4. Victor - II

The dull taste lingers in his mouth. Victor wishes he had water to wash it away, but Yuri neglected to provide him with such. The sharp pain in his abdomen and thigh hits him every time he shifts. He winces. The cage is laden with the stench of piss and shit. The cage bars show no signs of weakness. His greasy hair sticks to his forehead. His clothes are the same ones he walked in with. Absent fresh air and inhaling foulness in every breath, his mind has grown foggy, losing track of time and reality itself. How long has he been trapped here? Two? Three days now? It's impossible to tell in this never-ending darkness. Furthermore, he has yet to find a way out of his prison.

Victor spends his confinement envisioning his routines—past, present, and future. It keeps him sane.

The rink is the one place he feels capable of anything. No limitations—just him alone with the ice and the music. Or so he wants people to believe. In truth, not even skating can free him from the contempt the outside world has toward him.

Off the ice, he'd spend brief moments alone, navigating through online forums and social media, reading the many comments under his pictures. Some he held his attention on:

Victor's winning streak won't last.

He's never going to make it past thirty.

Why doesn't he just quit? He's rich enough.

Dude is all looks. No brains. LOL!

In these private moments he wept, because he knew very well how true these hate comments were. He didn't stop until Yakov's booming voice snapped him back to the rink.

And every time Yakov ordered him back onto the ice, Victor had a fiery urge to say no.

So why didn't he?

Why continue to skate?

Why couldn't he just walk away from it all?

The world's greatest figure skating legend didn't become one out of cowardice. Nor should he leave his career behind in that method. Frequently, he hoped something would happen that might jeopardize or, better yet, end his career to a full stop like a freight train crashing into him.

Just break my leg, he thought. Shatter it, so I can never skate again. At least that'll convince people I tried.

Perhaps…he could manipulate his body somehow.

But whenever he attempted a risky jump, his nerves spiked, and he instead landed the jump or lightly landed onto his knee or hip. His mind swam with the comments he saw online. His heart fluttered, and his shoulders shook. Victor gathered himself up from the ice before Yakov could take notice of his despondent expression.

Coward.

He went to bed hearing that word spoken in his dreams. The voice didn't belong to anybody he knew. It was a voice he had conjured deep within himself. It clawed out of his subconscious like a beast. The Beast whispered to him. Threatened him. It wrapped its talons around his neck and shrunk his oxygen supply until he felt like he was about to pass out.

Coward, it echoed.

And Victor believed it.

Like a puppet on a string, the world was his puppeteer, dragging him along to each world event to compete. Controlling his every move while Victor held his tongue. Pleasing the crowds while ignoring his personal desires. He imagined cutting the strings and severing ties with this life. Only then did Victor think he might truly be free from falling into depravity.

But what coward would allow himself to be controlled? What coward would give up his own priorities to sate the needs of others? What coward would believe that breaking his leg could save him from the world's wrath?

Every day was the same—wake up, head to the rink, practice for hours until he had composed a substantial routine, and then return home and crawl back into bed to await the next day's repetition. His life had devolved into an endless cycle of performances, glamor, façades, and publicity. There was no zest. No moment to breathe. No change.

Something needed to happen. Something needed to fall into his lap or hit him across the head or push him overboard. Something. Someone.

He needed to escape this world.

It was the fourth Grand Prix Finals banquet. Per usual, Victor followed Yakov and his publicity team around as flashing lights formed dark blotches in his eyes. Still, he held up his gold metal and a forced smile to the prodding paparazzi. Several microphones shoved into his face, but Yakov took the gold metal from him and nudged him forward. He couldn't be more grateful for his coach than on that evening.

Beyond the wall of paparazzi, Victor entered a ballroom with an echoing high ceiling and a chandelier. Someone called his name in a curt voice. He instantly knew whom it belonged to.

Yurio stalked toward him, pointing his finger at Victor's chest. "Oi, what took you so long? We've been waiting for you!" His pale eyes glowered at him through a sea of blonde bangs.

Victor laughed meekly and put his hands up. "Forgive me, Yurio. I didn't mean to be tardy."

"Typical," Yurio hissed. "You're always so perfect on the ice, but, with anything else, you're off in fairyland or something."

"Enough," Yakov snapped. "You're talking to your superior here. Be grateful that Victor took home yet another gold metal. He's represented Russia very well. As should you."

The teenage skater shoved his hands into his pockets and clicked his tongue, but no further words came out as Yakov lectured him.

Victor peeled himself away from them to join a familiar crowd of people. He waved to Chris, who responded by launching himself onto the Russian and kissing his cheek. One hand attempted to be subtle, but Victor noticed when Chris squeezed his ass. He pardoned it, knowing only Chris had any kind of authority to do so out of everyone else in the room.

"Oh, Victor. We've been expecting you!" Chris clapped his hands together and dragged his friend over to the throng of skaters that had gathered around one of the dinner tables.

Victor greeted and hugged those he recognized. He shook hands with others and listened to them congratulate him on his fourth consecutive win. He tightened his tie when a few women shouldered their way into the group and propositioned him. Yet more feebleminded nymphomaniacs hoping to spend a night with him so they could add a famous athlete to their repertoire. He politely waved them off. They pouted and moved along.

Victor had had his share of groupies in the past. Scores of men and women—he couldn't exactly keep count—had entered his life and bed. Many of which didn't look for anything more than a quick romp and some extra money. He never found solace in any of the people he'd been with. He frequently yearned for someone to hold all night. Not just for sex but for more. The warmth of someone's skin against his. Hot breath mixing together between thrusts. Words of endearment whispered into each other's ears at the peak of climax. And once it was all over, they would rest in each other's arms and fall asleep. And when he awakened, he'd awaken beside his lover as he would the following morning and so forth.

"Ain't that right, Victor?"

Victor snapped out of his reverie to nod at something that had been said. Then he took a glass of champagne from a waiter who had been doing his rounds. The sharp taste on his tongue quelled some unruly thoughts.

But there was one thought out of them all that he couldn't erase:

He didn't want to be here.

Victor shifted his weight and pretended to listen to the conversations around him, occasionally answering any directed toward him with a smile and a nod. He recited a familiar mantra in his head: Maintain the façade. It was the best he could do given the circumstances. As the top figure skater in the world, he mustn't break character.

The venue for this banquet was almost the same as last year's. Though there were a few new additions—including Yurio—nothing seemed appealing. It was going to be yet another mundane night of drinking and false smiles.

As Victor finished his glass and grabbed another to prepare himself for a dull evening, something crashed nearby. Through the throng, he spied the same waiter gathering broken glass off the floor. A young man with dark hair and eyes leaned against a table and repeatedly apologized to the waiter in broken English and Japanese. Victor recognized him—another skater—but his name couldn't find its way into his brain. Given his appearance, he looked around Michele Crispino or J.J. Leroy's age, so he couldn't be a newbie. Victor had done well to learn everyone's name during his façade. So why did this one's name slip his mind?

Victor turned away, assuming nothing more of the incident until the waiter started yelling at the man.

He had grabbed a bottle of champagne and proceeded to chug its entire contents. The waiter frantically reached out to take the bottle away, but the man easily evaded his hand as if the alcohol in his system had granted him newfound strength and flexibility. He continued to chug away without any implication of stopping.

Victor's brows rose. He's bold. I'll give him that.

"Yuri," someone called. "What are you doing?" A tall, copper-skinned man with a ponytail snatched the now empty bottle from the young man.

Yuri? So he and Yurio shared the same name?

Yurio—as his Japanese fanbase addressed him much to his chagrin—joined Victor's side. "The hell is going on?" Instead of champagne, he held a glass of seltzer in his hand.

Victor shrugged. He still hadn't heard the other Yuri's full name but continued observing with a plethora of onlookers as the taller man tried to pry Yuri away from the dinner table. But the younger man's slender form somehow slipped from his associate's grasp and drunkenly vaulted onto a nearby stage containing a metal pole. Victor's eyes widened as Yuri peeled away his clothes, tugging the stubborn buttons until they gave out, and then proceeded to grind against the pole.

It seemed like the entire world had stopped spinning to watch him. Yurio snapped a few pictures on his phone and said something inaudible. His eyes remained glued to the oddity that was Yuri. His moves, though clumsy at first, found some rhythm to the jazz music playing in the background. His facial expression, influenced by the liquor, showed no hint of embarrassment. He was utterly unapologetic.

Someone joined him on stage. Victor was not surprised to see Chris pull off his clothes. It was almost commonplace for his friend to not wear clothes at all. Modesty wasn't a word Chris stored in his dictionary.

They grinded against each other and the pole, synchronizing their moves into one power force. Victor couldn't pry his eyes away. He had never seen anyone else impress the Swiss, let alone rival his level of sex appeal. But Yuri, despite his drunken stupor, challenged any and every contortion of Chris' body with his own.

It was angelic. It was ethereal. It was rich. It was captivating. Victor could list as many adjectives in the universe of language as possible. His heart stuttered. The blood flowed to his cheeks. He wanted to join them. No, he wanted to join Yuri. Just Yuri. But something held him back from approaching.

His public image.

What would people think of him?

What would the media do to him?

What would become of Victor Nikiforov?

Fuck it.

He tossed back the rest of his second glass and lowered it onto a dinner table before approaching the stage. Yuri and Chris were lying at the base of the pole in some inexplicable yet extraordinary position that Victor could only compare to a snake's body being knotted.

Victor's eyes met the younger man's dazed ones. A smile curled up his face, but it wasn't the sad smile he had perfected. It was a rare, genuine smile he feared he had lost a long time ago.

Yuri lifted his head and detangled himself from Chris. "Victor," his accent poured out between slurred words. He blinked and smiled back innocently.

Cute. He's so cute.

The distant sound of complaining arose in the background. The voice seemed to belong to Yakov, but Victor faded out his words and replied, "May I?"

A rumble hit the back of the room. Everyone gasped.

Yuri blinked again, the red on his cheeks adding to his allure. Victor wanted him. He wanted him now. Slowly but surely, his hand reached for Victor's.

Chris propped his head up onto his fist and cocked a brow. "Stealing him away from me? Oh my, Victor. What will people think?"

Growing impatient, Victor snatched Yuri's wrist and pulled him off the stage and onto his feet. His eyes glance back to the Swiss. "Let them think. I don't care anymore."

Chris flashed an amused grin.

Victor half-dragged half-carried Yuri to the center of the ballroom, one arm cradled the inebriated skater. It took some time for Victor to reassemble the remaining buttons on Yuri's shirt and buckle and zip up his pants. But he did so swiftly even as his own mind grew foggy with the influence of alcohol sinking into his system. Once sated, he took Yuri by the hand and waist.

Yuri shrunk back, but Victor pulled against his reluctance. Their chests pressed together. Victor's heart sung, and he felt Yuri's thunder in response. He was nervous. If not for their audience and Yuri's marred thinking, Victor would have kissed him. His lips were right there. If he were as confidence and diligent as he was on the ice, he might have. Instead, Victor led the dance. Yuri stumbled at first, but again, as if the liquor had granted him inexplicable limber, he recovered and matched Victor's movements with grace. The gathered audience watched in awe and disbelief as the two men carried each other in a dance reminiscent of the tango, rumba, and waltz all mingled into one. Phones flashed like twinkling stars.

More dancers join them, perhaps to best their performance, but Victor paid nobody else any mind. It was just him and Yuri from Japan. Yuri, who's full name still hid behind a locked door. Victor stood on the opposite side of the door, banging on it repeatedly.

Finally, he brushed his lips against Yuri's flushed ear. "Yuri. What's your full name?"

When their eyes reconnected, Yuri's were still blinded by the champagne's spell. The innocent smile lingered. He giggled. "Victor," his voice peeled through the accent. "Victor Nikiforov. Viiiiiiictooor."

Victor should have guessed as much. While Yuri's feet maintained in step with his, Yuri's mind had become a blank canvas. Oh, well. If Victor had to wait until morning for his answer, he should spend this night enjoying his rebellion. Yakov's irritated voice had fallen into memory. Victor danced until Yuri suddenly hugged him and grinded his hips against his body.

"Victor, my family owns a hot spring in Japan. Please come visit soon." This time when their eyes met, Victor couldn't hold himself back any longer. "Viiiiiictoooor, be my coach!"

That's it. He grabbed Yuri's hand and clenched it tightly. He couldn't lose him. If he lost him, he wouldn't get a second chance.

In the next few minutes, they were weaving through the throng of partygoers and dancers, racing out of the ballroom and down a few hallways. Victor found a secluded spot away from the din of the music and cluster of eyes.

He forced Yuri against the wall with a passionate kiss.

Yuri released a muffled sound between their lips. Victor opened his mouth wider and slid his tongue into Yuri's mouth, hoping to devour the sound, possess it, and steal it for himself. His arousal swelled in his pants. He felt Yuri's grow against his thigh and imagined the younger man felt the same against his. Victor had a number of lovers in the past, but none had ever made him become so primal so fast as Yuri from Japan had.

Another muffled sound escaped Yuri's throat. But this one was different. Victor could tell for some reason that it wasn't a sound of endearment but of pain. He broke away from their kiss, gasping for air. God only knew how long they had been going since taking their last breaths.

Yuri panted. His face was damp with sweat. No, wait. His eyes were leaking. He had been crying.

Victor stepped back, stunned. "Yuri, I…"

Yuri shielded his face with his hands.

Victor reached up to pull his hands away. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry, Yuri. I didn't mean to…I'm such an idiot." In his primal state, he had taken advantage of the younger man, who had practically no chance to snap back or defend himself in his alcohol-induced trance.

When Yuri's hands lowered, his eyes filled with ire. Victor already felt the slap or punch coming, and, honestly, he yearned for it. He needed to know he was in the wrong. Yuri deserved every right to strike him.

Victor closed his eyes as one of Yuri's hands lifted. He hoped the hit would knock him out cold. At least he could wake up with a clearer mind than tonight. Maybe he would hit him so hard, it would leave a permanent scar as a reminder of Victor's self-absorbed foolishness.

Fingers entangled into his hair, and pulled him into a soft pair of waiting lips. Victor's eyes flew open. Yuri's tongue brushed across his teeth, asking for entry. Victor complied and pressed Yuri back up against the wall. Their hips thrust against each other. Victor's erection swelled so much that he could have come right then and there.

They needed a room.

Now.

But the stairs would be impossible for Yuri. The flexibility he showcased on the ballroom had devolved into another prime example of too much liquor on an empty stomach. He was barely keeping himself adrift, sandwiched between Victor and the wall. Together, they acted as his leverage.

They could use the elevator. But Victor didn't want to be stuck in a lift with strangers when Yuri was in such a vulnerable state. Almost everyone rooming in the building knew where he roomed. If even one person were to see him drag Yuri inside, he'd wake up to a flurry of phone calls and emails from media sources. Most of which would be negative. The nonchalant attitude he had earlier began to waver. His worries regarding his public image flowed back into him. Victor broke away from the kiss and held Yuri's face between his hands.

"I can't," he said firmly. He needed to stop. Yuri was drunk. Anything further, and he'd be taking advantage of him.

Yuri's pupils widened. His face. Oh, God, the expression on his face. It was begging Victor to take him.

The Russian gritted his teeth and tapped their foreheads together. "I don't want to corrupt you," he whispered, rubbing his thumb across Yuri's bottom lip. "Not when you're like this."

"Victor," Yuri's meek voice peeled out. It took everything in Victor not to slam the younger man back against the wall and devour everything that he was. Victor noticed Yuri's lips press together. Another hint that he was holding back just as much as the Russian was. The liquor's influence must have begun receding. Maybe one more kiss wouldn't hurt. Just one. Then this exchange of awkward looks, heated breaths, and dubious choices could finally find some resolution.

Victor replaced his thumb with his lips. Unlike before, he didn't force his way into Yuri's mouth. His kisses were soft and meticulous. He savored each one. Planting them all across the other man's face like invisible tattoos. Whenever Yuri seemed to press for more, Victor recoiled. Whenever Yuri's hands attempted to slide into Victor's clothing, he grabbed his wrists. A whine escaped the younger man's throat, and the Russian fought back his own urges from tearing down the wall of resolve he had built. But the more Yuri complained, the weaker his willpower grew.

"Victor," Yuri gasped. "I want you…now." It was the first sensible sentence he had spoken during their private time together. "Please."

The last word added to his torture. Victor felt like he was on a gurney being dissected. Each plaintive reply of Yuri's voice or lips was like a pair of hands tugging on his heart, trying to sever the organ from its arteries. He couldn't live without his heart, and he couldn't live knowing he had left Yuri in such an empty state.

"I want to know it's okay," he said, still hesitant. His primal lust pounded against a wall, about to break free. But Victor had enough common sense to know that if he did choose this path, he couldn't do it without the other man's consent. "Just say it. I need to hear you say that it's okay."

Yuri's pupils dilated. "Victor. Please."

But there was a fine line between begging and acceptance. Victor whispered into his ear, "Tell me it's okay."

"It's ok—"

The Russian had heard enough before his primal instincts besieged the wall of resolve. Every passionate kiss equated to another piece of his willpower breaking down. His hand slid beneath Yuri's shirt, and his fingers ran across the younger man's taut abs. Victor counted six. His hand slid out and started work on Yuri's undershirt. In seconds, he unbuttoned the same amount of buttons he had reassembled. Unbeknownst to him at first, Yuri was working on Victor's belt. He tugged at the pants with earnest. Victor was impressed by how much Yuri could multitask despite seeming on the verge of collapse.

Victor pulled away from the kiss. "What do you want?"

Yuri cocked his head to the side like a curious dog. His answer was belated but clear, "I wanna suck you off." His tongue moistened his lips.

Well, damn. Victor had anticipated something else, but if that's what Yuri preferred, then he was all for it.

"Okay."

Yuri slid down Victor, who helped his descent to ensure Yuri didn't accidently fall on his face. He wrapped his fingers around the Russian's shaft and ran his tongue across the head.

Victor arched and released a gasp. He was already on the precipice of euphoria. Anything that Yuri did now threatened to make his heart explode and his essence pour out. He rested his palms against the wall as Yuri took more of him into his mouth. Moans supplanted his sharp gasps. His pleasure spiked.

"Shi—"

He lurched forward and expelled everything he had into the younger man's mouth far sooner than he had anticipated.

Yuri gulped.

"Ohmygod—!" Victor grabbed the man's face and lifted it so their eyes reconnected. "You didn't have to…" Heat rose to his face when he noticed the string of semen running down Yuri's chin. Victor kneeled down and rubbed it away with the back of his sleeve. "Sorry." He had to commend him. Not many would be willing to swallow—especially unprepared. Victor wondered how many people Yuri had been with. It would be an insult to ask, but he imagined as many as Victor had—an above average amount.

Another question was whether Yuri had ever been with another man? Did he even swing that way? Evidence of alcohol still rested on his breath. Victor's lust wavered. He shouldn't do this while Yuri was on the brink of comatose. If the man woke up the next day not knowing what had transpired, Victor would be bordering on sexual assault. Yuri from Japan was steadily transforming into Yuri the One-Night Stand. The Russian had had his share of drunken one-nighters, but this one was different. Not only because Victor would feel immense guilt, but also because Yuri didn't seem like the one-night stand type. Victor sensed it.

He promptly zipped his pants and buckled his belt. Then he pulled Yuri up from the ground and rectified his attire. "I can't. For real this time."

Yuri stared at him.

"I'm sorry," Victor whispered, buttoning the last button on Yuri's shirt. "I want to, but this is wrong. You will regret it. We're both better off going our separate ways for now." He couldn't tell whether he was trying to convince himself or Yuri more.

Yuri's mouth parted in disbelief. "Victor."

The Russian bit his gum and adverted his eyes. If he looked into Yuri's for too long he was going to succumb to his natural desires. And if he did, he knew he wouldn't be able to restrain himself. He had to do this now. Victor closed the gap between them and brushed his lips against Yuri's ear. "Next time we see each other, I promise we'll be able to finish what we've started. I promise then I'll do everything to you—you'll never want anyone else. Just make sure that you remember me when we do, Yuri. Because I will never forget you." He kissed down the younger man's flushed neck and breathed in his scent, cataloging it into his brain so that the next time they did meet, if he didn't recognize Yuri's face, he'd remember his smell.

"Victor," Yuri's voice sounded pained.

Victor coiled his arms around Yuri's lean waist and held him firmly. He was afraid to let go. "Yuri."

"Victor."

"Yuri."

They echoed each other's names through their accents until Victor found the willpower to peel himself away, making sure to avoid Yuri's eyes. For those eyes wanted to trap him.

Someday soon, Victor hoped they would.

A/N: Happy Halloween! Too bad this chapter isn't as "festive" as the previous, but I hope some people still found it entertaining. I had to rearrange some of the canon backstory, including the origin of Yurio's nickname (for obvious reasons), and use it as a means to tell the Yuris apart. This is the first of a couple of "flashback" chapters. A different one will be told from Yuri's POV and will be posted next week. After that, onwards to the real fun! *Insert evil laugh*

Come find me on tumblr: vampiregrose