Viktor sent a sidelong glance at his travel companion, Cristophe, as said man pursed his lips and practically made out with the airport bathroom mirror. Viktor supposed he could indulge him, after all…His best friend in skating had flown longer than Viktor, who had only had a three hour jump from home. He had spent the few days between standing on the podium in Sochi back home with Makkachin. After spending the week at the Olympics, he had spent the small amount of energy he had. He lost the strength he had to put up the happy mask. Which is why he had gone home to the only soul he could show his true, honest face had been cuddling with her when Yakov called… and called again, calling enough times they he knew it wasn't a message he could ignore. The IOC, and apparently Yakov as well, had decided that sending the podium winners to the Paralympics would be a good way to get some positive press about back in the news. Especially when the golden prince of iceskating belonged to the host country. Thank God Cristophe had placed second, or Viktor would have been even more reluctant to leave his apartment and Makkachin alone. No rest for the wicked, after all.
"Do you think they'll have champagne at the banquet?" Cristophe had managed a perfect selfie even in the sickly fluorescent lighting. The main show would be happening in a few hours. Viktor could have arrived the day before, but had chosen to arrive the day of the main skating events. Viktor had done it mainly to delay the time he had to spend back in the limelight… but to Yakov, and to anyone else, it was in order to meet Cristophe. Viktor hadn't been pressed further than that. He was rarely pushed for details or reasons. Not since the second gold medal. Or maybe it was the third? There were too many to count, and with each new medal came another loss of meaning.
Christophe shrugged "Who knows? As long as it's a party." He pursed his lips one last time before they wordlessly drifted toward the exit. They had spent enough time together at international competitions alone to build their own silent cues and language. Viktor was fine with delaying their departure from the airport. He would gladly spend another twenty minutes, an hour inside that bathroom. There would be press before they could get their luggage. Beyond that, who knew? It was winter. Cold, blustery, blank. Much like Viktor felt inside. He would smile, appear where he was told to go, and leave when he had clocked enough hours to placate the media. He hadn't looked into who was skating. Yakov and little Yuri would be angry if they knew. But it was just another year, another gold medal. At some point you had to force new ways to be surprised. Viktor squinted into the bright white daylight, what little sun reflecting off the snow outside and spilling into the baggage claim. He had traveled the world, but somehow, every airport seemed the same. Large windows. Everyone moving to somewhere else. Nowhere to hide.
After their short appearance for the press, the two met Yakov and the car just outside the airport. The old man was out in the cold, his nose red and breath coming out in a large cloud. Yuri, predictably, was sitting in the car, playing some sort of handheld video game Viktor didn't recognize. Yakov pulled Viktor into a rough, one-armed hug. For a moment his heart-stilled. Did Yakov notice? Had he become too complacent? He was so caught within his panic that he barely caught his coach's last few words. Congratulations, thank god. The old man was being fuzzy and proud, not over attentive. His act, however old and replayed, still held its audience. Viktor picked back up his smile, remembering to give the old man a light squeeze before he slid into the backseat, managing to shock the blonde out of his angry reverie.
"Congratulations, Yuratchka." He said with as much brightness as he could, trying to make his face shine. He earned a glare in reply. The boy had only been under Yakov for a few years, but he had already beat the old man to the punch. There was no way to fool Yuri, even with more practice and experience.
"You should have said that at the finals." Yuri muttered, going back to his video game. The junior games had just finished. He remembered watching them at home before taking Makkachin for an evening stroll. He hadn't the energy to watch, attend the parties (and the private 'after-parties') at the life event. Not knowing, however, would be a sin. While Viktor Nikiforov was a king, and a sinner, he was not a fool. He had done his duty, even though it was done through a distance.
"I should have," Viktor breathed before falling into quiet. Cristophe kept himself busy on his phone, after a few short English pleasantries exchanged with Yakov. Viktor focused on the window, the glass fogging up as if Yuri's anger had burned through his skin and dissipated into the air. The car company had not cleaned the window, the faint ghost outlines of genitalia and handprints appearing in the condensation. Hundreds had probably sat in these same seats. Perhaps people bigger and more important than Viktor Nikiforov, world-record holder, 5 time gold Medalist, treasure of the motherland. Had they left their mark, or did they blend in with the mess of fingerprints and smears of oil, destined to be wiped off at the end of the week? Did anyone else feel as inconsequential? Or were they more than a newspaper article and poster, something beyond the competitions and Olympics?
They arrived to the stadium, though the crowds of people had thinned. With the grey weather and threat of snow, it almost looked like the Olympic oval had been abandoned. The buildings were still lit up, scrolling through the list of names of those who would compete today. They might as well had been blurred, or blank. No one paid attention.
"Youll be in the front behind the kiss and cry. Don't embarrass me." Yakov grunted when they got close. His tenderness had worn off, either by the ride or the cold atmosphere that had grown in the ride over. Like everything else, it didn't matter much .Viktor readied himself for the press again, and another long day to live through.
If anything, it was interesting to see who went on the ice. Some American who needed visual cues to the music, watching a coach with bright red gloves and the tackiest shirt Viktor had ever witnessed. Another skater completed a moving piece, but Viktor had been distracted by the thick heavy lenses strapped to the skaters face, rather than the costume. He knew the mechanics of jumping, just how to balance your weight to get the maximum spin. Without a competition to worry about, the world champion only was curious about what made them different. What made them so special to make him fly back to the godforsaken city. He was about to peek at Yakov to see if he could sneak a scroll through Instagram before something caught his eye. Yuri was watching, something he hadn't done for the past hour and a half. His game-toy ( or whatever is was called) was closed and stuck in the pocket of his jersey. It was new, and stood stiffer with the patches of new sponsors Viktor had failed to notice. Viktor followed his eyes to the ice, watching a navy blue figure glide to the center. Viktor frowned. He had missed the announcement, and a cursory glance told him nothing. There were no athletic straps holding goggles on. The coach, while a little easter-man looking, wasn't ready to cue. Other than looking a little stiff and nervous, there was nothing different about this skater. He hit his cue, raising his arms at the exact moment. The lutz was flawless. His costume sparkled with every graceful movement What was this man doing here? Viktor turned to look at Yuri, who was watching intently. He nudged the boy, "America?" He said out of the side of his mouth. He didn't expect Yuri to answer. They hadn't said anything since their moment in the car, but today was his lucky day.
"Japan." Yuri looked disgusted. He must have done his research. Despite his attitude and sourness, he was still fighting to impress Yakov. And impress Viktor.
"Is it an intermission?" He said, out loud, much to his dismay, watching the step sequence. A little stiff, but a step above than what he had seen. And expected out of his event. Why was he here? On this rink? And why did he have no idea who he was?
The rest of the skaters went by in a blur. As expected, mystery man returned to the ice, taking the podium for silver. The scores reflected exactly what he expected, the lower points where he had thought the skater was too stiff, a spin that hadn't ended nicely. Viktor felt fire lick at his belly, enraged that the man who had done so well hadn't reached gold. It went undeserving to someone else, a skater he couldn't name or remember. Probably one who had skated after Japan had stolen his attention. No one that deserved gold. Viktor knew, somewhere in the back of his mind that the competition awarded points to the mechanics of the sport, and not just to pure and perfect bodies. But it still felt wrong.
The ride to the hotel was just as quiet. Cristophe was jet-lagged and determined to make it to the party. He had his routine to go through… water, meditation, a long-distance chat with some mystery man. Viktor knew better than to interrupt that.
Yuri… was Yuri… and Viktor was on determined to find the roster of the skaters that had played that day. He frowned, pushing his thumb against the screen, scrolling through the endless list. None of the cryllic character stood out to him. English blurred in, until finally he saw some other curlique –ish writing interrupt the blur of his native language. He immediately tapped it, expecting to go to another article about this perfect man. But no dice. It reloaded the Japanese federation site. His eyes crossed with the combination of rows of kanji and indecipherable words and the carsickness boiling in the seat of his stomach. The pictures took much longer to load, but it was the only thing of use. There he was… Viktor's mystery man, in another blue outfit. The same perfect face. Perfect shoulders. And nothing else.
Viktor wished for the older technology of flip phones, so he could at least vent his frustration by snapping the phone shut. A button push just didn't cut it. Nothing? It wasn't the Olympics, but it was still an international event. Why wasn't there more?
His stomach nor his head could stand the switch to the English webpage, so Viktor spent the rest of the ride staring out the window, pinching the bridge of his nose. Without a name to place, he only had the images playing over and over his head. Arms lifting in a graceful arc. A slow bend into a tight spin. Why was this figure burned into his head? Why did he want more?
The promise of hearing a name attached to the ghost in his mind was the only thing that got Viktor up in time for the gala. He had ordered a bottle of wine, pretending he'd share it for Cristophe as a thanks for coming back with him. It didn't last that long, or rather, Viktor's inhibitions didn't. The bottle was gone before the hour. He had enough time to dress into a smart suit, the one he had left from the main events. It had stayed in his suitcase, a spare, but at home in St. Peterburg, he hadn't the energy to go to the dry cleaners. It would have to do. The grey matched the weather outside, and his mind inside. All he saw was the ice, and the navy blue moving across it.
That man was driving him crazy.
