9 - 10 December, 2014 - Barcelona

[fivetimechamp]

There's a swift, fleeting moment, between his toes breaking the water's surface and the waves he'd created closing over his head, where he imagines himself on vacation. On a break from the hectic stresses and mundanity of everyday life, floating high above a sea of lights. Free to be himself, to relax. To lose himself in those self-indulgent fantasies only possible when daily training and errands, practice and diet, aren't demanding every second of his undivided attention.

He floats on his back, spread-eagled in the water, letting it buoy him, letting his thoughts trickle along whatever path they most wish to take –– which, these days, means they wander along a well-worn path from sleepless nights and newly-opened gates. Life and love –– two words he's neglected for over twenty years, that suddenly knock at the door of every thought, nudging him further down the path before he even recognizes he's headed that direction. 

Whispering, for the first time, in glimpses and sidelong glances, of a tomorrow past today.



"Ah-choo!"

A sneeze brings him out of tantalizing reverie, and he sinks further into the water to sniffle, the moment broken. It turns out even Barcelona's cold in December –– not the bone-deep freeze of St. Petersburg or Moscow, a thin wind biting through coats and scarves and jumpers with ease, but still probably a little cool to be lazing in a rooftop pool, here at the official hotel for the Grand Prix Final. Still, it's peaceful up here, and the water is heated even if the air isn't, and he has no place special to be. Yuri is still sleeping off his jetlag –– that's why they got here early to begin with. They have all of tomorrow to practice and acclimate before the Final begins. 

Steps, and the gentle tinkling of crystal against glass, distract him before the words even come, but then, Chris is a prodigy of distraction. He's made it into an art form.

"I thought, other than me, only a Russian would be stupid enough to get in the pool this time of year." That robe is scandalously short, and Victor allows himself an amused moment of picturing Chris, and the accompanying distress, at the baths at Yu-topia. "I guess I was right."

And dark glasses, even at night. Victor can't hide his amusement. "Chris!"

"Hi, Coach Victor." From anyone else, that tends to sound like an insult, but from Chris it only feels like a fond nickname. They've known each other too long and too well to stand on ceremony, so Chris' complaint that Victor is in the way of his skinny dipping rolls right off Victor's back like water droplets. 

"Don't let me stop you. I'll even take photos for you."

It wouldn't be the first time.

And just like that, the illusion of a vacation is over, drowned and smothered by the dozens of photos Victor finds himself taking of Chris mugging for the camera like he was born to do it. Sometimes it's difficult to remember that this sex bomb was once an angelic-looking little boy with golden curls, the sort Victor could picture most clearly skipping through a Swiss meadow full of flowers, but Chris has become a force to reckon with in his own right. 

He can't imagine a skating season without Chris. They've shared the podium so many times it's almost begun to feel like tradition. 

But then, it's already been eight months since he came to Hasetsu, too. How much time does it really take to change the things that can't be imagined?

Comments

[fivetimechamp]

"Hmm..."

He sips at his wine, looking up at the stars and the twinkling lights above them as he picks the right way to phrase this answer. "In Russia we don't normally celebrate before the actual birthday."

Or even on the birthday, itself. More often the celebrations are saved for name days. He hadn't even considered that he might want something for his birthday, unless that something is for Yuri to win the Grand Prix Final, and let Victor stay with him forever.

...Not that that wsa what Yuri meant. "We don't really celebrate Christmas, either."

And Yuri shouldn't be spending money on him. Victor has plenty, surely: fine clothing and accessories Yuri could never afford at his current sponsorship level. An apartment he hasn't seen in months. His skates. Maccachin. His tiny room at Yu-topia.

He really doesn't need anything more than what he's got right now.

[theglassheart]

As Victor shot out one idea and, then, quick as it could even appear to be desperately grabbed at, the second, Yuri felt his stomach only tighten as his shoulders tried their hardest to deflate on him. He did his best not to let his posture cave inward under his coat even as he looked away. No Birthday present. No Christmas present. Suddenly, neither of them was appropriate, without overstepping and deliberately ignoring Victor's own culture.

His eyes turning down from Victor and the shops beyond them on either side, toward his shoes. "I see."
Time was sliding away like sand through his fingers and each grasped idea with it.

But that couldn't be the end. Could it? No. No. It couldn't. It couldn't to be.


There had to be something. Someway. That he could find. Do.