Yuri had been back in Russia for a week, and it felt like the worst week of his life.

Rationally, he knew he was being overdramatic. He knew that nothing he was feeling now could compare to being abandoned on his grandfather's doorstep by his mother when he was four years old. He knew that. But Yakov had just allowed him an astounding three weeks in Almaty after the season ended, a reward, he supposed, for winning gold at both of his Grand Prix qualifiers and then at the Grand Prix itself, and returning to Russia was the hardest thing he'd ever done, harder even than winning those golds.

Tonight, he was at a club, because he thought it might help. The logic was straightforward: he and Otabek had been to clubs eight times during his three weeks in Almaty. On four of those nights, Otabek had been working—his usual weekly gig plus once when someone had called in sick—but the other four had been just for fun, and they'd danced together and it had felt amazing, and Yuri had come to realize that he really enjoyed clubbing. So now here he was, bass beat thrumming through his body, but nothing was the same.

Darkness? Check. Spotlights? Check. Loud music? Check. Sweaty people? Check. Boyfriend? Nope.

Yuri tried to enjoy the club properly anyway, moving to the ever-so-loud beat, because three-time Grand Prix gold medalist Yuri Plisetsky was anything but a quitter. But he felt numb, at best, and he was pretty sure the numbness was masking the loneliness that had been threatening all week to overtake him.

It wasn't long before a bearded guy who was maybe in his early twenties sidled up to Yuri and said, "Hey, gorgeous. Can I buy you a drink?"

That was all it took to crack the numbness open. Yuri wanted nothing more than for Otabek to be here so he could pull him into a kiss and show this rando who he belonged to. "And I think that's my cue to leave," Yuri said, turning on his heel and exiting the club. Yuri had matured a bit in the past couple of years, but he still wasn't afraid of being rude to people who weren't competitors, sponsors, fans, or the press. Actually, he wasn't terribly afraid of being rude to competitors, either. Even with Otabek he usually communicated via insults. Luckily Otabek seemed to understand him regardless.

Yuri wound up at Mila's, because he didn't want to go back to his own flat and be alone just yet, but Victor and Katsudon weren't likely to want to be disturbed on their night off, and Yuri didn't even want to know what Georgi was up to right now. After Mila let him in, she scolded him for not inviting her to come clubbing with him.

"Like I'd want to see your pathetic dancing, hag," Yuri sneered, inwardly cursing himself for not thinking of inviting Mila. She could have solved the loneliness problem pretty nicely and helped him fend off creeps. Not that he needed help, of course. It was just nice to have backup sometimes, anyway.

"Yeah, whatever," said Mila, and then she offered him wine. Like Otabek, Mila understood Yuri even when everything that came out of his mouth was an insult.

As Yuri settled onto Mila's sofa with his glass of wine and Mila turned on the TV, he decided that maybe this wasn't quite the worst week of his life, after all.