a groan.
“What?” Phichit asked.
“There’s something I never told you.”
“What?” Phichit repeated, more excitedly this time.
“I’ve met Victor Nikiforov before.”
“What?” Phichit repeated eagerly now, shoving Yuuri’s feet up to sit down on the end of the couch next to him. “When?”
“Last month, when I was flying back to LA. I, em, ran into him at the airport.”
Phichit gasped.
“Yuuri!” Phichit said, swatting at Yuuri’s knee excitedly. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
Yuuri didn’t say anything and Phichit furrowed his brow.
“Was he a dick or something?” he asked. “Everyone always says he’s super nice, but those are always the ones that are actually like psychopaths, right? I mean, look at you, you’re the nicest person I’ve ever met and some people when they first meet you think you’re a bit of an asshole because you’re too socially anxious.”
“Gee, thanks,” Yuuri murmured, picking his feet up and laying them across Phichit’s lap.
“You know what I mean,” Phichit said. “So, what happened?”
“He asked me if I wanted a photo with him.”
“What?”
“He asked me if I wanted a photo with him,” Yuuri repeated.
“Where’s the photo?”
“I didn’t take it. I just walked away.”
“You aren’t making a good case for yourself in the people not thinking you’re a dick department.”
Yuuri groaned.
“I didn’t—I didn’t approach him, or anything,” Yuuri said. “He caught me staring at him and then he asked me if I wanted a photo, probably assuming I was a fan. And I mean, I am—or was. But also The Ice Master had just premiered but of course that didn’t change anything and—”
“So you walked away,” Phichit finished. “Man, he really is a dick then, assuming people want photos with him like that.”
“No,” Yuuri sighed. “I mean, I’m sure he’s just trying to cut straight to the punch to save time. He’s Victor Nikiforov after all.”
“That doesn’t mean that—” Phichit said but was cut off as Yuuri’s phone started to ring.
Yuuri looked at the ID. It was a number he didn’t recognize, but Yuuri was admittedly pretty terrible at labeling his contacts and he’d learned that in the line of work he was now in, it was unfortunately pretty important to always answer the phone.
“Hello?” Yuuri answered.
“Yuuri!” a voice Yuuri recognized instantly called out. “How are you doing darling?”
“I’m fine, Chris, how are you?”
“I’m excellent, just excellent,” Chris said passively, and Yuuri’s stomach churned a bit in anticipation of figuring out what exactly it was Chris wanted. “A little birdie told me you’ve received a bit of an upgrade on your latest film project, congratulations.”
“Yeah, I, uh,” Yuuri said. “Yeah. News is already spreading? They said they weren’t putting out the press release until the beginning of next week.”
“Oh, just a source I have close to project, you know,” Chris said vaguely and Yuuri didn’t care to press. Yuuri had learned pretty quickly after moving to LA that people tend to talk (i.e. gossip) around here constantly. “But that brings me to the reason I called—I’m having a little party tonight and I’d like you to come.”
Yuuri didn’t know how those two things were possibly related but knew it best to not try to spend too long trying to imagine what it’s like inside of Chris’s head.
But he did instantly know that Chris’s idea of a little party would probably be the biggest party Yuuri had ever been to.
“Oh, um,” Yuuri said. “I don’t really do parties.”
“Party?” Phichit mouthed at him, excitedly.
“Oh, yes you do, darling. I know you do,” Chris said knowingly. “You’re a star now, Yuuri, you’ve got to learn to party, at least for the first few years. Then you can let the psychosis of stardom eat you alive and stop leaving your house.”
“That was acting, Chris,” Yuuri stated firmly.
“And it’s still such a shame that they cut that scene from the movie,” Chris said with a sigh. “I hope they put it on the DVD as a bonus feature, although no one really watches DVD’s, not anymore, do they? Maybe someone will, though, and they’ll rip it to YouTube and it will go viral.”
“I really hope it doesn’t,” Yuuri muttered.
“But anyway, you’re definitely coming tonight and I’m not taking no for an answer,” Chris announced. “I’ll just bring the party to your place if you don’t come to mine.”
Yuuri wanted to say, “You wouldn’t,” but he knew that wasn’t true.
“I’m beginning to think my agent was right, you area insufferable to work with.”
“Oh, I definitely am,” Chris said with a laugh. “You, Yuuri Katsuki are a saint for putting up with me for 90 days of shooting.”
“They filmed a lot of our scenes ‘together’ entirely separately and just cut them together.”
“But I always fed you lines, darling, if I was around. Most people specifically ask me not to—too distracting they say,” Chris said flippantly. “So are you coming or not? Starts at nine-ish, that’s when staff is arriving anyway, but please for the love of god don’t show up until 10:00 at the earliest. I’ll text you the address,” Chris said.
Just then Phichit started swatting at Yuuri.
“What?” Yuuri mouthed, “Stop it!” he whispered, but Phichit just looked at him pointedly.
Yuuri sighed.
“Can I bring someone?”
“A date or your small Thai friend?”
“Phichit,” Yuuri clarified “Would you say yes to one but not the other?” Yuuri asked, furrowing his brow.
Chris only hummed as a response.
“What? I didn’t imagine that you’d be one to care that Phichit is underaged,” Yuuri said.
Chris clicked his tongue.
“No, no, nothing like that—oh course Phichit can come, it’s an old Hollywood past-time, isn’t it, getting children drunk and high?”
“Phichit is, like, 20.”
“Yes, yes, whatever,” Chris said dismissively and Yuuri just sighed. “See you tonight. Oh, and Yuuri?”
“Yeah?”
“Wear something nice.”
*
“What do you mean you can’t go?” Yuuri asked, collapsing onto his bed after Phichit had popped into his room to give the news. “There is no way I’m going alone.”
“I forgot that I have a shoot tomorrow that I need to be on set for at like 5 tomorrow morning,” Phichit groaned. “And I mean, while normally I’d blow that off to go party with Christophe Giacometti, this is technically speaking a school thing and it’s like an automatic fail if I don’t show up—I can’t risk it!”
Yuuri sighed.
“What if we go and only stay for like an hour?” Yuuri bartered weakly. “Be back before midnight.”
“Oh no,” Phichit said. “You’re going to go and have fun, Yuuri. Come on, have a drink and stick with Christophe and I’m sure there is no way you won’t have a good story to tell me tomorrow.”
“If I remember,” Yuuri mumbled.
Phichit sighed.
“Okay, how about this. We’re going to set a hard line at five drinks—that’s the marker for problem drinking right? Doctors always asking you when the last time you had 6 or more drinks is? But five drinks and you’re A-Okay, got it? You can even text me a photo of what you’re drinking if you worry about forgetting how much you’ve had, okay?”
“I feel like when a friend expresses concern for their relationship with alcohol you’re not supposed to barter them into getting hammered anyway,” Yuuri muttered. “You’re being a bad influence.”
Phichit sighed, again, slightly louder this time and sat down on the bed next to Yuuri, pushing aside the mountain of clothes that Yuuri had assembled trying to figure out how to dress himself.
“Look, if you really don’t want to go, and if you really don’t want to drink, I’m not going to make you,” Phichit said. “But I worry that you’re trying to get out of this because you’re afraid of living your life, not because you’re afraid of having your stomach pumped. This isn’t some gross and sleazy frat party, Yuuri. You’re young and rich and famous, you should have fun sometimes.”
“I feel like all of those things only make me more susceptible to alcohol or drug abuse,” Yuuri murmured. “And I do have fun! I like hanging out with you at home.”
Phichit sighed third time, this time exasperatedly.
“You know that’s not—” he tried to argue but floundered. “Fine, go for an hour and come home,” he said. “But could you at least for the love of god smoke some pot or hook up with someone terribly pretty?”
Yuuri just looked at Phichit with his eye brows raised.
“Fine,” he sighed in defeat, picking up a one of the clearly oversized button-downs that was lying on Yuuri’s bed. “At least let me pick out your outfit though, you disaster man.”
“Deal.”
*
Yuuri stepped out of his Uber started to make the trek up to Chris’s house. He pulled nervously on his suit jacket, longing for the comfort of a t-shirt and hoodie. Phichit had taken the business of dressing him up very seriously though, and had Yuuri outfitted in a newly tailored suit that he had yet to wear because ugh, no.
He’d even found and carefully folded Yuuri a pocket square.
And Yuuri knew it was stylish because the pants were a bit too short for no practical reason that Yuuri could gauge and he was wearing no show socks in his dress shoes instead of normal socks, both of which Phichit had reassured him was the style.
Yuuri just thought that his ankles were cold.
Chris’s house was much nicer than Yuuri’s little apartment, though, by a lot. Chris had one of those giant glass houses up in the hills in a gated community that you think of when you think of LA extravagance. And you could tell there was a party going on from the street.
And Yuuri suddenly felt a bit like he was in a movie.
(Or, well, in the final cut of a movie, anyway. Yuuri knew now that actually being in a movie tends to involve a lot of repeat takes that don’t exactly feel very authentic to pretending you’re living someone else’s life.)
Yuuri could hear the music throbbing, see shadows of figures in the windows, and suddenly he wanted nothing more than to run back down to the street and try to catch his car before it left.
But instead he took a breath and texted Chris.
I’m here, please come greet me or I’m going to stop in the kitchen to raid the fridge and then go lock myself in a closet and stress eat.
Chris wrote back probably fairly quickly in the grand scheme of things, but Yuuri stood there on the steps for what felt like ages.
Relax darling, I’ll meet you at the door.
Yuuri walked up the few final steps and then stood there, suddenly realizing he had no idea what to do. Was it open, should he just go in? Should he ring the doorbell? Knock? Text Chris again? Had Chris hired a bouncer?
“Darling! What on earth are you standing out here for?” Chris exclaimed as he opened the door.
“I wasn’t sure—” Yuuri stammered as Chris grabbed his arm and pulled him inside.
Chris looked at him sympathetically.
“Okay, pro-tip,” Chris said strategically, wrapping an arm around Yuuri’s shoulder and navigating him through a crowd. Yuuri kept his eyes on the ground, knowing he’d die if he started recognizing people—particularly if he knew those people but had never met them. “Start drinking before the party so you don’t flatline its energy the second you walk in.”
“I did!” Yuuri defended. “I went to school here, I know how to pre-game,” Yuuri muttered as Chris dragged him up to the bar.
And he had started drinking before he’d left for the party. He’d taken shots with Phichit before he’d left.
“These don’t count towards the five,” Phichit had insisted.
Of course, that turned out to be true, but only because while Yuuri felt slightly lightheaded as he’d walked out of his building to the car, by the time he’d pulled up to Chris’s a forty-five-minute ride across the city later, the only thing his mind was swimming with was anxiety.
“Well, how about something a little stronger then?” Chris asked.
“Stronger then tequila shots?” Yuuri responded helplessly.
“Woah, okay, fine then maybe something lighter—a little easier to get lost in,” Chris suggested with a knowing look. “Oh, I know! A glass of my finest champagne, my good sir!” Chris exclaimed to the bartender.
The bartender pulled a bottle out from under the counter and fiddled with it for a moment before pouring out a flute and pushing it across the counter to Yuuri.
Chris looked at him expectantly.
Yuuri took a slow sip. It was dry but felt tingly and light in his mouth.
“No, no, Yuuri, come on,” Chris encouraged.
Yuuri furrowed his brow and Chris mimed knocking one back.
Yuuri sighed and raised his glass in a toast before downing it in one go.
“Ah, there we go!” Chris said with a laugh, clapping Yuuri on the back. “Another!” he said to the bartender. “And another gin and tonic for me.”
Another moment and another drink was placed in his hand. Yuuri looked at Chris cautiously.
“Oh, don’t look at me like that, you can pace yourself however you want now, I just wanted to make sure you start the evening off right, after all we are celebrating you!” Chris said and Yuuri immediately wanted protest because he certainly hoped not, but then then Chris said something that made Yuuri freeze—
“And Victor of course.”
Yuuri choked on his champagne.
“What?”
Yuuri had thought that Phichit was good at a devilish smile, but in that moment, Yuuri swore Chris transformed into the Cheshire cat, the way he was grinning at him.
“Oh, you know, your new co-star? Have you two not met yet? He’s around here somewhere, I’ll have to make sure to introduce you two!” Chris said, far too casually. “Oh, did I mention you look sexy tonight? Good work.”
Feeling helpless and suddenly more overwhelmed (how was that possible?), Yuuri took a swig of his champagne and gestured to the bartender to start prepping him another glass.