Виктор Никифоров

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?

There is no slowing down the sweeping minute hand that ticks implacably about the face of the clock which marks out their season: Grand Prix, Nationals, Worlds, break that never really is a break, as much as it is a chance to delve into everything that had been wrong the season before.

And this year, the Olympics. Putting Victor back in Sochi.

(Back in that hotel, the source of so many frustrations.)

Commentators falling all over themselves to discuss how much his routine has changed in the last year: it has a new dimension, he thinks one of them called it. 

Idioty.

A bare month between the Olympics and the World Championships, but he wouldn't want a break, even if one magically appeared in his schedule. A break would only mean time to think, or time to wander around social media and annoy himself by not finding what he's looking for (and then being annoyed at getting annoyed) and he doesn't want that.

He wants to skate. He wants the gold. He wants to win. Everything else is an annoying distraction.

Like how Worlds are in Japan, this year. 

(He didn't qualify. Didn't even try, this last year. Hasn't been anywhere since the crushing defeat at the Japanese Nationals.

Not that it matters.)

More pressingly, his current annoyance is Yakov yammering in his ear while Victor sips water at the wall and tunes him out. All the same thing: worry about next year's programs after World's, Victor! You never listen to me, Victor! My grandmother could land that triple axel better than you, and she's DEAD, Victor!

Boring.

Yakov's not even finished, but Victor is finished listening to him, and pushes back off the wall, but instead of picking up where he left off with Stay Close to Me, he calls up a memory of the music he's been listening to, trying to decide between.

The seductive strings of Eros, or the unearthly beauty of Agape? 

Just another annoying distraction. No matter how many times he listens to them at night, with Maccachin curled at his feet, and pretends he's just planning ahead.