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In St. Petersburg, when the ice-blades-jumps-spins tore through him and left him hollow, Viktor went to the riverfront and breathed in the musk, all algae and dirt and flora.
If described generously, his flat overlooks the river and beyond it to the imperial facades of St. Petersburg. Viktor describes it to Yuuri carelessly, piecing together the details like a clumsy collage done by someone who cares more about the bright, flashy colors than the actual composition. Tall, old buildings with red stone. Jewel-tone onion domes. Hazardous wet snow. Lights on the river. The dial in his shower that had a habit of drifting hotter and hotter if he didn’t constantly adjust it.
Leaving St. Petersburg for Hasetsu had been easy—despite the thump-thumping of his heart as it tried to crawl out of his throat—the way everything comes easy for Viktor. Leaving, taking, winning, giving, charming, skating. It all comes easy. Effortless. Some people call it talent or genius, but really, for Viktor, it’s a quirk of personality. That’s just the kind of person he is.
Viktor doesn’t miss St. Petersburg, but he still loves the city somewhere in a small corner of him that hasn’t been overtaken by Hasetsu and Yuuri. He keeps it like a postcard memory. Neat. Pretty. Contained. Pinned up and left behind.
It’s Viktor’s fault for forgetting that things don’t come—and go—as easily for Yuuri.
“I think we should go to St. Petersburg,” Yuuri says.
April again, but no snow this year. “Why would there be?” Yuuri had mumbled into Viktor’s shoulder, half-asleep and indulging in his first period of rest in a long time. “You’re already here.”
Viktor didn’t get it. Maybe it’s a cultural thing.
“For vacation?” Viktor asks. He finishes tying the laces of one of Yuuri’s skates and gestures for the other foot.
Yuuri scoots back on the bench, away from him, eyebrows furrowed. “For training.”
Still eyeing Yuuri’s other boot with its undone laces, Viktor doesn’t respond. He reaches for it, pouting until Yuuri sighs and comes back, depositing his foot in Viktor’s lap.
Viktor thinks he might miss the way Yuuri looked at him before, with awe and trepidation and shyness. Just a little bit. The way Yuuri looks at him now is better, for all the exasperation sometimes mixed into it.
“I could call Yakov,” Viktor says, wrapping his hand around Yuuri’s ankle. Yuuko, despite being ecstatic about their relationship, had strictly forbade kissing below the neck while they were under the roof of Ice Castle. She allowed hands to be an exception, but not feet. It’s not smart to test the woman who controls your access to the rink, so Viktor sighs and works on the laces. “He’d be more than happy to welcome us for a few weeks.”
Yakov would grumble, naturally, and complain about the distraction they’d cause, but wouldn’t outright bar them. With Yakov, that’s as good as a warm-hearted welcome.
“No, Viktor,” Yuuri settles his hands on top of Viktor’s. “I mean that we should move to St. Petersburg.”
The postcard memory of St. Petersburg looks like a child’s drawing, but at different angles turns into a tourist’s memento. A mass produced charcoal still life of the city from above, the people absent.
Viktor hasn’t thought of the gulls in St. Petersburg when going to the beach in Hasetsu for a long time now.
“Really? Why?” They still trip up in English from time to time. It’ll never be the first way their thoughts form, and Viktor—who thinks first in Russian and last in English, halting Japanese he’s picked up from Yuuri sitting between the two—hopes that this is a simple case of mistranslation. The imperfect art of communication.
The surprise on Yuuri’s face wavers with indignation. “Well, we can’t stay here,” he says, as though Hasetsu did not nurture him into the incredible figure skater he is today.
Ice Castle may not be flashy or spacious, but it’s well-loved, and it loves Yuuri back with every bit of its cracked walls and dusty benches. Viktor gets it. He loves Yuuri the same way: expansively, with the desire to shelter and show him off all at once.
“Why not?” Viktor asks. “Ice Castle isn’t crowded with a dozen other skaters, and we’re free to use it whenever we want.” Whenever it’s not booked for events or holidays or classes or—
Well. It’s free often enough for their needs.
“St. Petersburg is tedious,” Viktor says, bringing Yuuri’s hand to his lips and kissing the gold ring. He’ll never get over the rush that comes with it, not ever. “I like Hasetsu better.”
His hands are wrapped around Yuuri’s waist now, already soft and plush after these short few weeks. There’s a distrustful glimmer in the way Yuuri looks at him, and Viktor smiles back without knowing the right response.
“What happens if we stay?” Yuuri asks.
They’ll do what they’ve been doing for the past year. Training, living, loving. Domestic, competitive bliss.
“You say you’re staying on as my coach, but what about your training? Who’s going to watch over you?”
“I think I’ll manage on my own.” Viktor chuckles, swoops in to kiss Yuuri because he can, but Yuuri wrenches himself away and stands up.
“I want you to take this seriously,” Yuuri says. “Did you—do you actually want to come back to competitive figure skating?”
Arguments with Yuuri are maddening. They’re always coming in from different angles, arguing about two different things.
“Of course I do,” Viktor says patiently. “But there’s nothing in St. Petersburg I need that isn’t here.”
St. Petersburg lacks all the things Viktor associates with the quick warmth of loving Yuuri. The onsen, Minako’s small ballet studio, festivals brightly lit, little statues covered in moss, Hiroko’s pampering, Toshiya’s perpetual mirth. Quiet morning jogs punctuated by greetings from the locals. They have been to so many cities in so many countries, and nowhere treats Yuuri like Hasetsu—nowhere does Yuuri open up like Hasetsu.
It hurts to picture Yuuri against a backdrop of the industrial St. Petersburg, lost in the bustle of a foreign city.
“Do you really think we can both aim for gold if we stay here?” Viktor nods, and Yuuri sucks in a frustrated breath. When Yuuri argues, he stands in one place, rooted. Other people, certainly Viktor, would be pacing. He thinks about standing up to pace now, but he’s sure Yuuri would only push him back down on the bench. “St. Petersburg is your home, why are you so against this?” His voice softens. “Don’t you miss it?”
Viktor still has a flat in St. Petersburg.
“No. I don’t.”
“But—but the way you talk about it,” Yuuri insists.
“Is that why you want to move to St. Petersburg? Because you think I’m homesick?” Relief floods him. If that’s all this is about, then there’s no point in arguing.
“Yes—at first. But I thought about it, and it makes sense.”
No, Viktor thinks, blinking at Yuuri. It really doesn’t.
Scrunching his nose—Viktor loves that expression, it’s so cute—Yuuri exhales loudly before gently holding Viktor’s face, tilting it up. “Viktor,” Yuuri begins, stern and exasperated and annoyed all at once. “You need a coach. I need rink mates. We both need supervision. Being accountable to only each other was enough at the beginning, but there was a reason I left Hasetsu to go to Detroit.” Yuuri’s expression gets softer as he goes on, his thumb drifting to press against the corner of Viktor’s mouth. “Tell me that you think you can choreograph four programs, coach me, and still skate your best when it comes time for competitions. Tell me it wouldn’t be unfair to both of us.”
Yuuri’s right. Viktor knows he’s right, but St. Petersburg is so far and so cold. The only things Viktor has there are his flat and the rink. He can barely remember what he did, where he went, outside of that. Everything was easier before Yuuri. Now Viktor has all these attachments, all these bright memories that make him hesitate.
Viktor takes hold of Yuuri’s track suit and pulls him close enough that Viktor can press his face against the fabric, zipper cold against his cheek. “I think,” Viktor says, shuddering when Yuuri’s hands slide to the back of his neck, “I’ll miss Hasetsu more than I’ve ever missed St. Petersburg.”
“Of course,” Yuuri says, both tone and touch fond. “It’s home.”