Why is my life trash? Where are these writing inspirations coming from? Since when did I write romance? Or humor, which I can't write for shit? Rated for mild implications of sex. Anyway, I hate this anime for literally ruining my life, bye. Word count: 4,230.
Disclaimer: not mine, not for profit. Also my submission for Day 3 of Yuri on Ice appreciation week! Prompt: A character you'd like to have as a buddy. Hint: It's Chris.
Translations: This fic is available in 简体中文, thanks to the wonderful juliaz1007! Check out my profile for the link, or shoot me a message if the website fucks up links again.
Five Times Chris's Dating Advice Was Ignored By Russian Skaters
(& One Time It Wasn't)
i.
"Have you tried appearing in front of him naked?" he suggested.
"Chris!"
"I mean, I'm just saying. You guys are sharing a room and it's almost two in the morning. You can totally pass it off as an accident if it goes wrong, you know?"
His friend groaned from the other side of the phone.
If Victor was with Chris in person, he was sure he would have been punched in the face at least a handful of times already by that point in the conversation. Fortunately for him, Victor Nikiforov was not physically in Chris's apartment but rather at the Rostelecom Cup with his lover, presumably stewing in his own pot of sexual frustration and angst two time zones away. And thus, Chris could speak his mind freely.
"Anyway," Chris continued. "Why are you wasting my limited international calls to ask me for advice about seducing Yuuri Katsuki again?"
"Because I need your help!"
Christophe Giacometti. Twenty-five. Cat lover, chocolate eater. Professional Swiss figure skater and confirmed Grand Prix finalist. Running an unofficial dating advice ring for Russian skaters who don't listen to him to begin with.
Even he had to laugh at the thought of that.
"And," Victor's voice continued. "I have tried that, as I will have you know."
"Really?" Chris was significantly more interested in their conversation now. "Please enlighten me on the details of your nude appearances in front of young Katsuki. Did you get it on video? Was this moment caught on national television too?"
Victor groaned again, and Chris was seriously, seriously reconsidering his decision of not recording their conversation.
"It was when I visited his family's hot springs back in Japan," Victor supplied after a brief pause. "When I showed up to offer to be his coach, he confronted me in the hot springs, where I was definitely, definitely naked then."
Another pause.
"And I was definitely standing up, too."
Chris couldn't help it. He burst out laughing and Victor offered him a few choice words in Russian through the phone.
"So your advice about appearing in front of him naked? Not going to work."
"Well, Vitya," Chris managed between his fits of laughter. "They do say that third time's the charm."
He heard an ambiguously incoherent yet definitely sexually frustrated noise from the other end of the line, along with a few more words in Russian that he was sure Victor's mother would not have approved of.
"I'm hanging up," Victor declared.
-::-
ii.
Christophe Giacometti generally considered himself to be an easy-going person, certainly one of the more sociable people in the pool of Grand Prix qualifiers. Sure, he wasn't like Phichit Chulanont with his thousands of Instagram followers or Jean-Jacques Leroy with his millions of fans, but he was still on good terms with most of the people in Barcelona that night and still on top of his sex appeal game.
Still, he did not expect to become the official dating advice giver for every single figure skater in all of Russia.
It wasn't Victor this time who called Chris during the truly ungodly hours of the night to ask him for advice and simultaneously add significant amounts of money to his phone bill—this time, it was one of the younger skaters who spoke to him, though she admitted it had been Victor who sent her.
"Mila Babicheva," he said when he saw her slim figure approach. "What can I do for you?"
"Victor told me to come to you," Mila answered immediately.
She looked nervous and wouldn't meet his eyes as she shot him a look that was half-apologetic, half 'you know how Victor Nikiforov is and this really wasn't my idea but he made me do it anyway so that's why I'm here.'
Unfortunately, Chris knew that look too well.
"He wants me to tell you that all the figure skaters are having dinner together tonight, and he wants you to come."
"I would be delighted," he replied easily.
Why couldn't Victor just text him like any other normal person would instead of sending his red-haired rinkmate to deliver a message?
"And another thing," Mila continued nervously, shifting back and forth on her feet. She still wouldn't look at Chris in the eyes. "I asked Victor for some advice, but he told me to go straight to you instead."
That was such a Victor thing to do.
"This is really awkward," the younger skater said, voicing Chris's exact thoughts. She scratched the back of her head and gave him a genuine yet shaky smile. "I know we don't really know each other too well, but I've heard from everyone how nice you are to the other skaters, and Victor said you gave good advice about this sort of stuff."
"What kind of advice?" Chris asked.
Mila's eyes widened and Chris swore she turned the color of her hair.
"You know," she stuttered. "Advice about dating."
Oh.
That was rich, considering that Victor never did actually follow Chris's advice to appear in front of that Yuuri Katsuki naked—or if he did, he certainly didn't tell Chris about it afterward. In which case, Chris didn't know which he was more offended by. And yet here he was, directing his younger teammates to Chris, as if Chris ran a newspaper column filled with dating advice exclusively for sexually frustrated Russian figure skaters.
He was so going to strangle Victor later.
"So," Mila continued, shifting her weight yet again. "Um...I've wanted to ask someone out for coffee for a long time now, but I'm not sure how to go about it."
He was still definitely going to strangle Nikiforov later, but fresh gossip? Chris could not refuse even if he wanted to.
"Who is this person?" he asked.
Mila's face turned even redder than her hair, a feat Chris thought was impossible. She mumbled a name under her breath, something that Chris thought sounded suspiciously like Sara Crispino.
He knew he was way too young to have a heart attack, but Chris still felt like clutching his chest and falling to the ground.
Okay, maybe that was a slight exaggeration on his part. But Sara Crispino and Mila Babicheva? It was too cute.
"You know, Mila," he answered. "I wouldn't even bother with the coffee."
She looked confused.
How could he put his thoughts into words?
What he wanted to say was something along the lines of, "From a purely objective and outside perspective, it would be apparent to any stranger that you guys both like the other considering the unusually large number of hearts and kissing emojis to be seen floating around your social media comments to each other. And since you guys have known each other for so long and hang out so much to begin with, especially at competitions, a quick 'date' like grabbing coffee in Barcelona wouldn't mean anything out of the ordinary. Through simple logic, Mila, you would need to do something more than coffee—like take Sara clubbing or something. Dance with her around a pole and strip. Or get down on one knee."
If Mila had been as close to him as Victor was, Chris would've gripped her shoulders and spouted his entire inner monologue to her face.
But seeing as how nervous Mila was already, Chris definitely did not want to frighten the poor child any more.
"My advice?" he told her instead. "I think she would appreciate something more than just coffee."
Mila frowned. "O-Okay?"
"Just trust me," Chris said with a wink. "You need to be more direct about your feelings. Admit that you like her while you're out together; there's absolutely no harm in admitting your feelings to Sara Crispino."
-::-
iii.
Sometimes he wondered how half the Russian skating team was still alive, considering they bothered him so much.
First, it was Victor Nikiforov who called him in the middle of the night.
Then, it was Mila Babicheva who was referred to him by Victor.
Now, it was Georgi Popovich. Yes, that one figure skater who wore way too much dark eyeshadow for Chris's taste and smelled like the physical embodiment of one-sided relationship angst and shed real tears during his short program. Georgi Popovich, who contacted him through referral by Mila—Mila, who was referred to him by Victor.
Rich, considering that neither Mila or Victor actually followed his advice—he later found out from Mila's Instagram that she and the Italian skater had only gotten coffee and were still suspended in a perpetual state of crushing on each other without any admission of feelings other than obscene amounts of heart emojis over Twitter.
Very much contrary to the direct approach he had suggested earlier.
Why did he even bother?
Either way, it was like one long game of telephone had ended when Georgi Popovich sat down in front of him.
Victor had arranged their meeting once he heard Chris was stopping by their home rink in St. Petersburg on a quick visit, saying that his rinkmate was in need of a serious talk and Chris was the only person he knew who might have some good advice for Georgi. Apparently, Mila had also approved and reserved a table for them at a local restaurant.
Never had Christophe Giacometti wanted to be a hermit in the mountains of Switzerland more than in that moment.
Georgi started talking about his ex-girlfriend before the food hit the table.
"Anya," he declared, making long, sweeping gestures with his arms at the restaurant in general. Chris was very forcefully and very vividly reminded of Georgi's short program in that moment. "Anya used to take me here."
...Right.
Okay.
Clearly, Chris was out of touch with the sheer depth and severity of relationship angst these days.
"Um," he said awkwardly. "Do you want to...talk about Anya?"
Georgi looked at him with his head tilted sideways, evidently confused at Chris's suggestion that they hold a conversation about his ex-girlfriend. Chris, despite being tired, was sure he had spoken in English. By the look on Georgi Popovich's face, he might as well have asked the simple question in Klingon.
"Why would I do that?" Georgi replied at last. "I have a new girlfriend."
...Right.
"Okay, so how do you feel about her?"
If he didn't know that Mila Babicheva was also involved with the lunch meeting, he would've guessed that Victor and Georgi had plotted to set him up as a joke. However, as Georgi began to speak, Chris realized that the Russian skater was being entirely, genuinely, frighteningly, one hundred percent serious.
"She reminds me of Anya, but different at the same time," the Russian skater explained.
Chris definitely needed to retire.
At the very least, he needed to get out of Russia.
"I think about Anya every time I see her, and I know I shouldn't. She's not Anya, but I am just always r-reminded of our time together."
God, he was actually crying.
"Um." Chris reached across the table and placed a small pat on the back of Georgi's hand. He cleared his throat and searched for the right words to say, but again, the only syllable he was capable of uttering at the moment was another, "Um."
"Victor and Mila said you gave good relationship advice," Georgi continued. He looked up at Chris with watery eyes.
If there truly was a lord in heaven, Chris would've dared to say that he was not a very kind one, seeing that he was still sitting at the restaurant and had not been granted the merciful gift of swapping places with a wooden chair or a wild antelope yet. Both of which were significantly better than his current situation.
"I think," Chris began. "I think you just need some time before you get involved in another relationship."
Georgi's eyes widened.
"Obviously, Anya was very precious to you, and it's perfectly natural to need some time off before you put yourself out there again. Er, I'm sure your new girlfriend—what's her name again?—I'm sure she wouldn't mind it if you told her that."
Chris managed a weak smile.
"You're probably right," Georgi replied after a long pause.
Huh. Perhaps Victor was right in saying that Georgi just needed someone to—
"But I don't think I can get over her," Chris's lunch companion declared empathetically before Chris had the chance to even finish the thought. "I don't think I will ever be over her."
—nevermind.
-::-
iv.
Of all the skaters in Russia, Chris did not expect Yuri Plisetsky to join the bandwagon of people asking him for relationship advice.
No, correction.
He did not expect the skater the world nicknamed as the Russian Punk to join the bandwagon of sexually frustrated professional figure skaters asking him for relationship advice and then promptly not following it.
What was it about Chris that suggested he had that much free time? Was it just because he practically oozed sex appeal and therefore everyone assumed he had quality suggestions to offer? Was it because he was that friend you were close to but not close enough to see on an everyday basis just in case you embarrassed yourself? Was it because he brought a stripper pole to the Grand Prix banquet that one time?
Okay, to be fair he had brought a stripper pole to the banquet every time he qualified. But he had only actually brought it out last year.
But still.
"I need advice," Yuri Plisetsky told him over the phone.
At the very least, he was direct.
"Yuri Plisetsky," Chris replied with a yawn. "So you have decided to take after Victor's bad habits and start adding large sums of money onto my phone bill as well? Phone calls to and from Russia aren't cheap, you know."
"Actually, it was Georgi who told me to call you."
Oh God.
"Is something wrong?"
"No, not really. Maybe this isn't a good idea."
"No, I would be glad to help with whatever this is," Chris replied easily.
He wouldn't want to miss out on his chance to cultivate fresh gossip from the Russian figure skating team for the world. Oh, and to help poor Georgi Popovich or Yuri Plisetsky, of course. His motives were entirely pure and altruistic.
"It's about Otabek Altin, the skater from Kazakhstan," Yuri said, as if Chris hadn't also been a part of the competition which only involved six people. "He wants me to come with him on a motorbiking trip."
Well that was very sweet and very direct. Had Yuri been any older, Chris would've taken the opportunity to make a rather inappropriately sexual joke about where Plisetsky would be riding his dark steed from Kazakhstan next.
He had to bite his tongue to keep himself from slipping.
"And you have come to realize that this invitation Otabek is extending to you is romantic in nature?"
"Yes."
"And you want to accept said invitation?"
"Yes."
He blinked. "Then what is the problem?"
"How do I tell him yes?"
Christophe Giacometti. Twenty-five. Cat lover, chocolate eater. Professional Swiss figure skater. Running an unofficial dating advice ring for young Russians who had the emotional intelligence quotients of literal sea slugs and were incapable of confronting their inner feelings about fellow skaters.
"Just tell him yes," Chris replied slowly.
It wasn't as if Plisetsky was incapable of uttering the one-syllable word, seeing that he had just held a conversation with Chris by using it three times in the same monotonous, deadpan voice.
"You don't have to say anything else if you don't want to. Heck, you can even say it in Russian. Don't be nervous about admitting you want to have some fun, Yuri."
Which was the most solid relationship advice he had given anyone in weeks.
Which was also why he was most certainly ticked off when Mila Babicheva later told him that the young Russian skater had simply made up a stuttering mess of an excuse about practice and rehearsal over the phone instead of answering with the simple, one-syllable word Chris suggested.
Why did he even bother?
-::-
v.
It was an ungodly hour in the morning. Again.
"Victor," Chris typed sleepily into his vibrating phone, which had woken him just a few seconds ago. "I know it's morning for you in Japan already, but I need my beauty sleep. Good night."
What could Victor even need so early in the morning?
Victor Nikiforov was freaking engaged. Sure, he hadn't followed Chris's advice any step of the way, but Yuuri Katsuki must've had lower standards than Chris expected because he had still chosen to marry Victor despite the truly disappointing shortage of nude appearances from his fiancé.
He was preparing to close his eyes and get whatever sleep he could when the phone buzzed again.
Okay. He needed to turn that thing off.
Flipping over in bed, Chris turned to look at the notifications again, and for the first time in his life, he wished he had bleach for his eyes. His eyes and his mind. His eyes and his mind and his entire existence on planet Earth.
"Did you know elderly sex is apparently really common?"
That was the text.
Those were the words of Victor Nikiforov, arguably his best friend, at four in the morning. Victor Nikiforov, five-time consecutive Grand Prix gold medalist and five-time World Championships gold medalist and most decorated figure skater alive. Possibly the most well-known competitive figure skater in all of history had just sent him those exact words.
Either that or Chris was dreaming and was going to need to have a serious talk with himself about drinking before going to bed.
"Victor, are you drunk?" was the only text he could send in reply.
"Unfortunately not," was the answer.
"Victor, I don't judge people based on their sex lives, so I won't say anything about what you and Yuuri Katsuki are up to, but please go to church this Sunday."
"It's not like that!"
Uh-huh.
Chris sighed, rubbing his eyes and pushing himself upright. It looked like beauty sleep would have to wait.
"It's actually a funny story," was the next text to pop up on his screen.
Because the word "funny" definitely belonged in a conversation about the alarming frequency of elderly sex in everyday life. Right.
"Yurio was telling us about how Lilia and Yakov seemed to be getting back together again, and apparently Yakov asked all his students for dating advice. Yakov. Asking his students for advice. So Yurio, bless his heart, did a quick search on facts about elderly relationships and came back screaming to me and Yuuri on the phone."
Usually, Chris appreciated context, but this time, it really did not help.
"Tell Yakov to pick up a book and read," he texted back. "Something called THE BIBLE, maybe."
"Is that your advice?"
"Um, yes."
Chris was seriously resisting the urge to scream at the phone. And also seriously regretting every single life decision he had made that lead him up to this point in his life. Decision one: going into competitive figure skating instead of ice hockey. Decision two: not turning his phone off for the night. Not necessarily in that order.
"Is that the best you got?"
He was typing in capslock now. "VICTOR, IT'S FOUR IN THE MORNING AND I REALLY, REALLY DON'T WANT TO THINK ABOUT ELDERLY SEX. ESPECIALLY NOT WHEN IT CONCERNS LILIA BARANOVSKAYA AND YAKOV FELTSMAN."
As an afterthought, he added: "Tell young Yuri Plisetsky to invest in some ear mufflers and sound-proof walls. Good night."
With a deep sigh, Chris tossed his phone away.
He was never going to be able to look at another Russian skater the same way again.
-::-
i.
They asked him to be the best man at the wedding.
Chris only had two words: Damn. Straight.
After everything he put up with, it would've been cruel and unusual punishment if Chris was not offered the role of best man at Victor Nikiforov and Yuuri Katsuki's wedding. Victor had teased him that he almost made Jean-Jacques Leroy the best man, to which Chris simply dropped an ambiguous comment about kinkshaming and Nikiforov's stamina (or lack thereof).
"You know what you should do though?" Chris told his friend as an afterthought.
"Chris, don't start."
"I was going to say that we should bring out that pole from the banquet again. I actually have it in my—"
"Chris, no."
"I think you might have mispronounced the word yes, which was what you were trying to say. Chris, yes."
Victor sighed. "I should've made Makkachin the best man instead."
Well, that was just plain hurtful. Chris clutched at his chest dramatically. "You wound me, Victor."
As his friend simply shook his head and began walking away, Chris turned around to look for the little furry creature. Where was Makkachin? Victor never went far without the presence of his favorite canine companion.
Eventually, Chris found the animal hiding under a table, enthusiastically ripping a bouquet of flowers apart and furiously growling. What the bouquet had done to offend Makkachin like so, Chris didn't know—and he certainly wasn't going to ask either. He wasn't going to turn into one of those old loons who spent their time talking with other people's pets any time soon.
"You know," he told the dog anyway. "When Victor eventually finds this mess, he's going to blame one of us, and it's not going to be you."
Correction. He was definitely going to turn into one of those old loons who spent their time talking with other people's pets.
The poodle looked at him innocently with wide eyes.
Chris sighed in understanding.
"If you really want to get back at Victor for not paying attention to you," he told the dog, "you should just go and knock over one of those champagne-holding waiters hovering around him all day."
Makkachin growled again and this time, Chris was sure the poodle was frustrated.
Definitely, positively, one-hundred percent frustrated.
God, he was giving relationship advice to a dog. A dog. A dog whose big, watery eyes somehow looked like they understood everything Chris was saying. A dog who was just as petty and frustrated and dramatic as him. A dog who looked like he was listening but at the same time mocking Chris for even holding a conversation with a household animal in the first place.
He was seriously questioning his life choices. And his sanity.
"It would definitely get his attention, at any rate. And you want to get back at him, don't you?"
The poodle stood up and pawed at Chris's feet. He suddenly understood why Victor caved in to the little creature's every request. Makkachin was just too darn cute for anyone to resist. Even a cat-lover such as Chris.
Maybe it was because he already had thirty-something flutes of champagne that day (was it in the forties yet?), maybe it was just because of how sleep-deprived he was, or maybe he really was going old and senile. Still, Chris swore the dog gave him a look of understanding right before the poodle shot across the room like a rocket and crashed headfirst into the nearest waiter holding a platter of champagne, sending alcohol and glass flutes in every direction.
Chris's eyes widened in pure shock and disbelief as he watched the champagne fall onto Victor Nikiforov's new wedding suit, almost in slow motion. A million jokes ran through his head at once—all of them along the lines of literally being wet.
Makkachin turned back to look at him when the deed was done, head tilted almost as if to ask 'did I do okay?'
Questioning his own sanity more and more with every passing second, Chris gave the dog a thumbs up.
God, he loved that dog.
[fin.]
Feedback is appreciated, as always. Special thanks to Hazel (Hazelmallorn) for her suggestion about Makkachin and the last section!