"Don't tell Mom."

That had always been our little promise.

It always had been—even when we were little, and Yuuri had just learned how to run around and play. He could have played by himself… Of course, he always wanted to play with me. It didn't matter that I was six years older than him. It didn't matter that he was only four. He liked being around me. I was annoyed, of course—what ten-year-old girl wouldn't be? I'd fuss at him for getting in the way and send him into the dining room. Of course, then he'd smash one of Mom's fancy serving dishes, and he'd cry because he knew he'd get in trouble if she found out, and I'd just clean it up and make sure he didn't cut his tiny feet on the glass….

And then, he'd look up at me with those huge, tear-filled chocolate-brown eyes and whisper those three little words to me with a small, quivering voice and a trembling bottom lip:

"Don't tell Mom."

It was so pathetic that I couldn't help but hug him tight against me, to pull his chubby little body close to mine and squeeze him until his tears ran dry and his laugh was shrill and bright again. He was such a happy kid. He had been since he was a baby. His laugh never failed to make me smile.

Those three words stayed our promise in junior high, when Yuuri'd fail a math test for the first time. He had always been such a nerd; he'd excel in every subject. All the teachers were in love with him—and what teacher wouldn't be? I had set the bar low for him when they had taught me, and then he had come in and blown me completely out of the water. He was a straight-A student with a ton of potential: a handsome young man with soft eyes, messy hair, a sarcastic tone and an easy smile. He didn't aggravate me as much anymore. He was only fifteen, but he had already matured so much more than all the other kids his age.

Whether that was a side effect of the medication he had to take to prevent himself from having two mental breakdowns per day, I didn't know. But it was a nice one if it was.

Even so, he was always much harder on himself about his grades than Mom and Dad were. Yeah, he would face Mom's wrath if she ever had a notion that he had quit trying to do well in school—but that was all. A low A would make him hyperventilate. A high B would send him into a mental breakdown. No wonder he was the valedictorian of his class.

That day, he came to me sobbing over a 60. A 60! That was my average grade on a math test. Of course, I didn't tell him that. I didn't tell him that he was being ridiculous. I didn't tell him that he was overreacting. I just hugged him tightly in my arms and said nothing.

And there it was again:

"Don't tell Mom."

It was so pathetic that I couldn't help but squeeze him a little tighter, to hold his scrawny frame close to my own until his tears ran out and he was laughing again. After all, I knew why he had done so badly on that math test. He had his first figure skating competition the next day. He never did well under pressure. It was just enough to make him crack.

I didn't blame him. I was nervous for him. I didn't know much about figure skating, but I had seen him skate, and I knew that he was good enough to win gold the next day (which he had) and move on to the next round (which he did).

And then, college hit.

Yuuri moved to Detroit, Michigan—half the world away.

And he found a friend: that Thai boy with the cute smile and the bright eyes. I remember being so relieved when he told me that he and his roommate got along well. He had always been such a loner, and his anxiety was so bad that his moving had gotten me nervous. I was always the person he came to when he had an attack at home. It was good to know that he had someone close to him that could look after him.

Then, one night, I got a call.

It was one o'clock in the afternoon—midnight sharp in Detroit. I knew exactly what was happening when I saw his name flash across the screen of my phone, when I picked it up. He was crying so hard that he was choking on his own tears.

"Breathe, breathe. It's okay, Yuuri. Just breathe."

A strangled whimper. "Mari?"

"Yeah, little bro?"

"Don't tell Mom. Please. She'll only worry that my meds aren't working, and she'll want me to come back home… I like it here, I do, but Phichit's asleep and I just…." Another sob.

"Yuuri, Yuuri—here, breathe. Shhhh."

"Mari, please… Don't tell Mom… Please…."

I wish I could've hugged him. I wish he wasn't thousands of miles across the ocean, out of my reach. I clutched the phone close to my ear and cried silently with him. As aggravating as he was, he was my little brother. He had been there with me for nineteen years. I missed him. Of course, I did.

We joked with each other until the afternoon faded into the evening, until the midnight faded into sunrise.

And now this.

I couldn't help but stare at him, dumbfounded. His hand was entwined with Viktor's. I could see the worry flash across his features as he explained his plans to me again. His fiancé stood quietly beside him, watching my brother with solemn blue eyes that followed his every move with complete infatuation.

"Mari, you were one of the first to know—about us getting engaged, I mean—I just… Viktor's coming back to the ice, and he can't coach me if I don't go with him…" His voice seemed to trail off for a moment before he swallowed hard. When he looked back up at me, a strong glimmer of determination twinkled in his eyes. "I'm in love with him. I really, really want to be with him. So… I'm going to move to Saint Petersburg with him on the first of February… We wanted to spend our off time here, with all of you, before we left. We weren't sure… when we'd be able to… see you all again…."

"And you're sure that you want this?"

A breathtaking grin broke across his face as he gazed up at his fiancé. "Yeah. I'm positive."

I smiled at them. "Well, when's the wedding?"

"After I win gold. At the Grand Prix. Although, I'm not quite sure when that may be…."

An uneasy glance at his fiancé.

Viktor shot him a reassuring smile. "It'll be sometime soon. You worry too much."

Amen to that.

Not that I was surprised about this at all. Yuuri's infatuation with Viktor Nikiforov had been an almost-lifelong affair—it had started at eleven, when he first started skating at Ice Castle Hasetsu with Yuuko and Takeshi Nishigori. It had only grown as Yuuri got older and left for college. It's what drove him to skate like he did. Hell, if it weren't for Viktor, then Yuuri would've given up on his passion. He would've stayed in that slump he had fallen into for years.

And Viktor Nikiforov himself had brought him out of it.

I wasn't sure if Viktor knew that or not. If he did, then he was surprisingly humble about it.

I had always known that Yuuri loved him. I was at that dinner in Barcelona when Viktor announced it. I had already foreseen his moving to Russia. There's no way that either of them would've been happy if they would've stayed in Japan.

"Please, Mari… Don't tell Mom. Not just yet. I don't think I'm ready for her to know about me and Viktor."

I forced down a laugh.

She already knew.

No, no one had told her.

They didn't have to.

She saw it in the way they smiled at each other. She saw it in the way Yuuri's cautious, timid demeanor flew completely out the window when he was around. She saw it in the way that Yuuri looked at him like he was his sun and the clouds in his sky. She saw it in the way that Viktor looked at her son—like he was his moon, and all of his stars. She saw it in the way they spoke to each other when they thought no one was looking: one hand on the other's arm, their eyes locked together as they murmured to each other lowly, laughing if the conversation called for it.

When Yuuri spoke to him, his eyes sparkled.

When he was with him, he was at ease.

Viktor had become his rock, his anchor in the midst of the storm.

I wasn't gonna tell Yuuri that, though. I wouldn't tell him that Mom already knew. To tell him would be useless. It wasn't my place.

I only smiled at him. "Have I ever told Mom?"

And he had smiled back while tears pooled in his eyes. Suddenly, he was the little boy who had broken that plate twenty years ago. It was that same smile. "No," he replied. "You haven't."

He hugged me so tightly that I thought my heart might burst and cried. Just like old times, I supposed.

Then, suddenly, I realized… I didn't have to worry about him anymore. I didn't have to worry about him being alone, or his anxiety. He was in good hands—hands that would know more about him than I ever would, hands that would hold him tight when couldn't stand to be alone. He was in good hands. I knew that. But he was my brother. I had spent twenty-four years worrying about him. It wasn't going to be an easy habit to break.

I cried with him. Just one last time.

I cried for the little toddler I had babysat until he had gotten old enough to look after himself.

I cried for the teenage boy that I had fretted over and cheered on at countless competitions.

I cried for the anxious, jittery college kid who was so overwhelmed with life that he wasn't sure he'd make it out alive.

I cried for the young man in my arms, now—

Because he was happy.

Because he was whole.

Because he had found someone to hold on to.

I cried because I loved my brother.

And I wouldn't utter a word to Mom, not ever. Not a single peep.

After all, "Don't tell Mom" was our little promise. It always would be.