This year would be different. He could feel it. The sharp slice of his blades into the ice no longer brought him peace, but flooded him with anticipation - for the music to be created just for him, for the costumes to help him tell the story, for the burn of overworked muscles that would tell him that he had done his life's work justice. Every time Victor pushed his gold blades into the carved-up ice, there was a new opportunity. Another step in the sequence here, another jump there, maybe even an extra twist on the exit of his signature move to keep them guessing, keep them surprised. As always.
Sucking in a sharp breath of frigid air, he reached his right arm up and back, curving his spine and pushing back with his left skate. With an ease brought by years of practice, he slid into a layback Ina Bauer, then curled up and threw himself into a simple single toe loop, just for fun. In his head, a waltz began to sing its tune, a simple melody in two parts, violin and piano. He smiled as he brought his heels in close and raised his arms for a spread eagle. He had choreographed a similar combination for Yuuri not long ago, and had watched Yuuri perform those same moves in his own choreography to the same instruments. Yuuri, the piano, gaining confidence and strength as the song progressed, and he the violin, supportive in its harmony. Yuuri's spread eagles were wider and longer than Victor's, his Ina Bauers more graceful and strong. Love carried him across the ice as it never had for Victor. But then, Yuuri hadn't neglected his for over twenty years. No, he had cultivated it, let it flourish deep in his heart for most of his life. And not only his love for Victor, but for his family, for Hasetsu, for his rink mates and his coach, old and new. He grew his love by giving it life and letting it grow alongside him for as long as he could remember.
Victor, on the other hand, had used his love to fuel his life, until neither could survive on their own. The ice gave him something to live for, and he loved that need, loved having something to rely on, loved the risk of losing it when he pushed himself too far. But soon enough, there wasn't much left to push for. Until Yuuri.
Yuuri, who swept into his life and left him feeling like a four-year-old wobbling on the ice in rental skates for the first time, startlingly aware that his life had altered paths in the span of a handful of moments. Victor had always been quick to love, but this was different. Yuuri was his first fall on the ice, his first perfect toe loop, his first sponsorship, his first hand-written fan letter, his first press conference in English, all together. Never mind the gold medals; anyone could have won those. Yuuri was special. Every milestone in Victor's career, every sprained ankle and bruise and cut from a golden blade led him to this moment, when he landed a quad flip and saw him standing there, just beside the entrance to the rink, water bottle in hand and a soft smile on his face, letting himself be used as the focal point for Victor's slow spins around and around.
Victor made his way to the center of the ice, spraying a flurry of snow with his blades just to hear Yuuri snort a scoff. He spun around once, twice, then, in an echo of his favorite program, raised his arms up, crossed them at the wrists, and floated his left hand out to Yuuri while his right came to rest over his heart with a wink.
Yuuri set his water bottle down on the barrier, slipped off his blade guards, and skated up to Victor, smiling all the way there. He grabbed his outstretched hand and twirled him around, laughing when their skates clashed together.
There is was again, that waltz.
"Dance with me," Victor said, pulling Yuuri's hand and placing it on his shoulder.
"Victor, we're not ice dancers."
"Just because you can do a triple axel doesn't mean you can't dance," Victor said with a sly grin. Yuuri sighed and squeezed Victor's shoulder. "Besides, I've seen you dance before."
"Victor," Yuuri whined, dropping his forehead to Victor's shoulder to hide his blush, like he did every time Victor embarrassed him with the little surprises of their day to day. Victor grabbed Yuuri's right hand with his left and brought their arms up into an exaggerated ballroom pose. Yuuri stood up straight on his skates, head down, still flushed red, eyes trained on the ice but sparkling all the same. Victor glanced at their hands, feeling their callouses catching with each small shift, the metal of Yuuri's ring a cold curve pulling the heat from the lines of his palm. The gold glittered as it caught the rays of morning sunlight streaming in through the tall windows.
This was his love, right in front of him, holding him up on new legs, pushing him down a path he never knew existed for him. Skating had carried him straight to Yuuri's arms, to his home, to his life. Gone was the need for big, flashy surprises, like cutting his hair on a whim, or adding an extra jump to the second half of a program. Now, all he had to do was glance at Yuuri from the corner of his eye with a goofy grin, or curl his arms around his waist from behind, or plant a sneaky kiss on his ear to feel the same overwhelming satisfaction and joy that a stadium full of his biggest fans used to give him. Love was growing in his heart more and more every day, with every smile, every corner-mouth kiss, every squeeze of the hand. It was hard for him to think that this was his life now, that after neglecting it for so long it was willing to come back to him and let him be this happy.
Yuuri finally raised his head, brows furrowed as he looked up at Victor's face, then followed his gaze to where his hand was cradled by Victor's. He smiled as Victor began gently twirling his ring with his index finger and thumb, feeling the smooth metal move against his skin.
"Okay," he said, and Victor's smile was worth the embarrassment of dancing by themselves in silence of the early morning rink. "But you lead."
"Of course," Victor said, adjusted his grip on Yuuri's hand, and pushed off with his right skate, sending them into a tight, uncontrolled spin. Yuuri yelped and clung to Victor, the hand on his shoulder curling around the back of his neck to steady himself. He felt Victor's laugh under his palm as it echoed across the ice.
"Victor!"
"Sorry, sorry," he said, wrapping his arm tighter around Yuuri's waist before leading them into a clumsy waltz step.
They were too close for actual dancing, so they skated in wide, slow circles, turning every so often to stay in the center of the ice. Victor could feel Yuuri's heartbeat under his arm and against his chest, a little quicker than normal. Victor's was, too, and they bounced off each other in an unmatched rhythm, thumping in time for two counts, then drifting apart on the third, one chasing the other to the next beat, leading and following, leading and following. Yuuri turned his head to rest it on Victor's shoulder, taking his eyes off the ice entirely, trusting Victor not to let them hit the barrier. Their circles grew smaller, slower, their knees knocking together, hands clutching a little tighter every time they turned, leaning their weight on the other. In the quiet, Victor ran his hand up and down the length of Yuuri's back, palm catching on the bumps of his spine under his shirt. He began to hum the music in his head that always seemed to start up when Yuuri was around.
"What is that?" Yuuri asked, voice quiet, competing with the whispers of their skates on the ice. Victor kept humming. "It's nice."
"I don't know," Victor said, just as quietly, before picking up the tune where he had left it tucked between them.
Yuuri pulled Victor a little tighter to his chest, curling his arms around his shoulders as Victors' wrap around his waist. "Your next program?"
Victor stopped humming, pulling away from Yuuri just enough to press their foreheads together, his eyes closed. Yuuri closed his, too.
"I think so," he said.
Though they had stopped moving in any true pattern, carving light, lazy half shapes in the ice, it still felt like dancing. It always felt like dancing when they were together. There were no steps, no marks to hit, but a push and pull, leading and following, keeping time by trading the music of their laughter. Victor was always precise, always careful in how he presented himself to the crowds and the judges, making sure every step was perfect, every jump flawless in its execution. Emotions were explored until he could replicate them at will on the ice, pull them to the forefront of his mind to mold them as he saw fit, to hand them to the judges for a handful of two-digit numbers. Now, though, Victor knew that love lived without judgment or perfection. There were no points to be won, no moves to spend years perfecting for a single performance. He didn't take the time to angle his feet just right so their knees didn't clash together as they spun around the center of the ice. He didn't guide them in a perfect figure eight around the rink. He didn't care about that anymore. There was no point to all that here in Yuuri's arms. This was how he was going to grow his love again; with violins and piano and toothy smiles and quiet waltzes and silly faces and gold rings.
And if Yuri Plisetsky came to practice early that morning and just happened to see the two of them pressed close at the center of the ice, spinning in lazy circles, the sun shining through the large windows of the St. Petersburg rink, and immediately left to wait outside for a few more minutes, well. You didn't hear it from him.