Chapter Text
“Ping.”
While Yuuri was slowly taking off his headphones, the pilot started his we have safely landed announcement. His head was still hurting like a bitch. He eyed the Ibuprofen blister pack in his hand, three pills missing already.
After a short consideration, he decided that three were probably enough to have taken on this 13-hour flight to Detroit.
The announcement wasn’t even finished when the people around him started rummaging, jumping out of their seats to grab their luggage first. Yuuri just watched and waited until he could comfortably stand up and grab his hand luggage.
Inside were his skates and basic equipment: jump rope, spinner, and resistance bands, which didn’t sound like a lot but were, in fact, quite heavy. With some trouble, he put down the small suitcase and waited patiently for the line in front of him to start moving.
He wasn’t in a hurry to drag that bag out of the airplane anyway.
In fact, Yuuri wasn’t even in the mood to get up or, now that he was standing already, to leave the plane at all. Just thinking about what was to come next gave him sweaty hands and a pounding heart. His breaths were getting shorter, and as he noticed it, he tried to calm himself by mentally checking off the facts of the situation.
He was not going to die, at least not right now or in the near future. Getting off the plane would not kill him. Even socializing with people he had technically met before was not the end of the world.
As a prize-winning Japanese senior newcomer in men’s figure skating, one could think he would have a bigger ego. Even the nickname “Mister Stability” that fans gave him would suggest he could at least take pride in that.
But to be completely honest, and to no surprise to his family and people who knew him, instead of boosting his ego, those things just put more pressure on him. The hope people placed on him gave him horrible anxiety and an even stronger fear of failing them.
Even though he had started the season strong, lately Yuuri couldn’t land his triple Axel in practice anymore. This worsened his anxiety to a point where his coach suggested that a camp might help.
This was why he was now in Detroit for a figure skating summer intensive camp in the off-season, with former Olympians and renowned figure skaters as trainers. To make things worse, his idol, the skater he looked up to most, was also going to be at this exact camp.
Sure, they had met at international competitions before, but one couldn’t really say they had actually met. Victor always made first place, as always, and Yuuri got on the podium if he was lucky.
If people called Yuuri “Mister Stability,” then Victor Nikiforov would surely be the skating god.
Victor had ethereal artistry and jumps so high and powerful that one would think he could perform a quint anytime. Meanwhile, Yuuri was struggling with his triple Axel again.
He knew some of the other attending skaters, who were also great, and most of them were national champions, but there was a clear gap between them and Victor Nikiforov.
It made Yuuri seriously wonder why Victor was attending this camp at all.
Before he could deepen that thought, the line started moving and he got out of the plane. A bus drove him and the other passengers to the airport, where he was now standing again, waiting for the rest of his luggage to arrive.
All the standing and waiting started to bore him, so, wanting to kill some time and totally not to check if Victor had arrived at the airport, he pulled his phone from his pocket and started scrolling.
The second he turned off airplane mode, he was bombarded with messages.
Mom: “I love you, Katsuki. Don’t worry and have fun!”
Dad: “Make good use of the opportunities you are given. Love you!”
His parents didn’t understand every part of figure skating, but they always made sure he felt comfortable doing it. They had seen him devastated after competitions that hadn’t turned out the way he wanted in the past, so now they felt the need to voice their support more than ever.
A basic black suitcase, which Yuuri identified as his, rolled his way on the baggage carousel, and he took off to the airport’s bus station. From there, the skate club’s shuttle picked him and a few other skaters up.
Some of them were new faces, while he knew others quite well, one in particular: Phichit. He spotted Yuuri first, sitting in the very last row as usual.
Over the years, the two had become good friends. They even video-chatted from time to time, which usually wasn’t Yuuri’s thing at all. The same couldn’t be said about Phichit.
He was a social butterfly; connecting with people came naturally to him, which was why Yuuri was so surprised that Phichit had befriended him.
“How’s my favorite introvert doing?” Phichit always claimed that he had adopted Yuuri as his introvert best friend.
Yuuri didn’t mind. Actually, he was glad someone picked him up and included him. Before he met Phichit, the international skating world had felt quite lonely.
The whole bus ride, they chatted about everything and nothing, from failures and breakthroughs in training to how awful their plane rides had been.
And, of course, they speculated whether Victor Nikiforov would actually show up.
His name had been published on the participant list, but that didn’t mean he was certainly attending. It was pretty common for advanced skaters, especially Russians, to do ice shows during the off-season, so there was no real guarantee.
If one listened closely, the whole bus was buzzing with the same question: “Is he really showing up?”
Every other sentence seemed to have his name in it. Victor Nikiforov. Victor Nikiforov.
Even though this question had been gnawing at Yuuri back at the airport, he forced himself now to breathe, to ease his grip on it.
Not because he was tired, not because it didn’t matter, but because he couldn’t afford to drive himself mad over something he couldn’t even be sure was happening.
Don’t hope. Not yet.
He was watching the streets roll by when he spotted an all-too-familiar building. They had reached Detroit’s ice rink, or rather, the hostel right next to it.
The other skaters must have recognized the building as well, since the noise level suddenly spiked. People around him unfastened their seatbelts and chatted excitedly as they shuffled toward the exit.
The driver opened the trunk, and everyone started rummaging through the pile of luggage. Too bad there seemed to be a common trend among some of them.
As Yuuri grabbed his basic black suitcase, he noticed there were two more of the exact same model sitting right next to it. While most skaters headed inside, he stood frozen by the bus’s trunk, clutching a suitcase that might not even be his.
His mother’s voice echoed through his head, reminding him to put a travel tag on it. Of course, he hadn’t listened, since he had never mixed up his luggage before. A wave of regret washed over him.
Someone tugged on his arm, an impatient Phichit trying to drag him inside the hostel.
“Yuuri, you have plenty of time to dream tonight. Let’s get inside and check out what room we got!” Phichit kept pulling, completely oblivious to the crisis Yuuri was currently in.
Yuuri’s eyes darted around, searching for someone, anyone, who could figure this out.
“Uhm, I think we mixed up our bags,” a voice with an Italian accent said behind him.
As Yuuri turned around, he recognized that voice as Michele Crispino’s. He knew him from a gala he had skated in not too long ago in Switzerland. Speaking of, right next to Michele was Christophe Giacometti, the current Swiss National Champion, also carrying a bag that looked exactly like Yuuri’s.
He stared at them with wide eyes filled with worry. They both noticed him at the same time, then the suitcase he was holding, and quickly made their way over.
Phichit, now noticing them too, flashed a big smile and greeted them with open arms like they were family. Meanwhile, Yuuri just gave them an awkward wave and polite smile.
Considering the only time they had ever spoken was a quick greeting in the warm-up rooms before competition, Yuuri wasn’t very comfortable starting conversation.
To be honest, most of the time he didn’t even know what to say.
The first to address the situation was Christophe.
“Nice taste, guys. Let’s just open the bags and figure out whose is whose,” he suggested, already crouching down and unzipping the suitcase he was holding. Michele followed suit.
Hesitantly, Yuuri knelt down to do the same and then froze.
A horrifying memory popped into his mind: the tissue box.
He had stupidly packed the one that was a little plush puppy. A plush puppy that looked exactly like Victor Nikiforov’s dog, the same one Victor brought to every competition.
Please no. Anyone but them.
His thoughts started racing. Michele and Christophe were known for their flashy personalities but also for their big egos and mockery. Maybe he had gotten lucky and picked the right bag, he thought as he still fumbled with the zipper.
A loud laugh interrupted his panic. Michele pulled something brown out of the bag he was checking, a brown puppy tissue box.
Of course it was Yuuri’s tissue box.
Still trying to gather his thoughts on how he could nonchalantly handle this, Phichit chirped loud enough for everyone to hear, “Look, Yuuri, your tissue box! That bag is yours!”
Some other skaters who were heading inside now looked at them, wondering what was going on.
Yuuri wanted to die.
While he knew Phichit didn’t mean to embarrass him, he just hoped and prayed the others wouldn’t make a fuss over it. Maybe there was a small chance they didn’t even realize it was a fan item. Surely, they were busy enough with their own lives, right?
“Isn’t that Nikiforov’s dog?”
His hopes and dreams were crushed.
Yuuri felt his cheeks redden faster than he could process what Christophe had just said. In that moment, he wished he had never started skating. Doomed be Victor. Doomed be Christophe for spotting the tissue box. And doomed be Yuuri for even packing that stupid thing in the first place.
“Well, I think it’s cute,” Michele smiled, handing him his suitcase.
Yuuri grabbed it, not even able to look him in the eyes.
“So yeah, safe to say this one is Yuuri’s,” Michele chuckled.
The other two quickly sorted out their own bags, and they finally made their way inside.
A sweet lady awaited them there, handing out keycards. They were assigned to rooms of two, and luckily, Yuuri and Phichit got to share one.
Celestino Cialdini was the first coach to show up. That wasn’t exactly a surprise or a sign of his good manners, if he even had any, since Detroit was his home base.
He and Yuuri weren’t strangers. Celestino had coached him in several camps before and had even trained him for a season during his junior years when Yuuri’s coach at the time had to take a personal leave.
Because of that connection, Yuuri was also familiar with another skater attending this camp: Jean Jacques Leroy, or JJ, as he insisted on being called.
They weren’t exactly friends, but one could say they had grown somewhat fond of each other.
What started out as a trivial rivalry, shaped by mockery and provocations, being called “Yuri-Chan” by far the worst of them, had eventually shifted into mutual respect.
Watching each other train and realizing the passion they shared for the sport had softened the edges.
After Yuuri greeted both of them warmly, this time with an actual hug instead of an awkward wave and smile, he and Phichit headed upstairs to their room.
Heading up the stairs, they could already hear the other skaters: doors slamming, people laughing, and the chaotic sound of suitcases being dragged around.
Searching for room 211, they discovered theirs was tucked at the far end of the hallway, being the second to last. The room across from theirs, 212, seemed unoccupied so far.
There had been empty seats on the bus, Yuuri recalled, so maybe there were still some skaters missing.
Of course, his mind went straight to Victor.
Immediately, it invoked that image: long, gorgeous hair that looked like liquid silver, a smile whiter than snow, and eyes as blue as the summer sky.
And, fine, maybe also the kind of body you notice even when you’re trying really, really hard not to.
God, if anyone ever heard him glazing over this man like that, he’d never be able to set foot on the ice again.
He could already imagine Christophe making kissy faces and moaning Victor’s name in that exaggerated, dramatic way of his. With what happened on the bus earlier, that might already be his fate.
But everyone would agree that Victor was in a league of his own: his artistry, powerful skating, and looks that belonged on a movie screen.
It was like he had been designed specifically to ruin Yuuri’s concentration.
And maybe Yuuri noticed all that a little too much, but it wasn’t like he was in love with him or anything.
He wasn’t. Definitely. Probably.
Why was he even thinking about this again?
Thankfully, Phichit’s chatter pulled him out of his spiral.
“My coach said he knows another coach who knows Victor’s coach, and apparently he’s not coming,” Phichit said, giving him a pitiful smile, like he already knew exactly what Yuuri had been thinking about. “Gotta play the star role in some ice show over in St. Petersburg,” he mumbled more to himself than to Yuuri.
Yuuri blinked, trying to shake his thoughts.
So he wasn’t coming.
Not that Yuuri was hoping he would, but somehow, hearing Phichit’s news weirdly stung anyway.
He moved toward his suitcase, forcing himself to focus. Halfway through unpacking his training clothes, he glanced at his phone.
“…Oh shit.”
“What?” Phichit asked halfheartedly, not even looking up from his own stuff. He hadn’t noticed the panic in Yuuri’s voice yet.
“It’s half past six. Wasn’t dinner supposed to start, like, half an hour ago?”
Yuuri grabbed the first fresh shirt he could find.
Phichit sat bolt upright. “Oh. My. God.” He sighed heavily. “These stupid Americans! Who eats at six p.m.?”
He threw his hands in the air like he was physically offended.
“Let’s hurry downstairs. Knowing these guys, the food is probably gone already.”
Halfway clothed, still putting on their fresh shirts, they rushed downstairs and burst into the cafeteria.
The setup was simple: long wooden tables lined the room, and a buffet was spread out along the wall.
Heading straight for it, they picked some of the food that was still left and sat at the table where JJ, Michele, and Christophe were sitting.
Most people were already halfway through their meals. Plates were filled with chaotic combinations of whatever the buffet had offered. Conversation buzzed from every corner in every language: English, Italian, Thai, Japanese, German, Russian, you name it.
The guys at their table were chatting like they had known each other for years. Which, to be fair, they probably had. You did get around in this sport.
Yuuri had to remind himself that there were people who actually formed more than one friendship in their careers.
He was halfway through digging through the leftovers on his plate while trying to understand some of the background chatter when the voices in the room, which had just been so noisy, suddenly died down.
His fork froze halfway to his mouth as the cafeteria door swung open.
He stood there like he owned the very air they were breathing.
A suitcase was in one hand, a jacket with the Russian flag stitched onto it in the other. Sweatpants hung just right on his hips, that white shirt clinging to him in a way that should have been illegal.
It was Victor.
Yuuri looked away immediately, cheeks burning.
God, Yuuri, get a grip. He’s a skater, not a model. And he’s not for you. Definitely not for you.
“Sorry, I’m a bit late.”