{ The China Cup GPF Qualifier, SP } November 7-8, 2014 - Shanghai, China

[theglassheart]

It takes Yuri all of about two minutes to realize that down might have been just as bad an option as up.

That downstairs in the hotel, at the buffet, involved a world of national jackets. Dozens and dozens of men and women, in various states of dress around and under and without those jackets, some picture perfect and some all but in pajamas and bare feet still, in various states of awake and asleep. Still on their feet, putting food on plates, sitting on their own and others, carrying them back upstairs. Not to mention those fans who could afford to stay here, watching from nearby tables and occasionally thrusting one of their own with a pen and napkin at some skater's table.

There are so many more of them here. There hadn't been this many last time.

(But, by last time, he means in October.

There were totally this many last time
- this time, two years ago.
A sea of people.)

His body snags back and forth between the urge to clutch his plate full of food to his chest, and gulp each bite down, while dragging it under the table with him, and just to slide under the table, without it or someone else, especially Victor, noticing he's vacated his seat and relocated there.

It doesn't help he can't quite seem to focus right. To hear what Victor is saying. To know what to say when he can. When he can't seem to more than flit his gaze that way and away. (That he was an absolute idiot, and jumped like he'd been hit, or expected to be, the first time Victor threw an arm around his shoulder headed to the elevator to come down here. Even though Victor's been nothing but sane and sober and normal since they woke up.)

People keep laughing and talking. Nails on the chalkboard inside his skull. His jacket feels odd at the edges of his shoulders. The booth is too big. The room is too small. He watches the clock. Time is slipping away already. Practice, then performance. Practice, then performance. Breakfast ends. Uncertain if he ate too much. Trying to counter that he didn't eat enough last night. (Or maybe sleep enough. And what if he crashes on the ice because he didn't take care of both of those?

What if he's ruined it all because he couldn't even manage his first twenty hours in the Prix Qualifier even?)

They leave when they have to. Early enough to look at everything. Early enough to make sure everything is ready for practice, and practice is practice. He's so in his head. He can't stop watching the people around him as they practice their routines. His skin prickles at just the bite of the air on it. He can't outrun the itch in the back of his head.

It's like a wall in front of him, always two inches in front, no matter how fast or how slow. Goading him to run, with sharp prods, but staying two inches away. Always two inches away. Never closer. Never in reach. His feet are a hiss on the ice, jumps a little too sharp, and his mind still won't stop tossing up and out, in front of his skates, all the things that don't belong out here.

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[theglassheart]

It's all in ragged, racing heartbeats.

Beat. He's tying his skates (with Victor's feet in his perphery.)
Beat. He's taking off his badge and jacket (handing them to Victor).

Beat. There's ice under his skates and he's standing by the wall (with Victor above him).


Victor's hand lands on his on top of the rail. The same as on his shoulder. But inside his gaze, and Victor is talking. Victor is telling him. Telling him. To stop picturing everything he has. Stop using every story and image every day and practice was built on, for, wrapped through, written in Victor's voice and Yuri's thoughts. But even when he can hear the words, even as his heart is catching, frantic spike at the idea of letting go even more, of just what he's supposed to hold on to in it then, when Victor's fingers move suddenly.

Victor's fingers. Victor's thumb.

Rubbing a raw wire that he expects to make him shiver or shudder and happens like the crack of a whip snapping. When he can see it, feel it, the back of his hand, the tension in his shoulders, down into his calves, and his eyes snap up. Because he is there. Victor is there. In front of him. Staring down at him. Touching him.

Not hidden behind him. (As the one, on the ice.)

Not hidden by darkness. (Over his shoulder, on that bed.)

Yuri's teeth nearly snapping at the violent force of just meeting his eyes, just feeling that touch. (Fingers suddenly shoving into Victor's hand, fingers between fingers, fingertips digging into the back of his hands, his gloves, demanding.) Looking up into Victor's eyes this time. (Jumping to the toes of his skates, pushing his forehead to Victor's, staring into his eyes and the fall of his bangs, chest shaking, noses brushing, mouth demanding.)

"Don't ever take your eyes off of me."

Victor. Victor, who did this. Victor, who kept doing everything. Victor, who everyone wanted most. Victor, who Yuri couldn't look away from. Couldn't not want most, too. Wanted. Wanted not to be able to look away. (Who said.) Not able to not feel everything the way Yuri did, couldn't make himself not feel all of it, excruiating and agonizing sharpness, everywhere in him, around him. (He'd said.)

In this sudden almost violently demanding force.

Even as Yuri ripped himself back. His hand from Victor's; his face from Victor's, pushing himself off the wall, defiant, out into empty rink, without letting Victor say anything, do anything, else. The hushed silence of thousands and thousands of people. Rustling, readying, holding a breath, murmuring. Too close. Too far. Breathing in as one as he curved into the center, sliding backwards to a stop. Heart racing, shoulders lowering, letting his fingers graze his thighs as his eyes closed.

[fivetimechamp]

To say he isn't expecting Yuri to take his hand would be to say he isn't expecting the ground to open up beneath his feet and swallow him whole.

To say he isn't expecting the flash in Yuri's eyes, and the force with which his hand is suddenly gripped –– no, taken. No, claimed –– is only to say he's gotten to know Yuri over the last eight months. Polite, reserved Yuri, who only ever occasionally blurs those lines, and it's only ever innocent on his part, and only ever anything more on Victor's. Yuri, who might hug him, or sling an arm around his shoulder, or allow Victor to move him on the ice until he's found the right line, the correct pose. Yuri, who last time said Please watch in a tremulous request.

Nothing like the dull shock of his forehead hitting Victor's, even if Victor lets it hit, without flinching or stepping back, fingers gripping on instinct. Nothing like the sudden burn of his eyes, or the harshness behind don't ever take your eyes off of me. Yuri has never been nearly violent before. Yuri has never demanded that of him before. Yuri has never demanded anything before, and Victor is starting to worry, as Yuri rips himself away, that what he'd thought was something new might in fact be something far too different. Something's flipped his switch ... but what?

(It's more like that night than anything. Calling out Yurio, Victor, Chris in turn, challenging, throwing demands like darts. Grabbing Victor out of nowhere. A force of perfect confidence.)

He barely hear the cheers of the crowd, or the voice on the loudspeaker announcing from Japan, Katsuki Yuri. The rush of blood in his ears is too loud, the sudden quick sprint in his chest that he needs to calm, because Yuri is sliding into the center of the ice like he owns it, and ––

And it looks familiar. Feels familiar. And when the music starts, sultry guitar strings raining music onto the ice, and Yuri starts to move, it looks familiar. Not like the program they've been practicing for months, that they could both dream in its entirety.

Like something else. Like someone else. From a lifetime and two years ago.

[theglassheart]

No more story, Victor's voice demanded.

No more time, the music answered, starting.


Yuri leaning into it. The light, the music, when his eyes open, and his tongue brushes his lips, hands a fluid dance of movement, caressing over his shoulders, the air around it, flung outs, until it pops at the end. All intense demand. His knee, hip, shoulders, the point of a blade, and the snap of his gaze back over to where Victor was. The tip of his head, tilt of his smile flashed. All arrogant invitation.

The first look and the last, before he's turning. Before all he can think is where his hands go, and where his feet. The music loud. In his ears, racing beside the stomp of his blood, the pounding of his heart. No one else to see. No other noise but the music, but the bite and hiss of his skates cutting the ice. Focus elastic and raced, but even racing it seems to slide off of him. Stubborn annoyance burning at the edge of his own thoughts.

Those grappling fears. Digging sharp points into his lungs, trying to wrap around his ankles.

That overwhelming, inescapable, presence of thousands of eyes looking at him, looking through him, looking for Victor in his every movement, or the person he'd been before. Everything but him now. (They could laugh at him.) They could look for the wrong things. (They could think it wasn't like him.) Wasn't who he was. (They could be wrong.) The music weaving in and out, as he turned.

His body knew where to go, where to linger and slide and flare. This dangerous dance.

This demand, that was all a heated assault for already assumed acquiescence.

(The way she swept in--

But Victor said No.
Victor said ... himself.)

Victor said, (He said --) that wasn't him either now.
No one else. Nothing else. Him. (And his own charm.)

That was what he wanted now. (I want only--) And if that was what Victor wanted, that was what all of them wanted, then, wasn't it? To know this new version of him. Fluid and fast, feet weaving between who and where, and what. Only the ice and the rhythm in his ears, and his veins. To be drawn in and pulled away, into this dance, with him, the new him, didn't they? As thought no one was watching, or as though it didn't matter even if the whole world was.

[fivetimechamp]

The music starts, sinuous and seductive, and Yuri's moving with it, and it looks right –– it's all the same movements, everything he and Yuri and Minako have worked over and over again –– but not, too.

Not wrong. More right than right.

A low, thoughtful sound at the base of his throat when that look burns across the ice towards him, and he still doesn't get it, where all this was for the last eight months, for the last two years, but he's not going to look a gift horse in the mouth, because Yuri has never owned Eros, or the audience, or even his own body, the way he is now. Each step and turn and slide taken in a perfect fluid dance; no hesitation, no questioning. Whatever had been worrying him seems to have dropped away, leaving nothing but the demon from Victor's dreams and memory and more photos still saved on his phone than he'd admit to keeping –– but it's not like that, either. Not even that night was anything quite like this.

But it's certainly working. Victor watching, finger pressed to his mouth, eyes following Yuri everywhere around the rink, as his hands go above his head and slip down to send him into a modified Ina Bauer that pushes Victor's spine straight, sudden delight diffusing his uncertainty.

"Perfect!"

All of it is. Even without Yuri's demand, he could never have looked away from this: this is no katsudon, and it's no beautiful woman. It's pure masculine sex appeal, barely contained, never coy. It's a huge triple axel that soars over the ice like a boast, followed by a perfect quad Salchow that Yuri hadn't nailed in practice, but which now seems impossible to miss. Just like it's impossible for the audience to do anything but fall for him, the way Victor has, is, keeps doing. Every step, full of arrogant confidence. Every jump proof that arrogance is warranted. Every coaxing, graceful slide of his hands feeling like they're running over skin instead of through air.

Impossible to look away. Impossible to register. Impossible to breathe.

[theglassheart]

All of his steps gliding into a camel spin, hands clenched together, as the air whips his bangs around the edges of his face, against his ears, and he strains from the top of his head to the flat of his foot. As straight, and level, and smooth as possible. Before dropping down and springing right back up from it.

Half of his elements down, but all of his jumps to come, meaning he's almost there. Almost through the first half, almost to the rise of that challenge. The rigor of placing them all in the second half, increasing all physical wear and exhaustion in the even smaller time window between them. The flying spin, into the first combination sit, again, and for the first time, the last time, the right time. Fingers curved around his calf, back curved, face parallel to his knee, while momentum tore through him again.

Until even that is in movement. His hand switching their hold. Long enough to be clear. Then leg position, for his one required shift. Then, finger curled around his blade, over his back, still crouched. Until he pushes up with the last of his rotation, and demands more speed on the first step back into the crossover coming out of it. Everything, everything in momentum now, even as the crowd starts applauding.

To be coming in fast enough on the triple axel. A burning certainty that never came with any doubt, up and up and up, and down, sliding down, foot behind him cutting the air. To slide right from if into his salchow. A burst of relief that feels overpoweringly hot, flaring through his skin. That he can. That he is. Showing them. This. This is what they came for. What he came back for. What he can do. What Victor has done.

And if they don't care, if they can't see it, can't feel it,


It didn't matter.


It was that simple. That sudden.

As certain as every step and spin that declared it.

Because Victor can. Victor does. Victor who was there. Every morning, and every night. Who was every voice in his head. Who created these moves, and whose face, when he got them right, got all of it right, was better than any sunrise, or snowfall, or award that Yuri had ever even seen his life. Victor, who said he was the only one. The only would who could satisfy him. That he was the only one. The only one, in the whole world, who knew Victor's love.

The only one who Victor called his. A fire burned moniker.
(A glide that sent him forward, fast, knee almost but never touching.)

He didn't need them, if he had that. Had Victor. But. He could prove it to them. Show them.
That they all wanted Victor, but only he had Victor. Only he had what Victor wanted. Just him.

Throw himself to the air for his combination jump. Quad toe loop first, coming down on the one foot, only long enough to thrust back up and into the spin again, for a triple toe loop, and he doesn't know when the roaring became a thunder in the rush of the music, the rush of the air, of his blood.

When his body straightens into a camel, again, but only long enough to slide into the death drop, second combination, without the flying entrance this time. Speed fighting with air, giving up breathing, teeth grinding in the tension, for speed picking up and up and up, the tighter he coils, the harder he holds close, spinning on one blade, so close to the ground. Holding one foot, only to let go, and thrust upward, and backward.

The arc, that pulls him right back into the center, throws his arms and everything in them, out, away, beyond him,
rejected, unwanted, unwelcome to him anymore, and everything he's given out, pulled them in for, to one side,

then to the other, and, then, closed in, on only himself, with the snap of his arms as the music ends.

[fivetimechamp]

It's incendiary. Around him, the crowd is on its feet, thrilled: they can't stop cheering, applauding, calling Yuri's name, and when he slams to a stop, arms wrapped around himself, hair in disarray, flace flushed, taking, taking, taking, a roar runs through the arena that feels like it won't ever stop, and Victor's arms are in the air, head thrown back in a triumphant yell.

Everything they needed to prove, and more. Yuri delivered it all. Seamlessly. Excellently. Setting the rink on fire and carelessly letting it burn, and it was perfect, perfect. Beyond anything Victor's ever seen him do. Meeting every impossible expectation Victor's ever leveled at him, and doing it flawlessly. Owning the program, and himself, absolutely.

Leaving Victor in a state of shock as he watches Yuri bow to the audience, arms spread to accept their cheers and love, and modestly returning it with the grace of a dancer, and he still can't look away. "That was perfect."

Numb surprise, but he shouldn't be surprised, right? He'd known, all along, saw it was possible, knew that if Yuri had the right motivation he could get there, and he did, had, better than Victor could have ever dreamed. Overwhelming him with joy and pride. "Yuri!"

Calling to him, arms open, face beaming.

"The kiss-and-cry's that way."

"Huh?" Knocked from the blissful world where only he and Yuri exist, to see Chris making an exasperated face at him, and pointing back in the direction they came from. Where Yuri's skating, apparently oblivious to Victor and Victor's mistake. "Right. Good luck, Chris!"

Before he's gone, walking quickly, waving to the crowd and to the cameras, smile brilliant, every worry laid to rest. He knew it. And Yuri did it. And they proved it to the whole world.

[theglassheart]

It's dizzying. Those first few seconds. The world is a wash of confused brilliance and his entire body throbbing everywhere, as waves and waves of cheering hit him just as physically as everything in his body pushing outward, while his mouth is gasping air, like he just broke the surface of the ocean.

Things are already being thrown down around him, and he, or his body, or some fluid amalgam between those two, knows what to do next. Slide to the side, one foot behind the other, against the toe pick, and throw his open his arms. Accepting the cheer that just seems to go on and on. And on. Dizzying dots. Heart in his throat. His eyes. The whole audience a blur of movement and colors and screaming. Everything is. More than normal.

His hands still high, with that roar, as he goes sliding toward the open gate waiting for him.

Where Victor -- isn't?

But he isn't hard to find, when Yuri's confused gaze swings to one side and he can spot the rapidly approaching and clarifying brown of his jacket. It means his fingers can clutch the top of the wall and he can let those ragged breaths still demanding to stuff air into his lungs, into the phantom and cement of his body, win for a few longer seconds.

The world is still a roar of sound, but everything narrows, floods, around Victor. Victor. Breathless with the high. (The crash that's already started.) His face more numb than aware of the stretch that had been a smile, that needed more. Even floundering in and out of the focus of his vision, of his thoughts, of his body winded beyond belief. Good enough for the pandemonium of the room, the excrucriating pace of his heart, but not certain where Victor would start this time.

What might have been wrong. (Whether it was good enough for him.)

[fivetimechamp]

His steps become a quick dog trot when he sees Yuri looking for him, skate guards in one hand, tissue box in the other, Yuri's jacket under his arm, the grin on his face threatening to crack straight through to his chest. "Yuri!"

All he can do for a moment is hand Yuri the skate guards, one after another, and wait until he's wiped the snow from his blades and put them on, but it feels like an eternity before Yuri can finally step off the ice and Victor can embrace him, arms tight around his neck, cheek pushed against Yuri's sweat-damp hair. "That was perfect! You were perfect."

It's not even the right word. "Everyone loved it, listen!"

The crowd, still cheering as girls skate around the rink picking up flowers and stuffed toys and small gifts. Still on their feet. Still lit from within. "I knew you could do it."

Every word suffused with proprietary pride. He has known for months. Years. He saw what no one else did: not Celestino, not the fans, not even Yuri himself. He'd always known Yuri was capable of this, that if his confidence was high enough, nothing could stop him, that if he could lift his skill level to meet his artistry, he'd be unforgettable.

Finally pushing back enough to see Yuri's face, laughing, before handing him his jacket and starting the short walk to the kiss and cry. "It's going to be a personal best for you, I know it." There's no way it couldn't be. He's never skated that program like that before. He's never skated that way before.

Arm finding it's way back to Yuri's shoulders, while he waves at the fans who are still cheering them off, feeling like this smile is untouchable, feeling like there's a tiny sun glowing in his chest that won't ever go out. "Let's go see!"

[theglassheart]

Victor swims into view, clearer and clearer, and the smile on his face is better than any of the air Yuri hasn't the faintest clue whether is making it into his body at all, regardless of the work of his mouth, shoulders, and lungs. Even swallowed and swamped it's that single shout of his name that makes everything around it seem that much louder, that much more present.

His pulse is a race, throbbing numbly and too presently, all at once, as he pulls on his skate guards, and steps through the gate, only to have Victor suddenly swallow him next. Arms around his neck and head pressed down against him, and if Yuri was expecting something else, even for the barest, far away, drowned down, flicker, nothing but bubbling relief, getting everywhere, as Victor hugs him with the exuberance Victor does everything.

Yuri is sure his shoulders, are probably being swung around, and his head, maybe even the rest of his body, but all he can tell -- not even sure if the word is feel, again, yet -- is his face pressed into the collar and shoulder of Victor's jacket, his arms might be tight around Victor, fingers in his jacket, but everything is the underwater burble of Victor's tilted American filling his head.

And everything is light. Spacey. Protracted.

Ebbing pain that he knows will return fiercely but isn't now.

Isn't pain. And. Isn't ... whatever it was, that it wasn't anymore. Either.

When Victor pulls back and his face swings into view smiling, mouth moving rapidly. Faster than Yuri's brain is truly caught up to, when Victor is giving him his jacket, and he's pulling it on, looking at the cheering people that Victor is talking about, and toward the girls coming to the edge, bearing handfuls and armfuls of options. When he should pick something and it's a bleary blink before he's reaching for triangular Onigiri plushie.

Tucking his arms around it, like he needs something to do with them or they might just float off into space, away from his shoulders, without any warning. The shoulders Victor has swung an arm around and is directing him with, still shining up at his side, all smile and ebullient tones. A brilliant light silver and white, fuzzed just barely by his vision, the way the sun fuzzes everything if you stare at it straight on.

And like plants under the sun, all Yuri can do is lean into him, follow him.

Sliding down with a thump he thinks he feels more as rebound than landing this time. As the elastic rippling relief of weight off his legs, his knees, his ankles numb in his skates, shifting to the lower part of his spine, compounded at his hips, but even that feels distant, as Victor waves to the crowd, flapping his arms and his hands, and Yuri leans on the small padded object in his lap, stomach trying to curl up as he tries to blink and focus on the screen high above.

[fivetimechamp]

Yuri looks shellshocked, too tired and wrung out to respond, but he folds into Victor's hug like that whole performance was a gift just for him, and he follows along when Victor directs him towards the kiss-and-cry, sitting without any argument. Cheeks flushed, hair in disarray, sweat-dislodged bangs that have started falling into his face, and an unconscious grip on an onigiri plushie some lucky fan brought and tossed onto the ice for him.

(He doesn't always remember it, but he does have fans, and Japan is well represented in the seats tonight to cheer on their hometown hero.)

He doesn't resist or seem to pay much attention when Victor sits and pulls him in with an arm around his shoulder, but that's fine: of the two of them, Victor is the one who prefers playing to a crowd, and he waves at the cameras facing them, steals his arm back from Yuri's shoulder to make a heart with his hands, beaming, unable to recall the last time he was so thoroughly pleased, even if Yuri is still looking too tired to be happy with his own performance.

Making Victor slid a fond glance over his shoulder in his direction, amused. "Yuri, did it feel that great?"

Great enough to wipe him out, great enough to remind him of who he is and what he can do? As great as Victor feels?

It should.

[theglassheart]

His water bottle is in his hands. He's not entirely positive when that got passed off. Probably with his jacket. It's nice and solid in his hands, while the world cheers and the Victor is tilting toward him again. Hmm. Or maybe not tilting. But look at him, while the world continues to ebb and flow, dropping him back and back.

The chill of the air on the sweat dripping and drying on his skin, while Victor asks that question and it echoes inside his head. Had he been thinking about how it felt? Had he thought about that at all out there? What it felt like while it was happening?

He'd thought. He'd thought ...

He's too disjointed to blush at the first thoughts to show up.
The brazenness unapologetic -- almost arrogance? -- of them.

It does keep him from looking over immediately to Victor. Certain it'll be all over his face, even if he can't entirely tell what his own expression is at the moment. Can't entirely feel his face, even if he can feel his skin. Beyond that thought, and because of that, mixed up in the rush of whatever it took, whatever path or phrase or words or feelings it became once you were out there. He'd wanted the rest of them to know, didn't he.

How that felt. How it had changed him. How Victor had.
(Having Victor had, at the cost of them all having him.)

"Well--" Cobbles itself together. His first words, the soreness as his ribs expand and his voice vibrates his chest, even without any force behind it. "I was hoping everyone else felt great watching me."

Or the opposite. Or both. It all blurred together, in the rush. It felt like pieces of it were falling out from under his mind and memory. No flaws he could remember. No falling. No lecture from Victor. Yet? But it felt like the Eros he just finished was rooms and rooms away, only seconds of time and years ago, but both beyond his fingers. There'd be videos later. But the score would tell him what it really was.

[fivetimechamp]

It's not long to wait, because no sooner has Yuri finished speaking than Victor catches the change of the screen out of the corner of his eye and turns to see the scores:

Yuri KATSUKI

Technical Elements 58.91
Presentation 47.93

SP SCORE 106.84 PB
RANK 1

He feels like a suddenly filled balloon, hands fisting and elbows thrusting back in triumph, while his smile goes from expectant to incandescent and his palms feel numb from clapping. 106.84 –– a personal best for Yuri, demolishing his previous scores and skyrocketing him into first place.

He knew it. That high technical score could only be brought to life through Yuri's skill. That high presentation score could only come from Yuri's ability to express himself, andhe can no longer containt himself, throws himself at Yuri in a bliss of ecstasy, arms squeezing around his shoulders, temple pressing into his damp hair, the bridge of his nose against Yuri's cheek. "Yuri!"

He did it. They did it. With style, grace, precision, and that particular element that is only Yuri.

He's the only one who could ever skate that program this way.

[theglassheart]

The colors change, from a reflection of them sitting there, into red's and golds, and the audience goes crazy, again. Victor is already moving suddenly beside him, but Yuri still has to squint at the far screen. Leaning forward, elbows dropping onto his thighs, just short of his knees, water hanging between them as disoriented confusion meets with a need greater than it, and the faintest, familiar tendril of dread that springs in through concrete and slowly settling reality.

He really only has time for it to shift mostly into focus -- not really even time to process; he's in first? His. He scored a -- before Victor all but plows into him from the side. Arms circling Yuri tight, from over one shoulder to just below the other, Victor's head meeting his head, cheek, and temple and ear, and he's shouting Yuri's name with the kind of excitement Yuri thinks he's only really heard Victor use to describe food or to talk to Maccachin.

Except it's not that. It's even better than that. It's more somehow.

[fivetimechamp]

Against him, Yuri is nearly limp, still staring at the screen like he thinks the numbers on it are going to dissolve into a laughing face, but Victor doesn't know why he's so surprised. He was superlative, extraordinary, a devil of seduction both passionate and playful. His technical elements were perfect. His performance was sublime.

Of course the judges noticed, and rewarded him. How could they not? How could anyone be anything but swept away? "Of course they'd feel great, watching a performance like that."

There's no room for doubt in any cell of his body, and there shouldn't be in Yuri's, either, but he can't stop smiling and he can't let go of Yuri and he can't douse the thrill of excitement at being in the lead, the only place he knows how to be. And Yuri ––

Yuri has brought them both here. Fought hard, trained well, learned everything he could, and made it his own. It's all overwhelming, dumping bucket after bucket of happiness over Victor's head, making him give Yuri another squeeze. "You're the best student."

Tipping his head against Yuri's, he grins at the cameras in front of them without letting go, gratification in every centimeter of his smile's curve. "You've earned half a katsudon tonight, anyway. You can get the rest tomorrow."

[theglassheart]

He's not sure how he gets there, from one helium balloon to another, without really ever fully touching down to the ground. He's in First Place. He's in First Place. It's not the same as last time. Everything is different here. The level. The skaters. His score is over ten points higher than the last time it jumped. And Victor is still holding on, whispering just beside his ear without touching it, as the crowd goes on, and Yuri stares, trying to even hold it all still.

First. (But there are still three more people to go.

But, Phichit had -- First.)

While Victor calls him the best student, and Yuri's sure some of his blood is remembering how to find his face, even under the wear and tear that makes it feel like his face hasn't given it up entirely, ever, not with the level of the exertion from the routine. But those words. Victor saying all of them near his ear, not letting go. The tuck into the numbers stamping themselves suddenly on the walls of his brain.

It's all fighting up, bubbling, against and under it. Surprise and shock and something tremulously and tremendously bright, like triumph. He did it. He did it. Victor's words about the katsudon, about tomorrow, and what's next, are against realizing their faces are up there again. Every earlier second, a handful he lost to shock, and Victor didn't in the slightest. Victor pressed to him, up there, smiling pure radiant illumination against Yuri's cheek, and he's staring at that, at him, at them, before suddenly realizing he should do ... something.

Freeing up a hand from his bottle, and waving at the camera, even without detaching Victor from over it.
His own smile looks small, even as it breaks, like a laugh at the lateness of itself, while he waves.

A personal best over 100. First. First for -- at least the next while?

He lets his hand drop from its wave onto Victor's arm. "There's still the second group."

[fivetimechamp]

Whatever possessed Yuri to grab his hand and demand his attention in front of all the crowd here and those watching at home seems to have departed and left no trace of itself, but that's all right. It served its purpose, he supposes, pushed Yuri into his best performance yet, and the boy left next to him is the one he knows better, even if it's the one he came to know later. Uncertain of his own ability, even after proving it without a doubt, and worried about the next three skaters to come.

None of whom are likely to be a real threat for the short program, even if Victor bases his assessment on the possible technical scores alone. Of the three, Chris is the only real threat, and he almost never peaks with his short program, preferring to put his best foot forward in the free skate. Added to his usual slow start at the beginning of the season, and Victor would be surprised if he knocked Yuri out of first place tonight.

As for Leo de Iglesia and Georgi ... their programs don't have the technical components to compare to Eros, and neither of them are likely to get anywhere near Yuri's level of PCS points. "I'm not worried about them tonight."

No: Yuri's in first place, and he's likely to stay there, and Victor couldn't be more pleased, but the reporters are clamoring, and they'll have to go answer questions if they want to be able to watch the rest of the performances, so he gets up, hand dropping to Yuri's arm, and tips his head towards the waiting cameras. "We can watch them in the back with the others, but first, I think some people would like to congratulate you on your new personal best."

[theglassheart]

Victor isn't worried, even if Yuri's mind is remembering to, and Victor's right about needing keep moving, there being more to do, and somehow there's nothing under that. Nothing pinches somewhere under his skin, somewhere inside his head. He can just hear it, watch the words roll through his head, and look in the direction Victor's head is pointing him.

It's simple, straightforward, like the sun rising in the morning and setting at night, like snow coming at winter, and plants bursting green in the spring. Just truth. He might be exhausted, as wear settles like an elephant, or twelve, on his body, joints beginning to bloom into an ache everywhere bones are attached to other bones, but he's not done yet.

He needs to go smile for those cameras, as well, and this time to say things.

Yuri passes the water bottle and his new sushi plushie to Victor, before using his hands to lever himself off the bench. He's in First. First, First, First. It's bouncing around his skull. He finally did what Victor wanted, what Victor had been crestfallen about at the Championships. Over 100. And First. It's clouding up his chest.

He doesn't stumble on his way there, but it's hard to say whether he stumbles or not when the questions are being slingshotted at him and the camera light is in his eyes, and his brain won't stop saying first, first, first, while congratulations are first given and then easily left behind, like a party greeting.

Replaced with asking how is feeling now that he's won first by a landslide, and scored a personal best in his first skate at his first Grand Prix Finale qualifier and if he's just as confident the power of his love will carry him through the free skate tomorrow to the gold and does he credit his amazing win to his new coaching from five-time Grand Prix and World Champion Victor Nikiforov?

(The answer is . . . )

(The answer is even more . . .)

(The answer is of course, he does.)

He's not positive any of the answers from his mouth are anywhere as clear. Except the last one.

The relief is palpable when the attention turns to the cueing up of the second group, and Yuri is given the heads up to go on. Even though he's pretty positive the guy holding the camera is giving him an expression Yuri can't entirely parse, something that is confusion and sympathy and something else. Still, two steps away and he's out from under their gaze, and the light of the camera, stepping back to Victor who is waiting.

[fivetimechamp]

He hangs back to let Yuri get the spotlight, as he should, and just watches with a smile on his face and his arms full of the onigiri plushie, the poodle tissue box, and Yuri's water bottle, and it's a little bit of a strange feeling, honestly, but he thinks it's a good one, watching someone else answer questions and blink against the photographer's flashes.

Besides, Yuri is doing fine. He's obviously too tired to think clearly, but he answers politely and modestly, exactly the way he should when there are still three other skaters to come. Even if everyone knows it would take a miracle to bump him from first place tonight. Even if it would seem like the height of vanity to say so.

But he looks relieved when the next group finishes their warm-up, and Georgi is being announced, so he can squirm his way out from under their peering eye, and Victor sidles between him and the reporters and interviewers, smiling and waving and brushing off their questions with the ease of long practice.

Is he proud of Yuri's performance today? Absolutely, he was as blown away as everyone else who saw it was.

Does he think the competition that's left is stiff enough to steal Yuri's current first-place position? They're all excellent skaters, he's looking forward to watching them do their best, just as Yuri did.

This program was such a departure from Katsuki's usual style, where did the inspiration for it come from? Well, he's seen great potential in Yuri's skating to go far beyond what he had attempted before, and between the two of them they had created a program to maximize his strengths and show off his technical ability as well as his artistry.

Which is the last question he answers before he ushers Yuri into the waiting room where Phichit and Guang-hong are watching Georgi's Carabosse routine, but splits off, briefly, to set their things down and move over to chat quiet with Celestino, who gives him a grin and a pat on the shoulder that Victor returns.

They've done all they can do, today, and tomorrow isn't here yet: might as well congratulate each other on a brilliant start.

[theglassheart]

Yuri flounders for a few seconds when he's looking at the other two and Victor peels away, all decisive stride and light steps still. Back toward Celestino, and the night before flickers for a second, but it doesn't come up far.

It's an uncertain floating feel between his head and his legs, but he drifts over to the two watching the skate. Maybe he's expecting more, but even when they look up, and Phichit grins unchecked and Guang-Hong looks a touch crestfallen, neither look long, and it only takes a second to realize why.

Georgi on the screen is a sight that even he can't look away from once he spots it. There's ... Yuri isn't even sure about what the words are. It's flamboyant. Almost to the edge of mania. All fast movements, that are technically clean, but the expressions. They're ---

It's Phichit who whispers, "Is he crying?" and they all peer closer.

Guang-Hong voice almost a lament saying, "He's really into his theme."

There's a moment searching his memory, but Yuri can't remember what that theme was, but there's something painful about watching the routine on the screen coming to an end. Something painful, something desperate and sad.

[fivetimechamp]

There's some chatter from the skaters clustered around the tv about first Georgi's and then Leo's short programs, but Victor only needs to glance at the scores to know he was right and neither of them are going to be offering up a challenge today. Tomorrow will be a different story, but that's tomorrow: right now, he waves to Celestino (who seems to be a little off-kilter today, himself, and keeps shooting Victor annoyed looks) and wanders over to join Yuri and the others as Chris takes the ice.

Chris. No shrinking violet, in his shimmering catsuit, with choreography that looks as if it was taken directly out of a strip club, and Victor's amused as he leans in to wrap his right arm around Yuri's waist, left hand cupping the inside of his shoulder so Victor can settle his chin on Yuri's shoulder and rest his cheek against the side of Yuri's head, while on the screen, Chris' quad turns into a triple. His laugh is a quiet huff of amusement: Chris is good, and he's widely regarded as a sex symbol among their community, and Victor can't say it doesn't have its appeal, but he prefers the fiery, playful passion of the skater he's currently using as a full-sized body pillow to Chris' overt sensuality.

On the television, Chris recovers, and Victor snorts a breath of fond laughter. "He said he wasn't finding motivation, but Chris never goes into a major slump." Which is what he'd said before, earlier. Even when he was competing, Chris never started the season off as strongly as he ended it. "He's a slow starter, so he doesn't try to peak in the main event."

Amused, as Chris sweeps about the ice to a throbbing, sultry song: "But today he's really going all out on sex appeal."

Not that it matters. A totally different animal from Eros, where the chase is part of the point, and passion's fickle nature is both highlighted and criticized. Chris lays it all out there for anyone to see or have, there's no subtlety to it anywhere, and he can't agree when Yuri says Chris won the day's sex appeal award, though he pats Yuri's shoulder encouragingly. It doesn't matter: he was right. Nothing those three did was enough, and now?

Now they'll fight their way to the top.

[theglassheart]

Victor is very suddenly very much everywhere.

There's an arm lopping his waist. Another catching his shoulder. Victor's chin on his shoulder. Yuri knows he should jump. Any other time he'd jump. He was shaking last night. The thought is almost academic there, but the idea of moving toward it, jumping, is exhausting even. He's not entirely sure he can feel his body, and it's not all that different from Victor throwing himself around his shoulders a few minutes ago on camera.

It's almost orienting more than the disorientation he expects. Weight in his toes, on his shoulders. It doesn't entirely stop that his cheeks flush a little, the very tops of themselves when Victor's cheek brushes his as he settles. Yuri's eyes only shifting over enough to catch the pale of his skin and silver-grey of his hair, before he shifts back to watching Chris Giacometti, missing the two pairs of eyes lingering on them first.

Chris' outfit is more aggressive and sexier than Yuri could even dream of having the confidence to wear. It's shimmers everywhere, every time he moves, drawing the eyes to every part and angle of his body that catches the light. The whole thing makes his stomach coil tighter and even as it makes him want to curl in, he leans back slightly, into the weight of Victor, watching the comparison of what he'd done at a completely different level.

One he wasn't positive he could ever touch, no less pretend he could be.

It doesn't matter that the elements are downgrading from expected, Chris has set the audience and the ice on fire. The flush of his cheeks and the sensuous movements of his body above and beyond that. There's no way everyone watching that wasn't moved. Even he was. Phichit looks in shock, Guang-Hong's hands are at his mouth, and Victor might only be commenting on his elements, but that can't be the only thing he sees either.

Not Victor who has been skating beside Chris since Chris joined the senior division.
There's absolutely no way that Victor can't feel it, like all of them here, all the audience out there.

"I guess today's sex appeal award goes to Chris," Yuri says glumly, while Victor's hand is patting his far shoulder. "Even the ice looks soaking wet."

They stand there, waiting. The four of them, as Chris and his coach appear in the kiss-and-cry next, and then the screen bars finally blink into place. Yuri staring for what feels like an insanely, confused moment at the Rank 5, especially as Chris is on his feet playing to the adoring crowd like it's the exact opposite of that number.

All of it startles a soft sound of true surprise from Yuri's mouth, "Huh?"

Chris didn't displace him, and if Chris didn't --

"Then, am I--" First? He was still in First?

[fivetimechamp]

As the roar from the crowd goes up at the realization, Victor gives Yuri a squeeze, grinning into his cheek, saying "I knew you could do it!" before letting go to run interference with the reporters and cameras until Yuri is ready to talk to them.

Hearing Phichit say he's gunning to pass Yuri tomorrow in the free skate, and walking past a determined-looking Leo de Iglesia and his coach, there's a sea of tossed congratulations and an exuberant feeling of accomplishment saturating the air. No one is going to feel like they're out of the running after the short program, with the much higher possible scores of the free skate to come, so the skaters are effervescent and optimistic, congratulating each other and posing for selfies before heading out to talk to the cameras waiting outside.

For his part, Victor can't stop smiling, even if he tries to make it look like he knew this would be the result all along. Is he surprised that Yuri is currently in first place? No, he is not: he's always known Yuri had the ability to do as well as he had today. Does their success in the short program make him pleased with his decision to turn to coaching? Well, he'd already been pleased with it, but this is nice, too. Is being back at the rink during a competition enough to make him want to come back as a competitor himself? It's good to be back, and interesting to be on the other side of the wall during the perfomances, and, look! Here's Yuri! Please focus on him, after that outstanding performance.

Stepping to the side, alight with pride, as Yuri stammers through his answers, steadily gaining steam and confidence, even if his voice shakes a little when he declares they'll win together tomorrow with the power of love, making Victor step into frame, beaming genially and tossing up victory symbols. "Win, win!"