The sound of shattering porcelain and razor-sharp curses filled the dimly lit hotel room while three pairs of feet shuffled around in tandem on its crisp carpet.
"God- I can't deal with this. I'm sick- I'm so sick and tired of all the media and- Did you see? Did you see the score they gave me? Do you mean to tell me that it was an accurate reflection of my program?"
Viktor crimped the unkempt hair framing his cheeks using both hands, cradling the weight of his skull as he rambled at Yakov and his assistant coach, Aleksei. They wore unreadable expressions, not responding to their student's frustration fueled rant.
"It's not my fault! You see what I do to myself. You see how much of my life I've given away for this- this title! For what? So they can underscore me in my short because a few rumors are floating around on Twitter?"
Yakov grumbled something under his breath, but was cut off by Viktor who was still pacing circles around the room, side stepping around a pair of golden skates, nearly wading through the pieces of shattered porcelain in the far right corner of the room.
"I did what they wanted, I went to some sleazy club and let the paparazzi get their fill of creep-shots. I behaved myself and got a fair score on my free. Can't you see how manipulative that is? I'm being treated like their lap dog, for Christ's sake!"
The Russian trailed off into more manic mutters, spilling a few"боже мой"'s as he searched his cluttered hotel closet for the navy suit that his stylist had prepared for the banquet.
Despite his outburst, Viktor still had the basic human decency to feel bad for subjecting his coaches to the fury simmering within his worn down soul. 'Therapist' wasn't part of their job description, yet Yakov, in all his fatherly wisdom, always willingly bore witness to the skater's most mortifying moments of weakness, silently comforting him in the way he knew best, lending a listening ear.
Sometimes, when it all became too much and Viktor didn't have access to the rink, his coach would gently steer him to the company van, driving him to the large Victorian style home Yakov had lived in for decades.
They'd share homemade Borscht with Lilia, the dining room table littered with colorful little Knick knacks and gadgets left behind by Yura and Mila who were usually already fast asleep in the upstairs loft, thoroughly tuckered out by a long day of skating and schoolwork.
Those nights, despite their horrible catalysts, were treasures Viktor held near and dear to his glass heart. A single moment at that table was worth more than a month of solitude in his own apartment. Not even Makkachin could make such an empty house a home.
He had grown used to the solitude, however. Viktor knew to be grateful for his successes instead of whining over the things he had given in exchange.
He owed Yakov more than shallow and obligatory gratitude, so after catching his breath, embarrassed at his own childlike temper, Viktor found himself fiddling with his palms, uncharacteristically meek in demeanor.
"Мне очень жаль, Yakov…"
Viktor received a tired, knowing smile in response, lifting a portion of the bruising weight off his chest and freeing him to return to the task at hand. As the man dusted a light coating of powder across his cheeks, the automatic motion lulling him into a sense of routine, he found himself lost in his own thoughts.
Skate America had been a horrible experience for the Russian. Its only saving grace was Chris's presence. Chris who hadn't even been by Viktor's side for most of the competition, instead befriending a few other skaters in an attempt to 'network', as he had put it.
A culmination of minor inconveniences and one too many instances of complete and utter disrespect on the judge's part had turned Viktor sour. Having to spend time with a bunch of rowdy American women who wanted something he couldn't give them made everything ten times worse.
The night out on the town had been a last ditch effort at appeasing the RSF and ASF's outdated set of expectations. Viktor was too feminine, too worldly, and that was a problem because what if he came off as, god forbid, gay? People were talking, making assumptions and theorizing about who Viktor was in his so called 'illustrious' private life.
Nikiforov knew this was just another part of the 'celeb' lifestyle, the same lifestyle he had worked so hard to earn and maintain, but it was one of the few consequences he could do without.
Viktor didn't have a god complex, nor was he a narcissist, although people loved to project that image upon him.
He knew he was replaceable.
The quad squad was growing and it was only a matter of time before someone was able to pull off a quadruple axel. If Viktor played his cards right and kept up with his rigorous harness training, it would be him… but there were so many new faces joining the scene, talented upstarts who held the world at their fingertips.
The Russian was still young, even in terms of figure skating. He had plenty left to give on the ice, so many surprises to share, yet he felt ancient in comparison to the newbies who were bright and shiny.
Starry eyed hopefuls were typically fan favorites, widely supported underdogs. Any one of them could claim his throne, all he had to do was make a single mistake.
That misstep could be a physical miscalculation, a slightly off kilter jump that led to a career ending injury. It could be another skater's natural talent overpowering his own, as unlikely a concept as it was. The most probable culprit, however, would be something that occurs off the ice.
If Viktor dared to privately disobey the unspoken rules, even hinted at it, he would be ruined, a forgotten fad only remembered in cheaply printed, coffee-stained magazine pages. That much was just made clear in the scores at his first 2019 Grand Prix event.
They were already looking for someone who could seamlessly fill the space Viktor was currently occupying. The top candidate was made abundantly apparent on the day of the short program; Yuuri Katsuki, the skating world's next sweetheart.
The Japanese skater was far from perfect. He let his nervous jitters show through in performances, hasn't managed to add the quad flip to his roster, and wasn't as outwardly flashy as some of the other newbies… but the magic was in the music.
Viktor loathed to admit it, but Yuuri was born with a skill that wasn't learnable, only blessing a lucky few with its beauty as a birthright. He was able to create music with his body, expression through movement, magic via pantomimed caresses and bows. Every step he took on the ice exuded a dancer's grace.
Yuuri Katsuki, when on the ice, was like a swan floating upon a tranquil lake, so easily spooked yet in his natural element entirely.
That, among other stressors, is why Viktor took six shots of cheap American vodka the moment Yakov and Aleksei stepped out of the room to allow their skater a moment alone so he could prepare for the banquet. To be clear; Six shots was child's play, he is Russian, for god's sake.
He didn't get to drink often, having such rigid dietary restrictions, so when it was a possibility (ie: only on banquet nights) he took full advantage of his freedom, within reason of course.
All the starchy liquor did was loosen him up for the awkward tension and amorous glances Viktor would have to politely swallow for the next four or so hours. After the outwardly polite yet inwardly spite-fueled interview he had participated in downstairs within the hotel lobby yesterday, Viktor was sure he'd have a minor confrontation on his hands.
Yuuri had been there, watching it all unfold live and in the moment. If Viktor hadn't seen him, he likely wouldn't have spoken upon the matter at all. Some nasty little part of him had decided to throw a poised yet public fit after the judges had made their dubious intentions clear.
Originally, he felt a little guilty. Watching the younger skater rush off towards the bathroom, fists clenched tightly at his sides, Viktor realized he may have been a bit too cruel. Yuuri was just another person, who, like him, had no control over the actions that the people in charge chose to pursue.
Chris had ripped his head off when the two had retreated from the view of prying eyes. It took Viktor by surprise because of how over the top his friend was behaving in regards to such a menial comment.
He hadn't said anything truly horrible, just the honest truth, though it hadn't been with good intent. There were many times in Viktor's life when he had been told to drop a few ,so honestly, what was the big deal? It's just another unsavory part of the job description.
Every bit of that misconstrued guilt evaporated into the arena's frigid atmosphere upon witnessing the younger skater's free program. It was a direct declaration of war, a warning that Yuuri intended to usurp and conquer at whatever cost.
The kid had great timing. Maybe Lady Luck had kissed Viktor goodbye and sashayed to Yuuri's side, enlightening him with the much needed wisdom he sought, aiding in his impending success. It was a bit odd, in Viktor's humble opinion, that the timing was this on point, but he'd drive himself mad if he let himself fall victim to conspiracies.
Instead, he slipped on the velvety suit, cringing as it tugged the ponytail atop his head loose. Another few minutes were spent fussing over his hair in the mirror. Each piece had to be meticulously melded, even those he allowed to fall in his face. One's appearance is the hallmark of a good first impression.
No matter how much feel-good talk people were willing to spew, Viktor was aware of the reality. If he were to gain even five pounds it would be noticed immediately. Twitter would poke and prod at candid images as if he were some sort of sideshow attraction.
A single freckle out of place would be chastised. He couldn't afford to slip up and neglect his rituals just because the universe had it out for him at the moment. There was never a moment of true silence in his world, all was seen and portrayed as such.
Another three shots had Viktor rushing out the door, rushing to meet Yakov in the hotel lobby. Their reunion was short, sweet and stale, as it usually was. They hopped into a nondescript black Benz, chauffeured by Aleksei. Maybe if Viktor asked nicely enough, Yakov would let him aux.
"Yakov, I'm feeling miserable."
The Russian said the words as if he were a whiny, desperate child begging for one last piece of Halloween candy. It was the only tone that was capable of breaking down Yakov's solid steel exterior.
The car was silent.
"Yakov, Can I-"
Viktor was cut off, Yakov's gruff voice, aged by years of yelling, overpowering his own with ease.
"нет, Vitya. Your music makes me worry that a heart attack is on the horizon. Those guitars and loud drums are liable to give this old man a reason to walk into the light."
Rolling his eyes and lulling to the side as the car drifted a bit too fast for safety, Viktor crossed his arms and tried to practice false sobriety. It would be tacky if he were to show up drunk, but once an hour had passed and everyone else took advantage of the free flutes of champagne, he would fit right in.
Fumbling around in his coat pocket for a moment, Viktor gripped his phone, relishing in its cool surface area. A text from Chris caught his eye. Took him long enough, by god!
Chrissss: Where are you?
Vitya: Exactly where you left me to die :(
Chrissss: I appreciate the dramatics, but I'm still peeved with you so I won't be apologizing for that little incident, thank you very much!
Vitya: whateverrrrr can we just get drunk on the free booze and wander around Las Vegas ???
Chrissss: That we can do! We have to stick it out for at least an hour, though.
Vitya: Да, I know. Yakov would have my head if I ditched before chatting w some of the potential sponsors.
Vitya: ALSO! Did you hear that Nike wants me to be the new face of their brand? They want me to MODEL? Their shoes? Like… lil ol'me?
Chrissss: I'll add 'fishing for compliments' to my itemized list of infractions on your behalf
Vitya: Ok, rude :(
Chrissss: Bitch
Vitya: Lmao well I'm almost there, I'll find you, ok?
Chrissss: See you shortly, Mon Ami!
Unsettling feelings semi-placated, Viktor felt the car pull to a sliding stop. The Russian stood up, ducking out of the car. Rolling his shoulders back and raising his chin, Viktor began to project the image everyone had come to expect of him. Finally, showtime.
As they approached the venue, a mixed crowd of familiar and otherwise parted like the Red Sea, whispers of awe following in Viktor (and company)'s wake. He would never admit it out loud, but those sorts of reactions worked infinitely to boost his ego, allowing him to walk a little taller and breathe a bit easier.
It was a constant balancing act, expectations pushing him until he risks teetering over the ledge and compliments breaking his fall, like a game of cat and mouse that has no clear ending.
The revolving glass door reflected his form as he wound his way into the large open space, night sky reflecting whispers of starlight off of the atrium-esque ceiling. The ambience of the room was warm, orange hued light fixtures projecting their rays through dappled bronze encasements.
Women in pantsuits and formal dresses mingled near the bar, eyes flickering once, and then twice in a not-so-sneaky double take upon noticing who had just entered the vicinity. The men gave slight nods, some gazing upon him with the same lust fueled smolder as their female counterparts.
A constant sense of movement left the air buzzing with tinges of excitement, the day's prior arduous efforts long forgotten. You'd think they'd have exhausted themselves performing, but there wasn't a single face that reflected the physical and mental strain that came with being an athlete.
Silk dresses flitted across the red and gold patterned tile, glitter twinkling on the eyelids of men and women who had gone the extra mile. Everyone there was aiming to impress.
The elevated few who paid their bills, sponsors from every country were swarming in droves. It was obvious who was desperate for funds and who wasn't. A lot of the younger skaters were fumbling to catch the attention of said sponsors, carting around hors d'oeuvres and drinks as if they were working the event instead of celebrating with their competitors.
They were all, at best, otherwise ordinary people on appointed pedestals, only the best of the best earning the right to take a turn at playing god.
It was a matter of minutes before a flute of champagne found its way into Viktor's hand, jubilant offers being tossed around like leaves scattering in the breeze.
"Viktor Nikiforov? Could I get your autograph! Oh my god, I can't believe it! You're even more stunning in person!"
Viktor didn't even need to turn around.
"Hello to you too, Chris. Are you having fun with the riff raff?"
Chris laughed, slinging an arm around his friend's broad shoulders and clinking his own glass against the Russian's before responding " I'm drinking, of course I'm having fun. You should try making more friends, Mon Cher. It wouldn't kill you to take a page out of my book, you know."
Viktor didn't acknowledge the well meaning jab at his recent lack of socialization, instead opting to gulp down the remainder of his drink. Chris sighed, clicking his tongue and shaking his head, blonde curls bouncing as put on his best attempt at a dramatic pout.
"Are you having fun?"
The older skater shrugged, breaking eye contact as he surveyed the room for a server to bribe. The champagne wasn't cutting it, surely they had hard liquor hidden away somewhere.
"Personally, I'm already one drink away from taking a flying leap off of anything high enough."
A second of silence passed between the two. Chris's mouth grew into a grimace, eyes wrinkling in what looked like worry. Viktor blinked, befuddled by the reaction. They joked like this all the time, what was the issue? If he genuinely wanted to die, he'd have found a way to do it by now.
Before the Russian could make an issue out of it, Chris interjected, guiltily murmuring "Yakov is worried about you, y'know? I am too… I only chew you out because I care. You've been so… not you, lately."
Yeah, he definitely needed some whiskey, shit, he'd settle for more of that cheap vodka he had tucked away underneath his hotel mattress.
"Chris… Did my coach ask you to babysit me?"
The blonde didn't respond right away, taking a second to choose his words carefully. He opened his mouth a few times, only to close it, reassessing and organizing his thoughts silently before replying.
"We're just so goddamn worried about you, Viktor."
Oh, great. He's in for a guilt trip, isn't he?
"I know that the RSF is on your ass. I know that you're being underscored, and that you haven't been feeling like yourself. Even if Yakov hadn't asked me to pay close attention to you tonight, I would have been walking on eggshells, just waiting for the ball to drop."
Even said in his cherry ripe tone, charming accent thickening each vowel, Chris's words felt like a serrated steak knife tearing through Viktor's gut, twisting and sinking deeper every quiet second that passed as the Russian tried to calculate a response that wouldn't lead to a public meltdown.
"I'm going to get a drink, or seven, and pretend you didn't say that. We are going to have a nice night."
Chris's expression darkened, but Viktor continued.
"My personal issues don't need to, no, won't , and I mean it, ever bleed into your private life. Yakov is like family, as are you, but most importantly, you are a friend. I don't intend on taking advantage of that privilege."
Chris was trying to appear outwardly calm, but his urgent tone and flushed cheeks gave him away.
"If I'm your friend, if you trust me, then why are you trying to hide shit from me? I'm allowed to care, Viktor."
Viktor tugged his tie down a bit, feeling suffocated. Even the sleek button up beneath his tailored suit was beginning to cut off his airflow at the collar. He knew he was coming across as calloused, but how else would he protect Chris from the trail of trouble that clung to him with a vice-like grip? The closer they got, the more public speculations would arise.
" I get why my coach feels the need to investigate… he has to deal with me everyday. Here's the thing; you don't! You get to spend time with the fun version of me. Isn't that enough, Chris? You're my best friend. I know your smart enough to understand why I have to keep things under wraps." Viktor pleaded.
The conversation had to end here before his friend dug any deeper. Friendly bonds are a wonderful thing, but to let Chris in was to ensure his downfall as a professional skater.
The blonde recoiled, eyebrows furrowed in visibly pained expression. He hesitated before reaching out towards the taller man in a futile attempt to continue their conversation peacefully. Viktor, visibly clenching his teeth, shook Chris's gentle grasp off of his forearm, pacing towards the open bar, twirling and ducking through the swaying bodies on the dance floor, narrowly avoiding running into his fellow athletes.
Careful to keep his calculated smile up to standard, Viktor ordered a gin and tonic, then another, then at some point a couple of fruity cocktails. A few people had come up to him asking for advice, while others shot him coy smiles, gently touching the small of his back or tracing light trails on his biceps. The unwanted advances were tolerable and commonplace, and the more in his cups he was, the less of a shit he gave.
They could have this outward projection of himself. They could probe and prod and touch and yearn, but they'd never get to meet Vitya. Viktor belonged to everyone, but only partially. The people would only get to see what he chose to reveal, and although the Russian man often mourned that concept, tonight he reveled in it.
As he drank, he felt a smoldering gaze on his back. Either Yakov or Chris, he was sure. They'd be stupid to try and cause a scene over the debacle in such a public area, so Viktor was unbothered, content to drink until he couldn't.
Craving something fizzy, Viktor wobbled upright, leaning only slightly to his left, catching himself with his dominant leg before dragging himself over to the petite waitress holding a tray of champagne.
"May I?" He asked.
Cheeks flushed, the brunette gave him a doe-eyed nod, politely pushing the tray towards him. Winking, he grabbed two glasses, one in each hand, and made his way over to the far left corner of the room before chugging one and savoring the other in satiating little sips.
At this point, even he, in all his drunken intelligence, was aware that he would soon be down for the count. The pinpoint light sources scattered around the room were swirling into psychedelic mandalas, the moon's rays reflecting off of the shadows they cast. The once attractive variance of colors made up of silk and satin had become a muddied mess of shapes and movement.
Viktor's chest felt heavy and his limbs were sagging, gravity cursing him to stay in one spot, unmoving and resigned. His eyes were the only thing he could move, otherwise he'd risk falling on his ass. The lecture that would come afterwards is what Viktor truly feared.
His head began to grow sore, each follicle aching from being tied back for such a drawn out period of time. The suit he had spent so much money on, meticulously picking out each fabric and thread, felt itchy and tight. The shoes on his feet were heavy and cumbersome, seemingly cutting off the blood flow in his legs. Chris was still keeping his distance and Viktor couldn't blame him.
His temper was out of control but he didn't know how to fix it. Viktor felt helpless and out of place, tired and overwhelmed. It didn't suit him, surely, the gnawing, alcohol induced insecurity. He didn't want to sit there like a depressing statue, but he was too far gone to properly assess the layout of the room well enough to locate an escape route.
A sudden echoing laugh snapped him out of his wallowing.
"No, come on, we have to take a picture! Look, Chris is taking selfies!"
A second, quieter voice responded "Phichit, please! I'm gonna die, I look so frumpy right now!"
Why was a junior skater at the banquet? Someone must have made an exception… or he snuck in. Curiosity piqued, Viktor slowly flicked his eyes to the left. An exuberant, tan boy who radiated pure joy stood with his arms outstretched, phone held high, and at his side was a familiar face.
Yuuri Katsuki was flushed, hair tousled. He wore a baggy black suit that seemed to swallow him whole, sleeves just barely avoiding dangling over his fingertips. A badly knotted blue tie hung loosely from his dollar, cheaply patterned blue plaid clashing with his off white undershirt.
"Phichit, I'm serious! I'm literally wearing one of Ciao Ciao's old suits, I look goofy as all hell…Put the phone down- If you document this, so help me god-"
His pleas were cut short, breath audibly hitching as his eyes met Viktor's own. Lacking the coordination to play it off, the Russian was frozen in place. If he looked away, he'd seem guilty of staring like a total creeper, but what was the point in maintaining awkward eye contact with someone whom he hadn't even spoken to directly?
Viktor didn't have to worry for long. Yuuri dropped his gaze, tugging on Phichit's sleeve. The expression he wore was odd, entirely unreadable. The Thai skater bent down , whispering in Yuuri's ear. The brunette paled, desperately shaking his head.
Viktor couldn't believe they would stoop so low as he stood directly in front of them. What kind of kindergarten bullshit were they trying to pull? Was the gentle demeanor just a façade, the true Yuuri being a snarky little brat with no respect for his competitors?
Had the Russian been sober, he likely would have found the reaction endearing. Fans acted this way all the time. Coming from a competitor, though, especially one who the public were weighing him up against projected the nervous movements and hushed tones in an entirely different light. Instead of murmurs of praise, Viktor was sure the two were exchanging cruelties directed at himself. Why else would they remain so openly secretive?
Maybe he could show them his good side, make a few friends and clear up whatever misconstrued beliefs they harbored against him. Viktor forced a smile that reached his eyes, burying the anger and hurt clenching his insides into tight knots. He tested the waters, taking one step forward. Yeah, he could make it. The pair were only ten feet away, so he took the risk and stumbled forward, nearly tripping over a bunched up section of carpet.
"Mister Katsuki! I've been looking forward to making your acquaintance."
The kid looked up at him, seemingly shell shocked. It was a good start, in Viktor's opinion. He had the upper hand, as long as he could stay on his feet. Phichit's eyes were darting between himself and Yuuri. Was he suspicious of Viktor's intentions?
The Thai skater grinned impishly, hinging at the waist once more, cupping a hand against Yuuri's ear and muttering something illegible. By god, what was it with these two? Had no one ever taught them how to behave in public? The whole 'thing one' and 'thing two' act was growing old. Seriously, Viktor was extending an Olive branch here, the least they could do is show some decorum.
Before he had time to work himself up, Yuuri was unceremoniously shoved forward, nearly knocking Viktor down. Phichit, the obvious instigator, showed no signs of regret. In fact, he looked rather pleased with himself as he giggled behind one of his hands and skipped off to the snack bar.
Yuuri remained silent, eyes not meeting Viktor's own. He suddenly felt absolutely out of his depth. The Russian inwardly cringed. How was he supposed to communicate with someone who refused to acknowledge his existence? The arrogance of this kid.
"Yuuri?"
That got him a reaction, though not the one he had hoped for. Viktor felt stupid, all his prior bravado stripped away. It had been foolish to go looking for a fight. A thought occurred to him, offering reprieve from the awkwardness seeping into his being.
In a gentle tone, the same kind he'd use with a child, Viktor questioned "Do you not speak English?"
Yuuri seemed to bristle, hastily snapping back "I can speak English! I live in Detroit, so I kinda have to. Not that I'd expect you to know that, or anything… I'm rambling again, aren't I?"
Before Viktor could respond, eye twitching a bit at the obvious sarcasm Yuuri had thrown down, the younger skater opened his mouth once more.
"I really didn't want to meet you like this. This sucks- I mean... Oh my god."
Yuuri was getting louder, drawing attention to the pair. The Russian was doing his best to maintain a calm exterior, but it was only a matter of time before everyone's eyes would be drawn to the noise. He lightly patted Yuuri's shoulder in an attempt to ease the mood and comfort the boy.
Yuuri jumped, stuttering out "Don't touch me."
The 'o's' in don't were drawn out in an almost sing-song manner as Yuuri shoved Viktor away. The older skater flinched at the sudden change of tone and jerky movement.
Although the rejection stung a little, Viktor could understand not wanting to be touched. What he didn't understand was Yuuri's sudden fighting stance and cruel glare, arms wrapped around himself defensively.
"This is the worst. I'm leaving…I am just gonna go find Phichit. Bye"
To hell with an olive branch. Viktor's blood was boiling, heat seeping into his careful smile. So Yuuri wanted to be a rude, dismissive little snake? Fine, two could play at that. He had tried to be nice, to be accommodating, but Viktor was no mother Theresa.
The Russian lurched forward, hand catching on Yuuri's baggy suit-jacket. Instead of immediately turning around, the younger skater stood still, frozen in place, one foot still halfway off the ground. A line had been crossed.
"Hey."
No movement still. The silent treatment, really? Every passing second added another nail to the cross, Viktor's hammering heart growing more and more jaded. He tugged on Yuuri's jacket, forcing him to stumble over himself.
Viktor pulled again, this time more forcefully. Yuuri was facing him now, but his eyes were glued to the floor. If he was going to act like a cocky bastard, he should at least back it up with some confidence. It only added more fuel to the fire. He couldn't keep it in for a second longer or he'd implode on the spot.
Voice hushed but taunting, Viktor tilted his head upwards at an angle so he could both literally and figuratively look down upon his young counterpart.
"You know, I tried to play nice, but god…you're insanely disappointing."
Yuuri's hands were wringing against his chest now, fiddling with the sad excuse for a tie resting against his heart. So he had nothing to say, not even in his own defense? Viktor clicked his tongue, nose wrinkled in disgust.
"Are you acting like this because of that stupid interview? Grow up, Yuuri. News flash; everyone here has to live up to the exact same standards. You aren't special, If you were, don't you think everyone would know by now?"
Each word felt bitter and unfamiliar leaving Viktor's mouth, singeing his tongue the same way vomit would as they poured out, clumsy and cruel.
Yuuri pried Viktor's hand from his coat, hands trembling in unadulterated rage. Instead of snapping back or physically retaliating, the younger skater turned on his heel, sprinting away as fast as his cheap dress shoes would allow. Almost immediately, Phichit appeared at his side, casting a glance over his shoulder.
Instead of making two friends, he'd made two enemies. It wasn't his fault, though, because why would it be? Viktor had been mature, had tried to come to a mutual understanding but Yuuri and his companion had taken those valiant efforts and stomped them into the mud.
Viktor was still out of his mind, spiraling deeper into a drunken fit, ready to throw caution to the wind and make a scene. As he began to pursue Yuuri, heavy feet and eyelids retracing the pathway he had taken, a strong grip and whiff of expensive cologne ripped him out of the rage fueled daze.
"What the fuck is wrong with you, Viktor? Are you out of your mind? Did you take something? You're making a monster out of this situation. Can't you see how scared he was?"
Chris was shaking him by the front of his shirt, undoubtedly ruining it beyond repair. Viktor didn't understand why he was the one being scolded when he had originally been so diplomatic. He couldn't even find the words to explain how the situation had actually played out.
"I really hope this doesn't come back to bite you in the ass, Viktor. Why would you take your own bullshit out on Yuuri? He's a sweet kid. He looks up to you for Christ's sake."
Viktor paled, resigned to the scolding. If it would calm Chris down, then so be it.
"Ok, Chris. I'm sorry. I'll-"
"Don't give me a half assed apology. I'm serious. What's gotten into you? Are you doping or something? I've never seen you so miserable, and now you're taking it out on other people? Get a grip."
Viktor, finally sobering up, pushed Chris backwards, tears threatening to spill from his tired eyes.
"Why's it gotta be all my fault? You're taking his side without even hearing me out, and are you actually accusing me of doping? Oh, I'm the crazy one? Get fucking real, Chris. If anyone heard you say that, I'd be screwed for this season, hell, probably next season too. You know the RSF doesn't screw around with that sort of shit. Don't joke about things like that."
"Go to hell, Viktor. Call me when you start making sense again. I can't deal with you when you're like this."
With that, Chris stalked off, likely looking for Yuuri. Well screw Chris and his stupid savior complex. Victor didn't need anyone to coddle him, and if Katsuki was pathetic enough to seek help behind enemy lines then that was his own problem.
Having zero energy left for putting on airs, Viktor sought out his coach. The smell of floral perfume and musky cologne was giving him a horrible migraine, the music playing overhead only worsening the dull ache. People were tripping over themselves, often directly into the Russian's path, making the journey double in length.
After making two rounds of the room, Viktor was grateful to finally catch sight of Yakov. By his side was a gaggle of reporters, how they got in is anyone's guess. The stern expression on his coach's face said it all. Looks like they were both more than ready to make their escape.
The two made eye contact, Viktor tiredly rubbing the sleep from his eyes as he approached. Yakov's insistent frown suddenly turned up into a small smile. How sweet, his coach was happy to see him! At least one thing was going Viktor's way.
"Vitya. Your makeup… you've rubbed it all over your eyes. You look like a ребенок енот."
Ah, so he had been laughing at Viktor, not celebrating his presence. Just as well, Yakov rarely found humor in, well, anything, so if Viktor could provide him a glimpse of it he was happy to sacrifice a segment of his pride.
After politely declining interviews, carefully skirting around the topic of his new 'rivalry' with Yuuri, the pair headed back to the hotel, both exhausted enough to encourage the chauffeur, who had replaced Aleksei on the drive back, to run a couple of stale red lights.
Once they had arrived, Viktor was more than ready to pass out, dead on his feet. It took an uncomfortably long time to find parking since many skaters were arriving at the hotel to stay the night or departing for their early morning flights. As the engine's hum tried it's damndest to lull him to sleep, the Russian opened his phone in protest.
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@Nikiforfavebabe
боже мой, Ты это видел? он был прекрасен! Я думаю, что никто не может сравниться с Виктор . как всегда хорошая работа, Виктор. я люблю тебя !
9:14 pm 10/20/19 • 872 views
8 Retweets 101 Likes 4 Bookmarks
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This poster was always so sweet. Whoever she was, Viktor was grateful for the positive energy she emitted. He'd follow her instead of stalking her page if he could, but his official account was limited to mostly professional interactions with other coaches and athletes.
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@howtobeafairyy
Так ты бы хотел, например, жениться на мне... и завести со мной детей... однажды? Если вы не уверены в ответе, это Да :) @viktornikiforov
9:28 pm 10/20/19 • 14,271 views
19 Retweets 16.2k Likes 32 Bookmarks
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That was… excessively creepy. Viktor felt himself shudder, quickly scrolling away from the tagged post. Maybe he should move onto the English tweets…
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@Lifelovelemonade
I could literally change Viktor's life if he gave me five minutes and a bottle of shampoo. Just five minutes, plz , I'm on my KNEES FOR YOU .
9:30 pm 10/20/19 • 101 views
0 Retweets 26 Likes 0 Bookmarks
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@Katsukithecreator
I've been hearing rumors of bad sportsmanship on Viktor's part. Did y'all see the way he stared at Yuuri while they were on the podium? Poor baby :(. Choke on a dick @viktornikiforov
9:33 pm 10/20/19 • 815 views
4 Retweets 213 Likes 2 Bookmarks
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@Tobeflyhigh
@katsukithecreator Oh my goddddd suck it up buttercup, there's plenty more where that came from. If you knew jack shit about skating, you'd be able to see that Viktor was OBVIOUSLY underscored in the short. He wasn't mad at Yuuri, he was mad at the situation.
9:37 pm 10/20/19 • 621 views
2 Retweets 127 Likes 1 Bookmarks
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@Katsukithecreator
@tobeflyhigh I hope you get run over :)
9:43 pm 10/20/19 • 461 views
1 Retweets 92 Likes 0 Bookmarks
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That was enough Twitter for the night. The horny monologues and hateful rants greatly overshadowed the few positive messages in Viktor's mentions.
Twenty minutes and an up charge for 'V.I.P' parking later, Viktor and his coach were finally settled and ready to return to their adjoined rooms for the night. Relieved, Viktor finally felt comfortable enough to fully drop the facade, allowing the aches and pains he had kept carefully hidden throughout the night to etch their way into his being, contorting his face into a sour pout.
Maybe Yakov would let him have a day off after the flight back to Russia.
He untucked his undershirt, ripping the tie off of his neck so carelessly that it would likely leave a faint purple bruise in its wake.
"Fuck you, Viktor."
Really? Couldn't he get a good night's rest before dealing with any more drama? Sighing and pushing himself up into proper form, each vertebrae cracking and he rolled his shoulders back and straightened his spine, Viktor turned to his left where a familiar face was propped carefully upon two thin arms.
"Nice to see you too, Phichit."