Well, it's been a while since I've published anything on here. I do hope you all enjoy this.

I do not own anything from Yuri! On Ice. All I own are the characters that you do not recognize.

He wasn't sure when he had climbed underneath the cool bedsheets, his toes just barely peeking out over the edge. The watch he had carelessly tossed onto the chair chimed with each hour that passed, but he was unaware of how long he had avoided sleep.

It had nothing to do with dreams. If anything, what he saw behind closed eyelids was the only thing he enjoyed when he allowed himself to drift off.

It was knowing that he would wake up disappointed like he always did.

Since coming here, Desmond Curtis had encountered more competition than he had at home. The ones here were determined and professional, having the money to afford luxurious costumes and experienced, hardworking coaches. At least at home, he had a bit of a chance.

He was lucky if his coach even showed up to practice. Most of the time, he was alone to skate, forcing himself to see outside of his own body to check for his mistakes. It was a problem, and he was starting to see how it was affecting him. He stumbled too often, rotated a bit much, and he rarely landed a jump more than once.

The bed seemed to protest as Desmond rolled onto his back and stared at the ceiling, ignoring the constant pinging of his phone. He knew many others were wide awake, except they were out with friends and enjoying their private time before it was consumed by practice and competitions.

What time was it anyways?

Too warm, he shoved off the thick quilts and jumped up, frustrated with himself. He had done nothing but mope after the excitement had worn off, and he knew it did nothing but break him out even worse. If his acne wasn't already bad enough when he came here, it was even worse because of the stress that swallowed him up.

Not only was he alone here, but he wasn't exactly the most approachable.

Even if he didn't show it, Desmond craved that friendship all the other figure skaters had. So many of them had found new friends within the other competitors. That much he knew from the constant barrage of shots taken by national monuments and restaurants he was too poor to afford.

And he was alone. If he wasn't practicing, he was hidden away in his hotel room-the only thing he could enjoy thanks to his coach paying for it.

God, it was pathetic that he couldn't even buy himself decent food. He'd never tell his family that, though. His mothers would be on the first flight over there to spend what little they had on him.

"'Don't worry, Desmond. You're a nice boy, and people like nice boys.' Yeah, thanks, mom. People like boys with money and free time." He shuffled into the bathroom and glanced at the mirror, sighing when he saw that his roots were slowly crawling through his dyed hair. It wouldn't be such a big deal if his natural hair wasn't an obnoxious shade of red, one of the many things he gained from his father.

That was something else he had left behind. Since coming here, he couldn't even risk spending the money to fix his hair, and the only person he trusted to come near him with bleach was back in America.

He really was alone here.

The lobby was more awake than he believed it would be. With a small bag hanging over his shoulder, Desmond had decided he would sneak out before anyone else came down from their rooms.

However, his lack of focus on time had ruined his plan. Staring at the many competitors that mingled around the space, he wondered if he should just go back upstairs and wait until later.

It wouldn't be the first time that he skated at night.

As he was backing towards the elevator, a hand firmly gripped his shoulder. Desmond jerked back and snapped his head towards his unexpected companion, panic twisting his gut.

Viktor Nikiforov. Holy shit.

"I do not believe we've met!" He said, a wide smile stretched the length of his face.

Desmond slipped free from his hand and managed an awkward smile, rubbing the back of his neck. He could feel the intense heat that billowed off his body, and he wanted nothing more than to run up to his room. Not only had his plan to sneak out failed, but he had somehow bumped into one of the greatest figure skaters known to the world.

"I-I...uhm, I'm Desmond Curtis," he muttered. He felt glued to his spot, Viktor's steel blue eyes staring him down.

The Russian gave him a curious look as he tilted his head, his forehead wrinkled with concentration. Before Desmond could react, Viktor was smiling wide once more and nodding his head, excitement bubbling up inside him.

"Oh! You're the one from the video that my Yuuri sent me! Quite impressive!"

The color drained from Desmond's face as more people seemed to take notice of Viktor, walking over to them. He wanted to shrink away, but it was much too late. Heart pounding, he had to watch as they crowded around him, their voices booming.

He recognized Jean-Jacques Leroy, recalling his dramatic and energetic performance at previous competitions. JJ was a man of pride and confidence, and his style mirrored that perfectly.

Though his arrogance was off-putting, JJ could back it up with his programs. That much was impressive.

Desmond glanced past him and stared into the growing crowd. He saw a few others that he didn't know, and he told himself not to worry about them.

Easier said than done.

However, that changed the second he saw Christophe Giacometti. His world faded away to nothing as his eyes remained on the tall man, the tangled web of voices melting away to nothing. Never had he imagined he would be in the same room as Chris, and it was too much for him to handle.

His stomach was in knots, and he struggled to calm the rapid pounding of his hearts. Turning on his heels, Desmond ducked behind Viktor in an attempt to relax.

This wasn't happening. No, this was some hallucination, and he was going to wake up in his hotel room. When he did, he would laugh at himself because he dreamt of the man who he was enamored with for years.

But it was happening, no matter how much he wanted to deny it.

"Oh, it's that guy from the video! The one who nearly sliced his hand open trying to lift his leg above his head!" JJ said, his mouth curled into a smirk. He was staring at Desmond, and the brief moment of joy he had felt at Viktor's compliment went away.

Without thinking, Desmond shoved past JJ, knocking the cup he had in his hand. Something warm spilled onto the floor and stained the lush carpet, a slew of curses falling from JJ's lips. Head down, he rushed by everyone, jostling some things away from their hands. He felt his shoulder slam into someone's chest, and he muttered a quick apology, his vision blurring with tears.

He had wanted to forget that part of the video, but his younger brother had taped it, putting it on the Internet before Desmond could do a damn thing about it.

Maybe being alone was for the best.

The ice rink was empty, and he was grateful for the time alone. After this morning's events, he knew he had to be more careful when leaving the hotel.

It didn't take long for him to realize he had left his skates behind at the hotel, and a defeated groan fell from his lips. Sinking down onto the bench, he fell back and glared at the rafters.

This had to be a sign. His mom was always talking about signs, especially on bad days like this. Of course, his step-mom would just laugh off her wife's foreboding advice and ruffle his hair, telling him not to worry.

Maybe he should listen to his mom. The world was clearly telling him to go home and abandon all his hopes, and he was considering doing just that.

"Hello?"

Desmond sat up, not expecting to hear such a deep voice. As he mulled over who it could belong to, he noticed a pair of shoes step into his line of sight.

Oh, good Lord.

Chris wandered into the rink, a pair of tattered and stained skates hanging from his hand. Desmond could only imagine what he thought as he carried them over to the bench, especially with how dull the blades looked.

It was a wonder how Desmond managed to end up here without taking a couple trips to the hospital.

"You forgot these in the lobby after you ran off." Chris smiled, but it was much different from Viktor's. His was warmer, more flirtatious, and Desmond felt his heart thud against his chest.

And it was that moment he realized Chris had been the person he bumped into.

"God, I hit you, didn't I? I'm so sorry, Chris!" He said as he took the skates from the man. "And thank you."

Desmond noticed the slight tilt of Chris's head, strands of his blond hair sweeping across his tan forehead. His beautifully green eyes were hooded, long lashes kissing his cheeks when he blinked.

"Where's your coach?"

He let out a deep breath and shrugged, not sure as to where the older woman had wandered off to. Unlike all the other coaches here, his was more concerned with the publicity that came with being famous. Not like Desmond was famous enough to have paparazzi following him everywhere.

He wasn't exactly Viktor. God, he would be stretching it to claim he belonged here. At least, that was what his coach said when they were alone together.

"I watched the video everyone is talking about," Chris said, and Desmond groaned.

He wouldn't be able to escape that video. At this point, everyone here had seen it, and they refused to let him forget it.

"And?"

Thank you for reading! Any advice, questions, or constructive criticism is welcome. Please, comment. It does help me get motivated to write.

Have a good day!