fivetimechamp | 9 - 10 December, 2014

Current Location: Barcelona, Spain

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9 - 10 December, 2014 - Barcelona

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?

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Back in the other direction, Yurio is also making his way through the city -- but for less pleasant reasons. His footsteps beat a frantic, staccato pulse that echoes off the surrounding buildings, almost loud enough to drown his thudding pulse and quickened breath.

And what is he running from, one might ask?

None other than a ravening pack of fans, all sporting the cat ear headbands that make up their uniform. They've lost sight but not scent of their prey, pausing in their chase to huddle at a street corner, trying to determine which alley he'd ducked down. "Where's Yuratchka?" asks one, peering around a building corner.

"We're about to have a fan meeting!" whines another, dropping to the ground to sniff hopefully for a trail, before catching wind of something familiar. "I can smell Yuratchka! It's coming from over here!"

"Oh!" Another girl sits up, a thin gold wire glinting between her mittened fingers. "This hair is Yuratchka's!"

They're close. It's only a matter of time.

Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck fuck.

This isn't happening. This seriously isn't happening.

(Who the hell are these fangirl freaks? They can smell him? What the shit?)

He doesn't even want to be out here. All he'd intended to do was to go down the street, breathe some air that dozens of other figure skaters haven't been breathing for a little while. Maybe stick his head in some crappy souvenir shop -- he's got, like, all of twenty euros in his wallet, and that won't buy much except something small for his grandfather's Christmas present. Just enough to not be staring at the four walls of his hotel room for the entire afternoon. And now here he is pressed up against a stone doorway in the grimy wall of some alley that stinks like old garbage and pure fear, while a bunch of rabid cat-ear-wearing psychos are prowling around so close by that he could spit on them -- and they're blocking his only fucking escape route.

Crap. Peering over his shoulder, trying to see around the corner, he can tell that they're still trying to pick up his trail. How do I get myself out of this? He could take off at a run, try to make a break for it, but where can he go? How far could he --

He's so caught up in his immediate predicament that the sound of a revving engine doesn't even register in his ears until it's practically on top of him.

He's never decompressed the way the other skaters do. Doesn't drink much, doesn't socialize. Sees little point to wasting time rehashing previous seasons and stories with people he barely knows, doesn't care to know better.

The bike is a rental, and it, too, was a specific decision. He could share taxis with the others, share dinners, share his space, but he prefers to ride around the city himself, without having to listen to them.

Finding focus in the way wind whips around his face, catches the jacket at his waist. (He'd medaled, before. Stood on that ice with Victor Nikiforov and Chris and felt nothing but the crushing weight of the months ahead.)

Focus, but not enough to miss a glint of blonde as it disappears around a corner, with a chattering mass of girls in hot pursuit, and just like that, his plans have changed.

Or maybe he was always meant to drive along the cobbles, coming to a halt in front of Yuri Plisetsky, cutting the engine to a low growl. "Yuri, get on."

Pressed up against the doorway, Yuri whips his head around in alarm. The reek of diesel sears the inside of his nose, and maybe it clouds his half-fried brain a little, too, because the motorcycle that's appeared beside him might as well have dropped out of the sky with all the unexpected suddenness of a heat-seeking missile.

And then its rider, in a black helmet and leather jacket (a look that pings wow, that's super-cool in some remote corner of his mind that isn't preoccupied with staving off his imminent death-by-fangirl), calls out to him by name -- and Yuri doesn't even know who or what he's looking at, at first.

'Huh?' It takes a second to for everything to come together, enough to identify the face and voice over the roaring in his head. 'You're -- '

A bad move, to say anything out loud, because the most dedicated of Yuri's Angels have been drawn to the noise in the alleyway, and not only have they found their quarry but also have stumbled upon a wholly new element that complicates matters in an absolutely delightful way.

'It's Yuratchka!' one of them exclaims gleefully, just as her companion gasps in surprise, 'Huh? No way! It's Otabek Altin of Kazakhstan!'

Those girls will be on them in seconds, and he's pretty sure they could rip apart his bike with their bare hands. So:

"Are you coming, or not?"

He wouldn't want to be trapped here with a pack of rabid fangirls itching to tear him to shreds, but as far as he can tell, the only person who decides what Yuri Plistetsky does is Yuri Plisetsky.

It's the act of reflex, of instinct, to catch the helmet that Altin tosses to him, even as a hundred questions get stuck in his throat trying to get out.

There's no reason for him to trust Altin. A rival. A competitor. A stranger. Someone whose sole interaction with him to date has been a flat stare in a hotel lobby, and then turning and walking away.

None of this makes sense. None of this makes any sense.

(Are you coming)
But in this moment, as in so many other things in his life --

(or not?)
-- instinct is the only thing that Yuri can trust.

He's not exactly at his most grateful as he scrambles for the bike, trying to jam the helmet on his head and buckle it with one hand even as he gropes for something to hang onto that isn't Altin himself. But then it's on, and he's on, and all he can do is tuck his legs up as high as they'll go and hang on for all he's worth as the engine roars back to life.

They roar out of the alleyway, the combination of wind and engine more than enough to make any clicks of smartphone cameras evaporate beneath a wave of white noise.

Just because they don't hear it, of course, doesn't mean Instagram, SnapChat, Twitter, and every other social media platform aren't suddenly flooded with frantic photos soon posted in living color under hyperbolic headlines.

The fairy of Russia rides off on a motorike with Otabek, the hero of Kazakhstan!!

However breathless the reports might be, the ride itself is unremarkable. They fly down the streets of Barcelona as the sun begins to slip a little further in the sky and the air casts a little more chill over the city.

There are still plenty of people out and about when he pulls up to the Park Güell, though. Tourists and natives of the city both wandering slowly up and down the graceful curving steps, walking amongst the clustered columns of the Sala Hipóstila.

it's better. But he still climbs higher, the bite of winter air against his bare face, the low murmur of the people around them, as they make their way to the very top of the temple.

This isn't exactly the way he'd expected to see Barcelona. Not that he'd really expected to see Barcelona at all. His last two Grand Prix Finals, he'd been too young (Yakov's spoken words) and too irresponsible (Yakov's actual unspoken meaning) to be wandering around on his own, which had suited Yuri just fine. Who the hell wants to tag along with their coach everywhere anyway? The inside of the hotel room had been enough, when he wasn't at the competition arena itself.

What he actually does end up seeing of Barcelona is a stretch of road mostly blocked by the back of Otabek Altin's head, and -- when he tilts his own head back -- the sky rushing past overhead. The latter is an unusual shade of chilly blue, deepening as the winter afternoon wears on. And at some point, in the midst of turning onto a new street, he finds that he's stopped holding onto the back of the bike seat and is holding onto Altin instead.

It's for safety, of course. It's hard to know whether Yakov would be able to murder him before Lilia did, if he were to slip off the bike and break a leg the night before the short program. But it's also easier to lean into the turns that way. It's more comfortable, too.

(None of this makes any sense.)

Ever since he'd climbed on the back of Altin's bike, time has seemed to move in ways that defy Yuri's ability to keep track of it. Was it five minutes? Half an hour? Forty-five seconds? And when Altin turns into the park, slowing the bike to a near-stop before dropping a leg down and putting the kickstand in place, a strange pang of frustration resonates in Yuri's chest -- though it's frustration with himself more than anything else. His first time on a fucking motorcycle, and all he could do was stare at things like an idiot? But he doesn't have time to dwell on it, because Altin's already getting off, and Yuri can only do likewise. And then he's walking, and Yuri's trailing after him, in this place where no one gives them a second look.

All the while, Altin's not speaking. Not saying a word. He's not strutting around like Viktor, or jumping at his own shadow like Katsudon. It's not like being with Mila or Georgi, either. And Yuri keeps pace with him, because what else can he do?

What the hell does Altin want with him?

The steady climb up these steps brings a familiar, pleasant warmth to the muscles of his legs and back, while the tourists' chatter around them washes in and out like waves slipping along the sand. So far, Yuri Plisetsky has simply accompanied him in silence, but that won't hold –– he has never known the Russian to withhold his opinion or thoughts for long.

Otabek isn't adept at making friends. He is too blunt, too straightforward, too focused on what he must accomplish and what it will take for him to get there. He isn't practiced in small talk, like Victor or Chris or any of the other more naturally charismatic skaters, and he lacks JJ's abrasive ego that assumes he is always welcome.

Yuri is still climbing with him, as he mounts the last few stairs, evening sun spilling orange light across the park, but it means nothing. It certainly doesn't mean he remembers what Otabek remembers.

So he would not be remiss in reminding them both. "Do you remember that we trained together, once?"

Years ago. A lifetime ago, for Yuri. "Yakov had a summer camp. We both attended."

They're up at the top of some building or other in this park, leaning against the parapet wall. It's a perfect vantage point over the broad expanse of Barcelona, shining like a city of gold in the light of the late afternoon sun. But even if Yuri had had a mind to appreciate the view, Otabek Altin's revelation has driven everything else out of his head.

'Really? I don't remember that!' Under most circumstances, he'd be embarrassed to blurt something like that out, but it's like his voice and his brain aren't completely operating in sync. When could he and Altin have possibly trained together? Yakov runs his training camps on strict lines of separation, with all attendees sorted into classes through placement and performance tests -- for ease of instruction, of course, but also to curb the wayward ambitions of certain younger skaters who might attempt elements or techniques that their bodies physically are not prepared to handle. Yuri had never been with the senior classes until this year, and he'd never seen Altin in the junior classes. So how could their paths have crossed before without him remembering it?

He's sure he would've remembered it. You're supposed to keep an eye on your potential rivals, aren't you? And though he's turned a sharp look on Altin's face now, for the life of him he can't seem to recall seeing that profile anywhere else but on a television screen, or from a distance at a press conference.

(If he can't remember, he's at a disadvantage here. He doesn't like being at a disadvantage.)

"Five years ago."

He is too brusque, he supposes. Just as he'd eschewed ballet and the grace it would lend his skating, he has never cared to speak any other way than bluntly.

Still, perhaps he should work his way around it, a little. "At the time, I was in my first year in the junior division." Five years is a long time for someone of Yuri's age, and he had been as single-minded and focused then as he is today. It isn't a surprise he hadn't noticed or remembered Otabek, struggling to keep up. "But I couldn't keep up with the Russian junior skaters."

Even now, it burns, a little. That feeling as fresh as ever that he'd never be as talented as those gifted Russians, seemingly born to the ice, if not from it. "So I was put in the novice class. That's where I met you."

That, too, is clear as if it happened yesterday. The young Yuri, eyes hard as diamonds, throwing himself into his training with the reckless desperation of the young and the foolhardy. "Yuri Plistetsky had the unforgettable eyes of a soldier."

'...a soldier?' It's strange, how Yuri's voice sounds far too harsh and loud in his own ears, even though he feels like he's barely repeating the word above an exhale of breath. Maybe it's because something deep within him has suddenly gone quiet, dead silent and entirely still, and so any sound that fills the space left behind would ring through him like the echoes of a shout. 'Me?'

Five years ago. Five years. Ten years old, and leaving behind everything familiar, the things he loved and the things he hated, for an uncertain promise, the chance of a lifetime. A narrow dormitory bed and a gruelling schedule, hour upon regimented hour of endless critique and sparse praise. Flickering images from those days still slip into his mind once in a while, some half-recalled instruction or correction now drilled into his core. He remembers the pressure of the training sessions, the intensity of everyone around him, the concentrated drive and the passion, all keeping his own insecurities and fears at bay...and the anger, of course, bringing everything into focus as it always did.

(But he hadn't always been this angry, had he?)

To be invited to Yakov Feltsman's summer training camp at that age had marked him even among the junior skaters as someone to watch with envy and distrust -- or so he had thought at the time. He can't remember the young teenager that Otabek Altin must have been then, in that place. He can only remember who he was, and what it had been like: unforgettable it itself, because he had never been able to forget it.

'I had just moved my home rink from Moscow to St. Petersburg.' Memory rushes to fill the vacuum left by the silence inside, and somehow it comes out of his mouth as words that no living soul, not even his grandfather, has ever heard him say aloud. 'I was desperate. I decided that I wasn't going to complain until I was good enough.'

He hadn't complained. He'd taken everything they'd thrown at him. He'd done what he had to do. And of all of the people in that one novice class, he and Altin are the ones standing here today, with the sun-streaked city of Barcelona spread out before them.

Almost as if they've closed a circle, somehow. As if this moment had been suspended in time, waiting for them to catch up to it.

"After that camp, I moved around to train."

As so many of them do, blurring country lines but never loyalties. Always searching for that thing to give them an edge: a new coach, a new rink, a new training partner, a new diet, a new crosstraining regimen. "From Russia to the US and then to Canada. I only managed to return to my home rink in Altamy last year."

Yuri Plistetsky, he thinks, understands this. This feeling of needing to be the best, for his country and his people and himself. Otabek had watched his performances in Moscow, how he fell and then redeemed himself.

He could almost feel that bruise forming on his own hip. "Now, more than ever, I want to win the championship for Kazakhstan."

All of it spoken out toward the city, while the breeze tugs at his hair, his collar. Is there a point to telling Yuri all of this? Perhaps not. But he thinks that if anyone here could understand, it would be him.

Even if Altin's matter-of-fact voice makes his words sound simple, almost banal, Yuri can feel the weight behind them. It had taken all of Yuri's own courage to leave Moscow for St. Petersburg, but in the end the two cities are only a few hours apart in the same land of his birth. To have moved around to so many places, spending year after year away from home, in search of any opportunity to become stronger --

He gets it. He understands. How could he not?

And yet at the mention of Kazakhstan, Yuri's hands clench reflexively, mirroring the sudden tightness in his chest. This isn't just some other skater talking to him, sharing the details of his own solitary path through their sport. (Though it's not as if he'd ever listened to anyone else like this before. It's not as if anyone's ever talked to him like this before.) This is one of the five senior skaters that Yuri has to beat, to crush, to grind beneath his toepicks, in order to take the Grand Prix Final gold medal here in two days' time. Only one of them can stand at the top of the podium. Why on earth would Altin go out of his way to tell him all of this, when tomorrow morning they'll be out for each other's blood and none of this will matter anyway?

He turns on his heel. 'Otabek, why did you talk to me?' He's standing up straight, facing this challenge head on. 'I'm a rival, aren't I?'

No games. No excuses. He can shut this down right now, if it's a threat to his chances of winning.

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9 - 10 December, 2014 - Barcelona

Gotta Supercharge It! -- Escape the fans!

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