Yuuri no longer felt anything when he went to the kiss and cry. He sat there, tired, head leaned back against the wall, towel heavy around his sweaty neck, and he felt nothing but utter exhaustion and pain. Gone was the anxiety he used to feel at the beginning of his career, when he would sit there beside Celestino, bouncing his leg, fidgeting, biting his lip until it bled. In its place had come the numbness of too many years of repetition, of winning and losing and failing and succeeding.

He no longer felt anything after, only before.

He'd thrown up before his final program, kneeling on the dirty bathroom floor of the restrooms, anxiety at an all time high, as it often was before he hit the ice. His entire career so far had been built upon pushing himself harder and harder, striving to be better than better, because he could be, because he had to be.

All of Japan was watching, the world was watching. The expectations placed upon his shoulders were high.

He was one of the best, now, but there was always that thought that he would fail, that he would let everyone down and the world would see it, cameras all on him. His family, watching the stream from Japan, his coach, the other skaters.

He shook as he sat on the bench, hiding his tremor in the white knuckled grip he had on his water bottle. He was tired, he was always tired and his body always hurt, his constant anxiety leading up to the competitions his only distraction from how hard he was pushing himself.

Celestino sat beside him, stone faced as the score was finally read. He barely heard it himself, dazed, but suddenly his coach was in his ear, voice high and excited, an arm thrown around him. Yuuri blinked quickly, looking up at the scoreboard.

"—won gold, Yuuri!" Celestino was saying, his voice drowned out by the sound of the announcer.

"Four time consecutive Grand Prix medalist, Yuuri Katsuki of Japan, has taken his second Gold at the Grand Prix Finals!" The voice came to him as if through a fog and he sat there for too long a moment, even as his coach jumped to his feet, amazed, processing it.

He'd won gold again.

Yuuri pushed a smile onto his face and waved as the camera lingered on him, eager for his reaction. And inside he was happy, almost giddy, but he was also tired and weak from the intensity of his free program and he stumbled as he stood, Celestino catching him with a steady grip. He paused for the briefest moment, looking down at Yuuri with a concerned look but he shook his head, waylaying his worry, grinning all the more.

"I won," he mouthed to his coach and he smiled back, laughing, slapping him gently on the back.

"Don't look so surprised," Celestino said. "Your programs were amazing, you were guaranteed to place!"

By the time he reached the medal ceremony he was barely able to stand, his feet aching, his legs sore and wobbly. He'd barely eaten since his plane had touched down a few days earlier for the event, and he was feeling it now, all other distractions now gone except for the weight of the gold medal that hung around his neck.

He stood out on the ice with the silver and bronze winners, smiling and waving, large bouquet of flowers in his arms. The world came in and out of focus, made worse by his lack of glasses, and he was dizzy from the flashing of the cameras, the loud voice of the announcers, the frenzy of the audience looking on.

He wondered how bad he looked, in the pale reflection of light from the ice rink beneath his feet, in the light of the cameras. He'd had circles under his eyes when he'd woken that morning, had spent too long applying a careful layer of foundation over it, blending it out until he looked somewhat normal. Presentation was important to the judges, to the world watching him and judging him.

But he was sweaty now, and tired, a fine tremor running through him as he waved and went through the motions. His hair was beginning to fall from its careful grooming, coming to settle about his eyes and about his face as it did normally.

But his smile was genuine and real and he felt on cloud nine as he finally skated back to the edge of the rink, practically falling into Celestino's arms, ecstatic as he was weak.

Later was the press conference and he was ushered to it from the rink as fast as could be and he sat, thankful for the ability to hide behind the table and a microphone, less exposed to the world and the flashing cameras.

"What's next for you?" a reporter asked, seated in the front row, and he frowned and considered it himself.

He had no answer. He'd thrown himself into the sport when he was too young even to know what he was really throwing himself into and now, here he was, one of the best in the world.

He'd won too many medals to count and he felt anxious at the thought of not skating anymore. He didn't know what to do with himself without the ice. It was all he had known, it was all he was really good at.

At the lingering silence, the reporter pushed him. "Do you have plans to compete again next season? Do you have your eyes set on the World Championships?"

He blinked, startled. "Absolutely," he said slowly, turning the words around in his head, over analyzing them as he always did before he spoke. "I'll be competing in the next season, and I expect it to top even this one."

From the sidelines Celestino shot him a curious look and he ignored it, smiling.

"My best years are yet to come," he finished, leaning back from the mic. And he truly felt it, because what else was there for him?

He could always be better. There was always room for improvement.

His brief conference was all anyone was talking about as they finally left, his tired face plastered on every screen in the arena lobby. "My best years are yet to come," echoed from every corner, and he walked along beside Celestino, focusing only on putting one foot in front of the other.

The crowds had long since left and it was just him and his coach and the other competitors finally leaving, all of them in tracksuits, bags hefted onto their shoulders. Celestino held his own bags for him, and Yuuri was thankful.

A figure stepped into his periphery and he looked up, startled to see one of the Junior Competitors stopped, glaring over at him.

Yuri Plisetsky. He'd taken gold. It was his last Grand Prix before he was eligible for Senior Division.

His brown eyes met Yuri's bright blue ones and he froze, suddenly anxious again out of nowhere. He'd run into Yuri as he'd left the bathrooms before his program, stumbling and anxious, on the tail end of his pre-competition panic attack. The kid had taken one look at him, his pale face and tear streaked cheeks, and sneered, turning his nose up at him as he walked passed.

Celestino stopped too, looking him over with concern. "Yuuri?" he began and Yuuri snapped out of it, breaking eye contact.

"Sorry," he said quietly. Falling into step again with his coach. "I'm coming."

A taxi was waiting for them outside, to take them to the hotel, and Yuuri sat in the back seat, gazing out at the street as it whirled by. He'd finally gotten time to slip his glasses on but the lights were still spots of blur through the light sprinkling of rain coming down in the waning light from the coming dusk.

Beside him, Celestino kept looking over as if to say something and Yuuri waited, preparing himself mentally for whatever was on the man's mind.

"Listen, Yuuri," he finally started, turning slightly in the back seat to better look at him. Yuuri refused to meet his eyes. "Maybe you should reconsider this next season. Take a season off."

Yuuri froze in his seat, curling his fingers together in his lap.

"You've less than a year of college left, after all." His coach's voice was uncharacteristically soft and it hurt Yuuri all the more, the gentle demeanor that told him his coach was hesitant to say what he wanted, for fear of upsetting him.

That's how he was, the way others saw him. A world renowned figure skater, an anxious mess in the times in between.

At his silence, Celestion cleared his throat and plowed onward. "You've been pushing yourself too hard lately, your free program was beyond words but after—" He paused, dropping a hand onto Yuuri's shoulder. "You're pushing yourself too hard," he said again.

Yuuri chanced a glance at him, at last, shrugging out of the man's grip. He plastered a smile onto his face but he didn't really feel it. "Really," he said. "I'm fine. I'm not pushing myself too hard."

And maybe it was a lie, but pushing himself helped with everything else. He practiced all the time, during his time with Celestino, in secret in his free time. And skating was cathartic to him, a way to push off all the anxiety, all the stress of everyday and lose himself in something beautiful and creative.

He didn't just push himself because he felt he had to, too many expectations rained down upon him, but because he wanted too, because skating had become everything to him.

Celestino sighed and looked away, finally. "Alright," he murmured. "Just think about it."

Yuuri didn't.

Yuuri facetimed with Phichit while he prepared for the banquet. It was in less than an hour and Yuuri had had just enough time to shower and do his hair once arriving at the hotel. He sat on the edge of his hotel bed while he laced his shoes, Phichit's voice washing over him, excited.

"Another gold, Yuuri! I'd say I can't believe it but I totally can. I watched the whole event live and your programs were the best, the best. Yuuri! You were fantastic!"

His longtime friend hadn't placed to make it to the finals and had ultimately decided to remain back in Detroit instead of attending as a guest. But even with his limited amount of time, Yuuri wanted to speak to him.

His voice was a welcome familiarity against his nerves as he prepared to leave.

Yuuri finished with his shoes and picked up his phone, bringing his face back into view of the camera. He grinned wide and Phichit smiled back. "T-thanks," he said, scratching at the back of his head. "I did alright, didn't I?"

And Phichit laughed. "Yuuri, you're too hard on yourself. You just won gold!"

"Yeah, I won gold," he echoed.

Celestino called to him from the adjoining room and he looked up as the man poked his head in "The taxi will be here in five," he told him, beaming. Gone was his concern from before. He had let it go, for now, it seemed. "Are you sure you're up for attending tonight? No one will blame you if you decide not to—"

Yuuri shook his head, interrupting him. "No, no. I'll be out in a moment."

He bid goodbye to Phichit and stood, at last, moving to glance at himself in the bathroom mirror. He looked as tired as he felt, hair slicked back, face pale beneath the bathroom fluorescents. He'd lost a bit of weight since he'd last had cause to where the suit he'd chosen and it was ill fitting, hanging almost loose from his frame.

He looked down at his glasses, which he'd cast aside while getting ready, considering them. His vision wasn't so bad that he couldn't make it through the night without them, but he grabbed them anyway, sliding them onto his face and bringing his appearance into better focus.

He looked rough, but it would have to do.

They arrived a bit late, Celestino practically dragging him in. The man himself seemed rather excited to be there and he parted ways from him the moment he had finally decided Yuuri would manage without him.

All of the other skaters were already there with the exception of the select few who enjoyed being more fashionably late. In one corner, the junior skaters huddled in their own group, Yuri Piletsky among them. They made the briefest amount of eye contact across the room and Yuuri looked away, pushing the kid from his thoughts.

There were hors d'oeuvres set up, and a long table covered in delicate flutes of champagne. He made his way there first, grabbing a flute and downing it for his nerves. He grabbed a second one to get him through the rest of it and set about mingling.

Everyone stopped to speak to him, once they realized he was there, offering their congratulations and kind words and he made dreaded small talk for what felt like ages, thankful for the alcohol.

He was grateful for the praise, but humble and awkward throughout all of it, despairing a little more every time a new stranger approached him.

He'd made it through almost three flutes, his cheeks flushed, by the time he was able to pull himself to the corner and away from the crowd for a brief moment. It didn't last more than a few minutes before he was approached by yet another person and he plastered a weak smile on his face, forcing eye contact, as was polite.

The man was different than most of the other sponsors floating about, tall and elegant in a way that reminded him more of the other skaters. His hair was short and silver, eyes a pale, gray-blue, and he smiled a smile that made Yuuri's knees weak.

And there was something familiar about him that Yuuri couldn't quite place, a feeling of almost nostalgia looking at him that stirred something—

He blinked, eyes going wide. "Victor," he said. "Victor Nikiforov."

The man smiled wider, extending his hand, and Yuuri fumbled his champagne from one hand to another in order to shake it. "You know me," he noted. His English was flawless, his Russian accent thick and delicate. Yuuri briefly thought he might faint to have the man standing before him.

"Yeah," he said, throat tight. He swallowed down the nerves, his whole body feeling suddenly light and flush. The champagne was beginning to make him light hearted. "You were my idol, you're the reason I became a skater."

Victor stepped closer, closing what little distance was already between them. "I'm aware," he said playfully. His voice was the epitome of charming, his posture inviting in a way that made Yuuri blush deep.

He opened his mouth to ask how he could know such a thing, but he was beaten to the punch. "You were interviewed by a major magazine a few years ago, I forget which one," Victor told him, smirking, taking a small sip of his drink. "They quoted you on that."

Victor had been the leading figure skater in the world, from the time he was in Junior's until he had graduated into the Senior division. He was still heralded as one of the greatest skaters to ever touch the ice and Yuuri had grown up watching him skate, had taken notes, had strived to be as good as him.

And then Victor was injured, had gone down during a Grand Prix final, performing a jump he had performed hundreds of times before. Yuuri knew, because he'd watched every one of his performances.

It was a fluke of bad luck, a legendary skater pushing himself too hard, flubbing a jump in the worst possible way. He'd come down wrong and damaged his knee.

He'd been carried off the ice.

And Victor had been a shoe in for his fifth medal, likely a gold. He'd been a World Championship hopeful, an Olympic hopeful. He'd been almost the age Yuuri was now. He'd done one more season, placing bronze with consistency, and then he'd quietly retired, unable to return to what he had once been, before his injury.

Yuuri had watched that final season with growing sadness to see such a talented skater taken out so early.

And now the man himself stood in front of him, smiling flirtily, champagne flute held lazily in one hand. He looked different now, hair shorter, his suit neat and well tailored, but he wore the same personality he always had on the ice.

"I have posters of you on my walls," Yuuri said idly, without thinking, and then immediately turned bright red, realizing himself and the looseness that had come to his tongue in the wake of too much champagne. "I mean—"

Victor laughed and it was the loveliest sound.

Yuuri cleared his throat and tried again. "What are you doing here?" he asked, casting his eyes about the room. Everyone seemed to be ignoring them, leaving them alone in the corner Yuuri had tucked himself into and he almost prayed for someone to come over and interrupt, to save him from making a fool of himself in front of his idol.

"Ahh," Victor murmured, tilting his flute ever so slightly in the direction of the junior skaters, where they had awkwardly gathered together. "I'm Yuri Plisetsky's coach," he told him. "Such a handful, that one, but I'm sorry to say this will be my last season coaching him."

Yuuri frowned. "He won gold," Yuuri said, looking to where the Russian Yuri leaned against a wall slightly away from the others, scowl on his face. He looked to be having the worst time imaginable. "Has he— Has he fired you?"

What an inappropriate question to ask and Yuuri immediately bit his lip, regretting it.

Victor didn't seem to find it intrusive at all and shrugged, making an almost funny face. "In a way. He's making his Senior debut soon enough and wanted a change. I'm hardly bothered, I've been his coach for quite a while. Henceforth he'll be training with my old coach, Yakov." He took another sip of his champagne. "But let's not talk about that, let's talk about you, Yuuri Katsuki." He leaned further into Yuuri's personal space and Yuuri almost dropped his glass in surprise. "You've won another gold. Congratulations." He practically purred it.

"T-thanks," Yuri stuttered out, finally averting his gaze. He raised his glass to his lips for the sake of doing something and nearly choked as Victor continued.

"You'll surpass me soon."

Yuuri raised his hands, shaking his head wildly. "Never," he said, bewildered. "I'll never be as good as you, never—"

Victor smiled softly but his eyes looked almost sad, suddenly. "Yuuri Katsuki, cool and aloof, world famous figure skater. You're different than I expected, in person," and Yuuri felt faint at his words, felt, finally, the edge of a panic attack coming over him. "But cool and aloof isn't quite right, is it?

Slowly Yuuri moved his free hand up to cover his heart, grasping at the loose material of his suit there. He played it off as a nervous gesture, taking slow, deep breaths through his nose quietly, trying to calm himself.

That's how the world saw him, the magazines, the media, the other skaters. He only rarely went to after event banquets, kept to himself, didn't engage with the others. He wasn't a mingler, and people noticed that. But Victor saw through that, Victor—

"You're just shy," he said and Yuuri's breath caught in his throat. "And awfully modest."

He shrugged and looked away, quietly relieved. Inside he was a mess, shy only through his own nerves, his falling apart at the seams. Victor was unfazed by his awkwardness, seemed almost endeared by it.

But his eyes were still on him, sad all the same, and Yuuri felt more self conscious than ever under that gaze. Victor seemed to consider him for a long moment and finally leaned in, swiping a finger across his cheekbone, more prominent than usual, a hair's breath beneath the dark circles under his eyes.

"A bit of advice," he said softly, lips barely moving. "Take it easy. Don't push yourself too hard."

And then he pulled away, the warmth of his touch noticeably absent from Yuuri's cheek in the wake of it

Yuuri drank enough after that he didn't remember anything past Victor's thumb sliding across his cheek.