The Challenges of Love

by DandelionsInTheWind

Yuuri moves to far-away St. Petersburg, but nothing is the way it was supposed to be. As he struggles to hold on to his love for Viktor and figure out the essence of what the two of them lost on their way to Russia, Viktor & Yurio have to face their demons and the worst of their pasts or endanger their performances throughout the season and relationships with their closest people.

10. Punk, Tiger, Fairy?

Here comes the Yurio-centric chapter. It's written at a later point in the story, in a diary form of sorts, with included remarks aimed at Yurio's future psychologist, the very Frau Steinmeier from the previous chapter. Their paths will cross sometime in 2017.

P.S. Under "rehab" Yurio means ordinary psychotherapy. I'm not turning the poor kid into a substance abuser. As for how he can recall things so vividly, there's more information in the notes at the end of the chapter.

Warning: there's a load of foul language ahead.

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Chapter 10. Punk, Tiger, Fairy? The Boy Inside a Figure Skating Champion.

"They tried to make me go to rehab, but I said no, no, no."

So did I, but they overruled me (I'm fine; Winehouse needed overruling!). Anyway, that's why I'm writing this bullshit – I'm supposed to relive the fucked-up moments of my life and let go of the bitterness piled in my soul.

Therapists' crap!

Here I thought the Germans were level-headed, rational people, but all this old hag Steinmeier (yes, Steinmeier, you are an annoying old hag!) keeps raving about are frigging emotions. The upside – I get to write in English and practice my writing a bit. Or my written swearing in English.

So, it's the morning of June 20th, as I am making my way to the rink from the end of the world, also called fuckin' Rybatskoye. The subway train stinks thanks to some homeless rag sleeping with a bottle of vodka, and I am on cloud nine – I just caan't wait to meet depressive Viktor and weird-acting Katsudon.

Truth be told, I'm somewhat considering being proud of the Katsudon – he must have raised quite the scandal after Viktor's disgusting TV appearance with Lidia because the one Viktor Nikiforov has turned into a droopy walking pile of jelly. Now their roles almost seem reversed – was it not for Katsudon's freakish behavior.

The day before, he acted as though nothing had happened, he wasn't glaring at Viktor (though I'm not quite sure he can glare at all), he was simply… Fake. Everything about him. He wore the mask of perfect politeness, but what the heck was going on behind it, only chubby Piggy knew.

Still, he was not frigging hugging me or crying on me, it could have been much worse. At least he could completely cover up his emotions, whereas Viktor was plain pathetic!

Speaking of the devil, after a several-day-long journey from fucking Rybatskoye, I arrive at the rink and what is there to see? The Viktor Nikiforov, hugging himself on a bench.

No piggy to hug anymore, eh? I think with contempt. Katsuki is supposed to be here, having a lesson with Viktor, but since there's no sight of the pig, and Viktor looks like the shit he is…

"Did your Yuuuuri finally decide to get an adequate coach? Good for him."

Viktor stirs slowly and fixes weary eyes on me. Has he forgotten that I train my short program with Katsudon and him on Tuesdays?! I wouldn't put that beside him. And is Katsudon really getting a new coach? Does that mean he's leaving town? The thought unsettles me*.

"Yuuri skipped training today, Yurio. All he said was that he wouldn't be able to make it..." An awkward pause follows. Katsudon doesn't skip training just like that, maybe they argued again. Damn you, Viktor, you're only dragging him down! I'm about to snap at him, but it's just then that the bastard decides to continue blabbering.

"Your training with Yakov is off, too, for reasons I'm not authorized to tell. Don't yell at him tomorrow, if you please, you can compensate with Yuuri and me right now. He agreed to come for a full-length joint training session with you."

I'm freakin' mad. Nuts Yakov is completely out of line, he didn't even bother calling me! What the hell?! As for the Katsudon – yeah, I bet he'd prefer having me around during training with that excuse of a person, Nikiforov. I can be a govno when it suits me, but never with the people who love me (Dedushka, that is, and maybe my friend Otabek who doesn't even make the one-man love-Yuri list). All in all, I'm very unlike the person in front of me who I wonder how I'd keep from punching in the face for a whole training session.

"Oh, I will have a talk with Yakov about professionalism, don't worry about that," I spit out. I aim at sounding deadlier than scorpion venom (I love scorpions, and, for the record, you "Scorpion"-loving old hag, your favorite band is a disgrace to the animal – they are too light, the fuckers; though I might have been able to stand them, had they chosen a better-fitting name for their boozy ballads band).

So, where was I? Yeah, I'm spitting out venom addressed at my lame-ass coach. Then I start spitting venom at lame-ass Viktor.

"As for you, gorgeous Vicky, you are a… A… The most disgusting thing you can imagine, that's what you are!"

Viktor just stares at me tiredly without saying a word. Has he lost the will to live or what? This depressive passivity makes my desire to hit him sky-rocket.

I try to calm down, before ranting on.

"Do you realize how… Argh! My full arsenal of insults can't encompass your dumb behavior! See, making out with loon Lidia on TV, that's fine. Alright, you're an evil trashy son of a bitch, this I can understand. But making out with loon Lidia on TV and then playing the mislead pitiful protagonist of a Greek tragedy – this is the only thing that's worse than being straightforward evil!"

Viktor's gaze is so infuriatingly empty that I consider the option that I'm talking to a Viktor-bot instead, a perfect replica of Nikiforov full of metal and wires instead of flesh and blood. Damn the sci-fi comic books I read; they've brainwashed me, the Katsudon was right (I fill his head with sci-fi shit occasionally, and occasionally, I overdo it). While I try to figure Viktor out, he (or his robot copy) speaks up at last.

"You want me to defend myself, but I don't. You want me to come up with a sufficient excuse, but I don't have one," Viktor says with a voice worthy of his mopey expression. To my surprise, his face afterward grows… angry? "What I want is no scandals in front of Yuuri. What you want most is a proper training session. That can't happen unless you keep your mouth shut."

"But Katsudon isn't here yet to save you, is he?" I hiss.

"You think I'm afraid of you, tiny Yurio?" I'd never admit it * (Steinmeier, feel privileged, I'm making an exception), but the fake laughter that follows gives me the creeps. I don't show it, of course.

"I think that Viktor Nikiforov is dead," I say, and I mean it. "He died the day you set foot in Hasetsu, and the best you can do is let him rest in peace. Your sorry attempts at resurrecting him have already cost you your dignity, and they will cost you your Japanese Katsudon, too, if they haven't already. All you can do is turn back to being goofy Katsudon-loving Coach Vitya. This way there'll be at least one proper rival for me to skate against." Well, two: Piglet and Otabek.

Then the weight of my words hits me. I'm telling Viktor Nikiforov to retire. And yet, I'm not. I'm saying that to the empty-eyed mean Viktor-bot he's been since about the beginning of the off-season. Unfortunately, I can't even put the blame on evil aliens, scientists or politicians for this. It's Viktor's fault alone. Viktor, who's suddenly the all-silent tragic drama character again.

"Fuck you!" I swear. Angry as I am, I chew overVitya's latest monkey business resentfully and a potential skeleton in the cupboard pops up. "I haven't even seen you skate much recently. I thought you consider yourself too good for group training and that's why you've been skipping most of it. But what if you just don't skate like you used to anymore? You're not the person you used to be, why would you skate like him? Afraid of what we'd think about your current skating, are you? 'Cause on Saturday, you skated like govno, and everybody saw it."

Viktor looks away.

"Look at me when I'm talking to you!" I snap and get no reaction. Something in me hurts, and I don't know what it is. Viktor is one hell of a mess, and I can't stand it.

"You know, I actually liked you better when you were a goofy idiot. You should have married the Katsudon when you had the chance. Now you're beyond pity." Or maybe not. Maybe, for some reason, I pity that jelly pile on the bench. I turn my back on IT; I really can't stand watching IT, that un-Viktor. And I don't want him to see any sympathy in my eyes.

"Yuri," I hear then and turn around because the voice is different. When I'm facing IT again, I'm facing… Viktor, is that you?!

Haha, but right at that instant, of course, Katsudon (perfect timing, Piggy, bravo!) enters and our no argument policy kicks in. Viktor shuts up; his gaze grows wary. Afterward, it becomes… He's openly gaping at…

I turn and see the Katsudon, without glasses, hair slicked-back and wearing clothes that aren't two sizes bigger for once. But the clothes strike some vague familiarity. My lightning-fast brain reminds me in an instant – Viktor's old training clothes from when he was a junior; I've seen them in interviews. Damn, they look good on Katsudon, who recently turned all skinny.

Viktor keeps doing the only thing he's good at that day – staring. Katsudon seems to pay him no mind.

"Hi, Yuri, sorry about your training with Yakov, I'm sure there must be a good reason for it," the stupid all-dressed-up pig says. Are you shitting me, Katsudon?! I'm pissed at nuts Yakov, why would you even mention him to me right now?

Lucky for the pig, Viktor exits his gawking-at-his-good-looking-probably-ex-fiance trance and beckons us to put our skates on and follow him.

I subdue my fury and do as requested with gritted teeth. Once we're all on the ice, Viktor orders me to perform my short program. Me first? I'm mad at Viktor, Yakov, and weird-acting well-dressed Katsudon, and I know I'll do terribly.

The music starts, and I go through the jumps, spins, step sequences without even trying to calm myself. To top it all off, my so-called father comes to mind, as well, and I totally lose it. Suddenly, I'm angry at the whole world. I jump the final combination, convinced I'm looking like a vicious wild cat, no sign of Oizys to be seen.

As the music finally stops, I can't care less how bad Viktor's criticism will be. Why would I listen to what piles of jelly have to say?

But Viktor isn't quite the pile of jelly again. Instead, his face looks compassionate. I don't like it any better than his jelly-face.

"Yuri," he begins, and I'm at least glad he's called me by my real name again, "You have to move on; this anger you keep nurturing is no good for you or anyone around you." What the hell does he think he's talking about? His words make me feel uneasy. A desire to scrape this pitying look off his face overtakes me. He's the pitiful one, not I.

"Everyone has a tragedy of their own. But if you look at the bigger picture, all these little tragedies are nothing more than dust in the wind." Suddenly, my hair stands on end. What is he implying? He can't know…

"If you want a reminder of what actual tragedy looks like, pay a visit to the Piskaryovskoye Memorial Cemetery today. The people buried there were stripped of everything you have – a chance to remedy the past by building a brighter future. So, forgive and let go while the important people in your life are still there. Because ones they're gone, you'll be left with bitterness, regret, and lost opportunities. Do you really want to live like that?"

My eyes are intently fixed on Viktor, and everything they see there screams the same thing – that he knows everything. Promises are meaningless to that cursed traitorous old man Yakov, it seems. He just had to tell it all to his Vitya; I can see them discussing my life on a cup of tea as if it's some cheap soap opera! Forgive and forget, little kitty, behave yourself, and you'll get a cookie! He's got no idea what's he's talking about, this jelly-brain, and neither has he any right to tell me what to do with my life!

"I don't want to see your ugly mug ever again. And Yakov better go kill himself 'cause otherwise, I'll do it myself!" I shout. Viktor's face is a blur of grey, as I turn and skate for the exit. I vaguely hear Katsudon calling after me.

"If you want to live, stay away from me!" I warn while I'm running away from both of them.

I reach a bench and hastily get rid of my skates. I believe I hear Katsudon scolding Viktor for "doing something to me again", and Viktor trying to make some pathetic excuse. None of them try following me; that's all I'm concerned about. So, I just abandon my skates lying there on the ground and dash off.

I am in the corridor already, and that's good, but then I collide into something red-headed that materializes out of a corner.

"Damn you, Baba!" I curse vehemently.

"Fast and furious again, eh, Yurio?!" she complains, rubbing her chin. Then, falling victim to a case of severe paranoia, I grab her and shout, "Tell me you've no idea about my family, my dedushka excluded!"

"What? Of course not, I've asked you a zillion times about your mystery family, remember?! I don't even know where in Saint Petersburg it is that you live, little brat!"

Her angry response suggests sincerity, and I let go of her, embarrassed. Right thereafter her anger gives way to something resembling concern that makes want to bolt again.

"What's your issue with me, it's none of your business why I'm freaking out, it's not like anyone here gives a damn about me!" I rave before she gets to say a word, telltale Yakov and stupid Viktor on my mind.

"Yurio! What are you saying? We all care about you, me, Yakov, Zhora…" I snort.

"Georgi can't stand the sight of me!" With Viktor gone last season, I got all the media attention while he went entirely off the journalists' radar again. That's why he probably hates me and got snippy at me at the Ice Palace.

"Hey, hey, Georgi loves everybody around here!" I hear to my surprise and then see, somewhat fuzzily, Georgi appear from the sideway Mila came from.

As soon as he spots me, he frowns.

"Yura! What's the matter?"

There are Mila and Georgi standing in front me with their impossible worried, fucking pitying faces, blocking my escape route. Then I hear "Yuri! Wait, I'm coming with you wherever you're going!" in English from behind, and it's the final straw that pushes me to make a masterful maneuver to evade the two idiots in front of me and run forward like hell.

I know Katsudon is hot on my heels, but I get lucky – a cab is just passing on the street. I wave with both hands at it like a complete lunatic. It stops, I hop in, and the driver takes me away from the cursed rink.

So long to all those stupid people! I try focusing on the relieving fact that I'm finally on my own with my sort-of nervous-angry breakdown, and I try to clear my head.

I rub my face. My hand meets hot, moist flesh.

No, fuck, my blurred vision, and everybody's concerned expressions!

It looks like I've been in tears the entire time, without even realizing it…

...xXxXxXx…

I'm walking on the large concrete plates covering the ground with their barren dead greyness. Blood-red flowers blossoming on the narrow concrete-free spaces are the only thing brightening the landscape, but their color is more ominous than welcoming. An enormous Soviet-style granite monument looms before me, the finishing touch to this solemn atmosphere.

Duh, I'm tired of trying to make this sound epic, when it's just Yuri Plisetsky strolling around the Piskaryovskoye Memorial Cemetery, in an effort to make sense of his crazed reactions to Viktor prying in his miserable private life.

The truth is that it shouldn't have affected me half as much. The fact that it did makes me want to jump off a bridge, seriously, I'm enraged at myself for letting this man still have so much control over me. Andrey Yanovich. The name makes bile rise in my throat.

Maybe if I didn't live in said man's house, I'd have pushed him entirely out of my mind long ago, but no, every time I see him… It's the same old story on repeat. We barely make it through two minutes, before we're at each other's throats. He hates me. I despise him. And we're all cooped up in the same house, with his non-wife (the vagabond still hasn't married her – ha, maybe good for her, she can grab her bags and abandon ship whenever she wants). Besides Natalya Petrovna Elefterova, for a little over a year, there's been a new resident – the poor baby girl they brought into the world as if they were a functional family that can take proper care of little beasties…

God, why has Lilia still not invited Yakov and me to spend the new season at her place again? Last year was the freaking best year of my life since I moved to Saint Misersburg!

I worked my ass off: I became a cursed prima ballerina, then I turned into a skating ballerina, then I became the Ice Tiger King! In between we went to the ballet, to the opera, to the theater, to some galleries, watched old movies, watched new movies (I thoroughly shocked Lilia with the poor quality of modern-day cinema :D ), I even dragged them to a freaking rock concert, imagine that?!

But I bet the most insane thing I did was to cook pirozhki for them (I made Dedushka reveal his special recipe)! Insane, because normally me + cooking = house on fire, but the pirozhki turned out fine (I'm sure it's all due to Dedushka's recipe ❤ ).

What about now? Now, I haven't spoken to Lilia for more than a month, and Yakov has turned into nuts Yakov, acts freakishly and systematically calls off training sessions! I've been a cancellation victim twice, but with Mila and Georgi it's much worse…

The worst part is that he wouldn't even say why! I bet Viktor, and maybe even Georgi know, but that's it, Baba and I have no clue. And guess who I'm usually able to torture info out of? Baba only.

So, that's it, it's the end of June, Lilia and Yakov ignore me, and I skate my short program like a flying angry little blonde govno. All curtsey to the horrible evil mongrel Andrey Yanovich!

I'm walking between the gravestones of various soldiers, their young faces looking back at me earnestly. It's much greener here, trees that had fed from these men's decaying bodies continue to grow tall, but their greenness doesn't lighten up the atmosphere. It's a place of loss, and nothing will or should change this.

The soldiers' gravestones are a colossal number by themselves, but then there're the 420 000 civilians buried together in 18 mass graves. All of them victims of the 900-day Siege of Leningrad.

War memorials and cemeteries just suck. Wars suck. Who the hell thought WWI and II were a good idea?

I continue walking between the gravestones, assuming that maybe at least those men had families who loved them before they died, unlike me. Seriously, what's the point of having a broken family that never wanted you to begin with? Better not have a family at all. Or better have a dead family that loved you.

However, I imagine not having Dedushka anymore and take my last words back immediately.

That's right, I have my dedushka. The rest of my broken family – the older I get, the less will they matter, and the less influence will Andrey Yanovich have on me.

But I can't wait to grow up (both literally, and figuratively). I have to stop caring, erase the anger NOW. Being angry at my so-called father means giving a shit about him, about what he thinks and how he treats me. How much he gets to me is just deplorable! I have to shut him out. I've had enough of being angry and of getting disappointed right after each and every time Yanovich succeeds to trick me into thinking better of him. Playing nice from time to time so that his non-wife can't realize what a jerk he is. What I've finally realized thanks to Oizys is that I've been Andrey Yanovich's puppet for years, and that I'm the most pathetic person I know.

Katsudon and Viktor can't even compare.

A desire to demolish something threatens to overtake me, and my self-hatred escalates. I can't even keep my cool now that I'm alone in a fucking graveyard.

No, gorgeous Vicky, there'll be no happy reunions or teary apologies here, there'll only be one cold finale. Severing of all ties quickly and cleanly. An abrupt end to a miserable, shameful year-long story.

From now on, I'll be the silent, invisible tenant in the ground-floor room by the Neva River in Yanovich's house. For real, this time. That un-family I live with won't be able to touch me.

My new uncaring persona is making his way back to the memorial square, as the apathy it's holding on to starts turning him into a hollow shell, something unnervingly like the Viktor-bot from earlier.

Apathy and callousness equal loneliness. If I finally turn my back on my un-family, I won't be able to lie to myself that I have somebody else other than Dedushka. That's why I feel so empty.

I hurry towards the eternal fire burning at the other end of the square. It may be the end of June, but I feel unnaturally cold. Once I'm there, I bend over it, as close as possible, I need its heat…

"Chto za chyort?! Ni huya! I'm the biggest idiot govno on Earth!" I shout, for some reason in a Russian-English mixture.

"What the hell? What the fuck? I'm the biggest idiotic shit on Earth!" is the translated variant of what I scream as I note that my favorite tiger-print sweatshirt has caught fire, remove it hastily from my waist it's hanging from and start swinging it at it the ground. As the collisions with the ground turn futile, I resort to stomping on it or more accurately jumping on it like a fool.

When my valiant efforts to save the piece of clothing finally bring forward a result, it is already beyond repair. I look at the remains of my Ice Tiger sweatshirt and wonder whether to laugh or to cry at how fucked this day has turned out for me, and how fucked my miserable life is.

Then I remember I'm in a frigging cemetery, and this is where I've just been jumping and swearing. I look around to find out if anybody has seen just what an idiot govno I am, and there's this elderly lady, looking at me with a condescending smile.

Damn, I've become an Aunt Sally for old people! This is it; now I've officially reached yobannoe dno (fucking bottom), no – rock bottom, no I'm combining the two – I've reached fucking rock bottom!

My head turns into a big ripe tomato, and I try getting away as fast as possible, but then – the lady calls my name!

"You are Yuri Plisetsky, right?"

I halt. It seems I won't get away without hearing what the lady has to say about swearing in front of the eternal flame burning for hundreds of thousands of war victims.

"The very same," I answer, my voice small.

The woman simply... bursts into laughter! I stare at her, and she continues, and I finally get that she might have been more affected by my ridiculous jumping around with the sweatshirt than by my swear words. Or maybe both made her laugh. I wonder whether being laughed at is better or worse than being an Aunt Sally. I decide that it's probably worse.

"I'm so sorry, Yurochka, but you were such a sight for sore eyes with the burning tiger jacket, cursing and hopping next to the eternal flame. Such things should happen more often here; usually, all I see are the mournful faces of old bags like myself."

I blink several times. I made this nice old lady laugh; as embarrassing as the situation is, I involuntarily made her day. Being an idiot govno can have positive consequences?

"Oh, I'm glad I cheered you up," I manage to say.

"What is a good energetic boy like you doing here anyway? This is not a place for young people."

"I just… I had nowhere else to go, and I needed to think things over," I explain, scowling. By the way, did she really call me a good boy?

"But you're so young, you shouldn't have such dark thoughts on your mind," the kind lady replies with disapproval. "Take a look at me – I'm at a cemetery with the most unsuitable clothes I have in my closet."

It is just then that my brain makes the connection that the old lady is wearing a pink dress and yellow shoes at a graveyard. I'm simply not at the top of my game right now. I blink at her again, but her clothes don't change color.

She just smiles cheerfully at me while I beat my brains out how to react.

"But… Why? Why are you here?"

"I'm visiting my mother and brother. The famine during the Siege took them; I only survived because a young German lieutenant, Klaus, found me barely conscious and took care of me for over a year. After the war was over, I took care of Klaus. I hid him and brought him part of the little food I got from the shelter for homeless people I was taken in. Luckily, my father arrived soon afterward, alive and well from the front, found me and helped smuggle Klaus to West Germany before they built the Berlin Wall."

I gaze speechless at the lively lady in pink. Well, that's what Viktor meant about the difference between stupid-ass tragedies like mine and actual tragedy and hardship. The effect of hearing such a story from a living, breathing person is unparalleled; it can't be compared to reading your history book.

"I feel very very stupid right now," I blurt out.

The woman laughs again, her cheery voice a refreshing contrast to the landscape.

"Ah, I'm sure you have a good reason to be here, too. But remember this from me – there's nothing that can happen to you that is worth closing yourself off from the world and wasting away with grief. My father and I could have wasted away, but we chose to live on. So, here I am today, paying a visit to my family the way they would want to see me. I hope they are somewhere out there, laughing their heads off at my odd dress and those funny shoes!"

"I wish everybody was you like you!" I say. I don't know how someone like me made her day, but this endearing lady just made mine.

"Old and ugly? I say better not, Yura!" the lady smiles.

"Bullshit! You look better than any girl in my class; they all wear tons of make-up, high heels, and dark things that make them look about thirty."

"Hahaha, today's youth! No surprise, though, at 16 you want to look 20-something, but when the thirties start knocking on your door, you wish you'd look 19."

"You look more 16 than any of the 16-year-olds I know. Even me 'cause I look 12," I pout, probably just like a 12-year-old.

"Don't hurry to grow up, Yurochka, but also don't resent growing up once you do. Every age has its charms. Carpe diem, right? The term has gotten trendy lately; join the trend!"

God, she calls me Yurochka again, and I want to cry that she's not my grandmother; she's the coolest old lady on Earth! As a matter of fact, I've never even met my grandmother Yana; she died when Andrey Yanovich was very young. Dedushka even insisted on naming his son after her, that's how much he loved her. If I have to be honest, I'm glad he's not Andrey Nikolayevich, he doesn't deserve to be. Though he probably doesn't deserve being Yanovich either; from what I know Granny Yana was wonderful; she was even a professional skater, but had to retire in her junior years due to a severe injury that eventually claimed her life years later…

A pointy finger is pressed against my stomach, and I'm instantly startled from my thoughts about Granny Yana. Did the lady in pink just poke me?!

"You got pensive again!"

"Not for long, though; you're like an antidote to sadness!" I grin at her. "But you didn't mention how'd you know me?"

"What a question is that? I'm your biggest fan! I watched you even when you were half this size, and your hair was short and boring! I like how it flies all over the place now."

I know I'm blushing profusely, but I continue grinning nonetheless. She's my fan! Plus, she likes my hair, damn, I'm in love with this lady.

"Instead of asking for an autograph though, I'll beg for an invitation to your rink. I'd love to watch you exercise if you don't mind."

My rink? The rink I skate on is known around the world as Viktor Nikiforov's home rink. My rink?! Of course she can come to my rink anytime!

I scribble my training schedule on a piece of paper and hand it to her.

"You can come any time you pick; we'd love to have you!" There's not a person in the world that wouldn't like her immediately; I'm convinced of that, Yakov, Katsudon, Viktor, Mila, Georgi, there's just no chance they wouldn't

"You are such a sweet boy; the people who call you the Russian Punk know nothing!"

For once, I'm not mad at somebody that calls me a sweet boy.

"It was lovely meeting you, Russian… How was it? Ice Tiger King?"

I laugh at my favorite over-the-top moniker.

"Yeah, that's fine, anything but the Russian Fairy."

"Haha, but you are a fairy to a great many people. You make magic on the ice."

I... I've never made such an association. I thought they called me that for my girly looks.

"Will you stop making me look redder than those bloody flowers over there?" I joke, painfully aware that I'm blushing for a numerous time.

"Alright, I will take mercy on you. Goodbye for now, Yuri Plisetsky, and don't forget what we talked about today."

"I won't, not ever."

I leave the cemetery, smiling. I didn't even get the lady's name, but I decide to call her Violeta; let's see what she'll make of it when she comes to visit!

...xXxXxXx…

It's the morning of June 21st, and I'm sitting in a Tesla Model S, color darker than the night (Steinmeier, you might make a poet out of me).

Thoughts darker than the night fill my head, too, because the man behind the steering wheel is Andrey Yanovich (yes; obviously so long for playing cool and being cheerful; I'm a jerk; sorry, nameless Pink Lady).

"What's the freaking issue with you today?" he nearly yells. "I drive you to the rink every Wednesday, for Natalya's sake. This won't change; your teenage antics will only blow up in your face, Plisetsky."

"Says some man by the name of Yanovich. Why would I listen to him?"

"You live in my house, boy, and you will follow my rules."

"You mean follow your current woman's rules? Behold the high and mighty Andrey Yanovich, bossed around by some frail female!" (- Originally, I said "tyolka", which doesn't have an English equivalent, but it's kind of derogatory; nowhere near suka = bitch, for example, but still…).

"What did you just say? If I ever hear you utter a bad word about Natalya Petrovna again, I will…"

"Shut up; I don't have an issue with her," I interrupt, embarrassed by my own foul mouth. Natalya's damn annoying, but not evil and insult-deserving. "Plus, I'd have said "being ordered around by his wife", had you had the decency to marry her."

"My personal life is none of your business." Even before Yanovich snaps at me, I'm certain my words have scored some damage.

"You're absolutely right. That's why I don't care what your woman makes you do. This is the last time I'm letting you drive me."

"Letting you drive me?" he repeats incredulously. "I drive you, little ogre. With my Tesla. Every Wednesday. Without complaining. My apologies, though, it seems like I haven't been up to the standards of her bratty monstrosity the Russian figure skating Fairy. Maybe next week I should get a pack of wild pumas, a black carriage with tiger-print stripes, and hire Slash to blow our minds on the way with some insane guitar solo through a Marshall stack bigger than you."

"If you actually do that, I might reconsider." Rock and wildcat-addicted me is genuinely enthralled by the suggestion. This is the way to go if you want to buy Yuri Plisetsky.

"Little monster-brat." Yanovich's lips curve upwards, and I immediately start glaring at him. Is that idiot mocking me?! "I've no idea how your grandfather stands you," he continues with the vague traces of a smile.

"Well, I have a good idea why he can't stand you," I throw at him, just in case. The sentence strikes home much better than anticipated; Andrey Yanovich's face contorts into something resembling anyone suffering from a bad case of diarrhea.

"Shut your mouth," he spits through gritted teeth.

"I'd gladly do that, once you confirm that Natalya Petrovna's rule of your driving me on Wednesdays is officially rescinded."

"That will happen only if you agree to accompany Natalya and me on any formal evenings we get invited to as a family. Under the condition you behave yourself, of course."

"Haha. Wanna play happy family in front of your possible investors? No deal. I don't want Yuri Plisetsky to be publicly associated with Andrey Yanovich, either."

Yanovich's frown wrinkles (the only wrinkles he has) deepen in a dissatisfied scowl. He's gonna be stuck with those for life, and I've undoubtedly contributed to that. I'm not certain how I feel about this fact. I wish I couldn't care at all as I promised myself not to the day before.

"This non-association you're speaking of won't last much longer. It's not like I've changed my last name; my surname is still the hateful Plisetsky. I just skip it when introducing myself. In case you actually evolve into a man and continue winning medals, don't think the media won't link the businessman Andrey Yanovich Plisetsky to his young figure skating look-alike Yuri Andreyevich Plisetsky."

The fucker is right. I look exactly like him; with the one difference he stopped suspiciously resembling a little girl at about 16, and I'm 16 and still a pretty little girl. Our resemblance though is uncanny, teenage photos of him prove it. And damn how I hate carrying his name…

"You have a week to make up your mind. My driving you or formal dinners, this is the best deal you'll get."

"Can't your non-wife understand that we're not a fucking happy little family?" I whine exasperated. How do I stop giving a fuck about Yanovich, Petrovna, and their baby under these conditions?

"She understands perfectly. She just won't give up hope of changing things for the better." Yanovich's ugly mug gets… Argh, I will have that face of his soon, and I don't want to still hate my own reflection once it's finally manly. Let's try again. Yanovich's smooth attractive oblong face darkens with an unknown emotion. He touches his razor-sharp chin absent-mindedly… Argggh, I bet this sounds like 50 Shades! No, it's not disgustingly sexual, so probably "Pride and Prejudice." Don't worry, Steinmeier I've read neither and I never will.

So, our blonde Mr. Darcy – fine, I confess, I watched the "Pride and Prejudice" BBC mini-series with Lilia, she made me! Enough about Darcy, we're cutting to me. Sunken-in-thought me.

"Optimism is a good drug. But overdose on it and you turn into a naïve fool," I remark, memories of the times I hoped things would work out between Darcy and me on my mind. And I know this sounds as if I'm fucking Elizabeth, not Darcy's non-existent in the book or series son from another woman.

"God damn it, how can you offend Natalya, AGAIN, brat? What has she ever done to you?" (if you've lost track: Natalya is hopeful about Darcy and me = she's an optimism abuser = a fool according to my words)

"Not everything is about you and your woman; I just made an observation! A true one," I defend myself.

"You're impossible to talk to." That's the most absurd thing he could have said, I swear.

"Haha, right! I might have taken this to heart, was it not said by someone way worse at communication than me."

"I'm worse my ass!"

"I don't know what your ass has got to do with communication, and I don't want ever to find out," I respond as though I don't get his retarded way of swearing.

"I will not deem this with an answer."

"You just did."

"Is your life's mission to make me die out of frustration?"

Is your life's mission to make my life miserable? I counter mentally but say nothing out loud. Yanovich falls silent, too, and I'm almost content just sitting next to him in the car and watching him drive. And frown from time to time at poorly driving idiots (yes, that man does frown too much). As we wait at the next red light, he tarnishes the armistice, why not? He wants me to be miserable, after all.

"Seriously, Yuri, I need you at those dinners. I don't want you to pretend to be something you're not. Just be polite, which you can be towards people who aren't me. I'll introduce you to the people I work with. You even meet Dima so rarely!"

"Why would you need a monster-brat at these formal dinners, Yanovich? Like I said, you just want to show you are a responsible family man and you have to do it before some journalist figures out we're related. People will start wondering why the hell you haven't ever mentioned you're Yuri Plisetsky's father, won't they? Family drama's no good for business."

"That no one knows is all your fault! You refuse to go anywhere with my colleagues and me!"

"You are ashamed of your own family name! You can't stand your own father who's the only person in the world I love! Andrey Yanovich has nothing to do with Yuri Plisetsky and never will." The final sentence is the only one I manage to say with some semblance of self-control.

"Don't involve your grandfather into this because it will get ugly," Yanovich gives an empty warning. We're leading a conversation we've already led. I don't need him to tell me the consequences I've already experienced.

"Isn't it ugly already?"

"Things can always grow worse. Much worse." This is Andrey Yanovich, ever the optimist. He's right, though, so, why not indulge his pessimistic realism?

"As you mentioned Dmitry, how's he doing? Has he finally set his eyes on a more able businessman? He's the man with the ideas, after all, you're only marketing his products. Technically, you are working for him."

"Legally, we're business partners. You assume such petty insinuations will rattle me?"

Ha, your frown is telling otherwise! My inner hatred for the man is damn greedy for a more emotional reaction.

"I don't know what you've done to that man for him to watch submissively your taking his place in the spotlight! Yanovich, the transformer of the Russian energy market! Yanovich, the renewable energy god! The journalists are going to build you a pedestal soon."

"The more publicity, the better the sales. Dmitry is a brilliant scientist and a terrible salesman. He opted to... Damn, why am I justifying myself to you?!"

"It's your guilty conscience speaking. Seems like even you have a conscience, who would have guessed." By this point, I'm thoroughly appalled by myself. This insane endless chain of anger and hurt has to be broken, I have to stop, but I can't. I can't curb my seething anger; I can't help Yanovich's I can't keep my mouth shut.

"Not that I'm not enjoying hearing your opinion of me, but why don't we switch topics to you, Yurochka?" Yanovich sneers. "Your dedushka turns a blind eye on your arrogant behavior on camera, your disrespect towards your fans, your disastrous language, but for how long? Angsty teenage boys like you shouldn't be allowed into the ranks of the seniors; no wonder all the sponsors would rather spend their money on third-rate skaters like Nekola and Crispino than on you."

"I'm at least not doing it all for the money like you!" I shout while Dedushka loves me, Dedushka loves me, Dedushka loves me is on repeat in my head.

"You damn well know that I AM NOT..."

"Yeah, yeah, save me that well-rehearsed speech about saving the world from global warming, impending doom, whatever." Those work only on the journalists, Super-Andrey.

"As you wish, we're going back to discussing you. So, at 30, you'll be a poor man with figure skating records that might be already broken. Look at Nikiforov – his biggest records are ash and dust, but at least he's well-off while you'll be penniless out on the street, with a finished career and no education. With his media presence though Nikiforov has plenty job perspectives; but what will the Russian Punk have? Millions of haters, celebrating his retirement. Like your favorite von Düring. He only managed to turn his life around with the help of his well-respected family name, and family's wealth, too, I bet. So, your very father will be saving your sorry ass in due time, little beastie. Better be glad business is good these days."

I listen to him rant on and on, and his words get to me as they always do. I will go to university right after I graduate, it all will be fine, I try convincing myself, but it falls on deaf ears. I try focusing on the view out of the window as a final resort, and I get thoroughly horrified.

"Stop, the hell, stop, what are you doing?! We're almost at the rink itself!" Every time I make him drop me off a couple of streets away from it, where nobody will see me getting off his stupid darn expensive Tesla.

Yanovich scowls again.

"I got carried away. Well, I'll drop you off in front of the rink this time; I doubt this will trigger any sort of apocalypse."

I want to scream at him again, but I have a hard time picking my words. Stupid dumb man, I don't want anyone to know you're my father! What am I even saying, you're not my father! Getting somebody knocked up by mistake doesn't make you a father!

Suddenly, the car stops.

"Well, here we are," Yanovich says. "Damn, how I wanted this drive to go, and how terribly it went again…" Ah, no you don't want to suddenly play nice, cursed fool! I warn, but Andrey Yanovich most certainly can't read minds because he continues with his sort-of apologetic voice, "Maybe the dinners really are the better option. Please, give them consideration. What's more, Dima is quite fond of you; he watches your every competition. You have a friend among my friends already."

What a joke; Dima watches me skate, while Andrey Yanovich himself hasn't even once. Not that I want to, of course. It's time to put Yanovich in his place again.

"If you mention these dinners one more time, you'll get me convinced your business is going down, and your last chance of saving it is by getting Yuri Plisetsky to play charming for the investors! Are all of them skating fans, or what?! Or have they caught the current skating fever as Baba calls it?"

"What?! Can't you understand that I'm just…"

"Broke? I knew it," I grin boldly. "That's why the Tesla is still on credit." I'm bluffing and having one hell of a fun, while he's taking me seriously, the fool. "I hope you fail to cover the installments; then you won't have anything to drive me with. Have an awful day," I get out, not waiting for a response.

And then I see him. Fucking Katsudon, staring at me coming out of Yanovich's Tesla. Before I get to do anything, fucking Yanovich is out, too, curse him.

"You will start treating me with respect, boy!" he growls.

"Shut up; it's not like our disrespect isn't mutual. Hey, there, Katsudon, how you doing? See this blonde fool?" I point at Yanovich's mug on the other side of the car. "He thinks I should respect him. Does he look to you like somebody worthy of respect?"

"What the hell?" Yanovich curses and comes over to me.

"Uhm…" Piglet mutters in the meantime, his eyes racing to and fro Yanovich and me. His expression is priceless as he connects the dots.

Yeah, that's my un-father, Piggy. Yeah, I'm gonna be just as tall and imposing as he is in no time. Not liking the idea of having to deal with a Yuri Plisetsky, towering over you? Haha, I can't blame you.

"Will he ever spill out the verdict?" Yanovich's patience runs short, but he seems amused by Piggy's staring, too.

"Oi, Katsudon, I know you're too polite to insult Andrey Yanovich here, so I'm gonna do it for ya," I surprise myself by going over to Piglet and draping a hand over his shoulders. I throw a calculating look at my un-father. "You look like a Russian mafia boss, Yanovich; I look like a fairy, so I'm worthier of respect than you." Though, if I have to be honest, I'd probably have more respect for a mafia boss than for a fairy. Let's take Don Corleone vs. the Tooth Fairy; who would you root for?

"Is that so?" Yanovich is sour now that I compared him to a mafia boss. He has to take some sort of revenge, so he immediately adds, "I don't see how respect-worthy you are, little beasty, being friends with the boy that nearly snatched away your Grand Prix Final gold."

That was a dumb retort; he could have done better. Loathing to get Katsudon caught in the cross-fire, I simply reply, "Ah, the Japanese Katsudon? He's my very special non-friend, for your information, Andrey Yanovich. Right?" I peep at Yuri K. to find out his expression is slightly uncomprehending, but relieved.

"I am that even though I'm not fully aware what it's supposed to mean."

"Ah, who said you were supposed to know in the first place?" I pat Katsudon's back. "Come on, let's go skate, Yanovich here…"

"Isn't finished with you, Yuri Plisetsky," declares crisply the blonde Darcy-Corleone in a navy-blue sporty God knows how expensive suit (but as vegan and eco-friendly as possible, of course).

"What now?!" I fire back. My tolerance for Yanovich has dropped to about -10000000000000000000 since the morning 30 %; when will he realize that it's an especially bad idea to continue talking to me?

"Forget it," he says and stalks back to his car without another word.

Hm, his brain finally caught up with the situation.

I try exhaling my hatred for my un-father and the stress from the ride to the rink. The result is a long sigh that doesn't end up helping much.

"Uhm, Yuri…" Katsudon starts hesitantly.

"Yes, he's the male that impregnated the female that gave birth to your one and only non-friend." Ugh, that sounds gross!

"You lied to me when you said there was no drama in your family." Hallelujah, Yuri K.! Such a ground-breaking statement.

"I'm not sure I have a family so that there can be any drama in it, Katsudon," I can't handle any more snippy arguing, so my reasonable self steps in. It's well past the time I had to start acting mature. This morning shouldn't have happened. The scene I made while trying to get Yanovich and Petrovna to stop with all the fake family bullshit they make me take part in was a grand embarrassing mistake, which made the Wednesday drive angstier than usual. Being passive, distant and acting bored out of my mind will discourage them so much more, but how do I get myself to behave this way?

"Yuri, are you alright?"

"Yeah, Katsudon, let's get inside," I murmur. It's 1:0 for Yanovich. I failed to change a thing. But the battle has just begun.

"Look, I know you'd probably never talk to me about it, and now is certainly a bad time, but if there's anything you'd like to share, to ease your mind off…" Piggy trails off. He's talking as if I'm a minefield, and his voice has the power to set off a string of explosions. I decide that I have to sound as chill as possible, so I utter the following bullshit:

"Ah, simply say you're curious to find out what's the big issue between Yanovich and me. You asked me about my family once already; you wouldn't have, weren't you interested to know more about it. So, now I'm gonna tell you how I ended up being the Russian Punk. Apart from the fact that a great deal of the punk-ness I probably inherited from the moron Yanovich."

"Is he like that all the time?" Yuri K. doesn't seem to like my answer much. Or probably has an issue with my offending Yanovich and calling him Yanovich in the first place.

"With me, he's mostly nasty; his non-wife though gets to see the better side of him, I guess. Otherwise, she'd have left him by now." I can't help smiling at Katsudon's dissatisfied expression. "Don't worry, I'll try not to remain a little shit for the rest of my life." Oh, no, Plisetsky, nasty Yanovich + non-wife enduring him; nasty Viktor + Katsudon enduring him, just hope Katsudon's reaction wasn't because of making such a comparison.

"I'm sure you won't. You'll obviously turn into a big muscular frowny shit."

Evil snark coming from Piglet? Ha, look at that! Maybe he's made the connection, but the attitude it provoked is top!

"No, I won't, I'll only grow 20 cm. taller than you," I say smugly. That's an exaggeration; it's probably 13-14 at best.

Yuri K. stays silent until we finally sit down on a bench by the ice. There's no trace of Viktor, perfect.

"So… You really are going to tell me? Why?"

"What doesn't kill you makes you stronger. I'm going to make a shield out of my weakness. Just watch… Or listen." Stay calm, Plisetsky, stay calm and tell it all as if it's barely a nuisance for you. And it might just become so.

...xXxXxXx…

"First of all, I'm a mistake. On some trashy freshman party, a probably wasted out of his mind Andrey Yanovich hits on the soul of the company Valentina. Condoms, contraceptives, and abortion have been invented for such disgusting cases, but go tell that to the drunk idiots Andryusha and Valya."

Katsudon's face is shocked and pitying. I glare at him. Then I sigh and stop glaring at him.

"Let's make this clear – I don't need your sympathy, Piggy. This is not the reason I'm telling you any of this."

Yuri K. composes himself. Good.

"So, they fuck one night and avoid each other after because they really can't stand each other once they're sober. Too bad 'cause they fail to get rid of me and Valentina moves in with my dedushka so that she saves money from rent. Andrey goes on living on his own, but his guilty conscience makes him visit from time to time. Sooo… A baby no one wanted springs to life in '01. The one thing Andrey Yanovich does for it is to give some miserable sum to support the people taking care of it… I wish he never did that; I'd owe him nothing now."

"But… He's your father, after all, there's no way he doesn't care about you."

"There is a way." Are you kidding me, Piggy? There's no law that you should give a fuck about the spawn you've conceived by chance. "I've figured it out already – it's all his conscience. Some sense of responsibility to ensure his spawn doesn't die out of hunger. It doesn't really go beyond that. When I was a kid, he came by from time to time, only to see for himself I was alive. He treated me like shit, but I always found excuses for it. Or Dedushka did. How do you tell a 4-year-old that his fucking father doesn't love him?"

"Yuri… Your Grandad adores you, and he's your father's father. It just doesn't add up that your father wouldn't. Look, I saw how he acted this morning, but…" I try not to get mad at this insanely silly comment. Piggy hasn't heard the full story yet, after all.

"Oi, Katsudon, Katsudon, just listen to the rest. That moron Yanovich left for the USA when I was 5. At the airport, he told me both of us would be lucky if we never saw each other again. Dumb baby me's reaction to this was to learn how to write in record time so that it could write to him. Fucking postal letters. Because that's all he gave us – an address in New York, no phone number, no e-mail, no Skype. About one in three letters I wrote got a brief answer. Two years passed; Yanovich excused his lack of desire to fly back for a visit on lack of money, which was probably true, though. Ha, I even started saving up so that he could come home."

Katsudon's expression is… bleak. At least he keeps his dumb comments to himself.

"What about your mother?" Oh, well, he says something. But the question is fitting.

"We've just arrived at the point in the story when a German TV producer whisked her away to Berlin. She had recently made it to Russian TV; became part of a late-night show and freaking doubled its ratings," I catch myself bragging proudly. I don't hate my mother. My feelings for her are messed up, but hatred isn't among them. "Said German lover-boy was on a work trip to Moscow; I don't know how exactly they met, but he fell for her hard and got her a job at the channel he worked for. What a love story. They actually wanted to drag me to Berlin with them, but I wanted my dedushka more. And, see, Andrey Yanovich was supposed to be coming back in a year or so."

"What a family you got, Yurio." Katsudon seems like having a hard time processing all the information. "Your father is the famous Andrey Yanovich, isn't he?"

"Ha, that's why you still can't quite believe he's a jerk, isn't it? You've read articles painting him as the Russian Jesus Christ, who's gonna save humanity from itself with the renewable energy of the future. He's just a greedy businessman, Yuri. Dima is the big deal – Dmitry, the man who keeps inventing all the stuff, freaking revolutionized hydrogen fuel cells, magic wind generators that squeeze electricity out of areas with normal to little wind like here in Saint Misersburg… Or the wind to hydrogen ones his team is currently working on. Dima's a genius and a great guy."

Yuri K. refrains from commenting, this time for real.

"So, I continue writing my letters. At one point I start receiving printed ones; I think it's cool my dad's become more modern, but, see, he still refuses to communicate with me in a less medieval manner than freaking letters. It's been more than four years, and I'm real angry. Then, one day, I rummage through the daily 'paper Grandad's been reading. There's a bookmark on a page with a short article about "Dimandrey", a new renewable energy company based in Saint Petersburg, founded by Andrey and Dmitry, two college friends from Columbia University, etcetera…" For the record – freaking DimAndrey xD ;D, the world's shittiest company name! ;D ;D ;D

"But… how?! What about the letters you received?!" wide-eyed Katsudon exclaims.

"He'd stopped writing me back two years ago. All the printed letters had been from Grandad. I re-read them; they sounded much warmer than anything Yanovich had managed to come up with. He had come back to Russia a couple of months ago and settled down in Saint Petersburg. He'd called Grandad at least to let him know. Dedushka hadn't said a word to me because how would he have explained that Yanovich was back and had chosen Saint Misersburg over Moscow? The last letter I'd received "from America" stated Yanovich'd be coming back soon. Grandad hoped Yanovich would at least come to see me and explain himself."

"I just… Don't understand him. Why would he do that to you? It's… cruel. Yuri, I'm sorry, the articles about him are rather convincing and… I plainly don't know what to say. How did you end up living with him? You live with him, right?"

"Yeah, I do. I wanted nothing to do with him after I found out about the letters. But a few months later Yakov Feltsman offered to train me, and you don't pass on an opportunity like that. I couldn't want from Dedushka to move here with me; finding a good job at his age in a city he has no connections would have been tough. Besides, he loves Moscow, all his friends live there, and his small house is the only thing that connects him to his deceased wife, Granny Yana… But this man would do anything for me, I know he would have moved without my asking for it. Had stupid Andrey not offered to take me in in his brand-new house with his brand-new girlfriend."

"He offered it?"

"Strange, isn't it? I'm still not sure what his motivations were. Had Natalya, the girlfriend, and Dedushka made him do it? Probably, both of them still encourage me not to hate Yanovich. So, my options were either make my Grandad move to Misersburg or live with my evil un-father. Option three was taking up the boarding offer of my current sports school, but Dedushka wouldn't even hear about it. In the end, I had no choice but to move in with Yanovich, and I've been living with him and Natalya in fucking Rybatskoye ever since. Fights and insults are an inseparable part of this unique experience; this morning was relatively mundane, really."

Katsudon sits quietly next to me, no glasses obscuring these big brown doe eyes of his (I can safely bet he's the only Japanese alive with eyes that large; only Yuuko comes somewhat close). I find them oddly comforting. I don't want him to say a word and he doesn't; there's understanding in the silence. Despite our contrasting backgrounds, despite our opposing tempers, in that moment I'm convinced Yuri K. understands.

That's more than I bargained for.

A beat passes, and I simply want to cry that I've told somebody for the first time, and he somehow freaking understands, but then I realize that now that I've told Katsudon, I'm free. Or at least not as caged up as I was, with this shitty life in Rybatskoye, I was embarrassed by. I guess I'm still embarrassed by it, but something has broken loose. I've taken a step forward. I've evened the score. It's 1:1 now, and I finally believe with complete certainty this is a game I won't let Yanovich win.

By Murphy's law, anything that can go wrong will go wrong, so Viktor barges in just then, unabashedly late. On second thought, he actually picks the right moment. Seconds ago, I was on the verge of bursting into tears like a little crybaby; now I feel stronger than ever. I glance at Viktor, who nods a silent greeting. He's definitely worse for wear than the day before, he has bags under his eyes and whatever color his strange hair usually is can now pass for the grey of any 70-year-old man.

Katsudon's eyes linger on him with momentary concern before they look away indifferently. Viktor starts putting on his skates clumsily; he's the Viktor-bot from the day before, looking like he's spent the night in a torture room.

I'm more than aware exactly how shitty this training session's gonna be, and I don't want to stay for the show. Right after my freeing talk with Yuri K., I feel allergic towards any kind of oppressive situations.

I stand up and peer at them. Katsudon looks back at me questioningly. Viktor's sunken in skates-lacing like it's the most important occupation in the world. I decide that I'll give them my honest opinion on their fucked up situation, let them do whatever the heck they want with it.

"I feel sorry for you two. You could have killed it this season together. Now you can barely look at each other. What's sick about this whole thing is that you've kept dragging each other down for more than two months. Viktor, you look like beaten to the death robotized zombie ass. Katsudon, I don't know what your deal is with the stupid coiffed hair and fancy clothes, but you're not looking like yourself at all. So, maybe it's time to put a stop to this degradation trip. The engagement was somewhat disgusting, but this right here," I gesture over them, "makes me sick to the stomach."

"Nobody's making you stay." The phrase I hurl at anybody that complains about my govno behavior.

Yuri K. stares at me with his large honey eyes feigning boredom. Has Katsudon just fucking said that?! How can he say that NOW?! A lump forms in my throat, and I have to make a pause before continuing. As I consider my options, the creepy coldness from the day before settles over me. I know what I have to do; it's crystal clear.

"Point taken, Yuri Katsuki, which is why I'm leaving. There's nothing for me left here in Misersburg. No coach, no family, and zombified friends I can do nothing for and who don't want me anyway. You see, I'm drawing the line between Andrey Yanovich and me tonight. I advise you to do the same with one another; the sooner, the better; in my experience, unhealthy relationships only get worse with time."

Viktor's blue eyes shimmer with vulnerability, forming the most terrifying please-hug-me look there is (What the heck, Nikiforov, you've got 13 years on me, I'm not your momma!). At least now he displays human emotion (crybaby emotion, to be precise). Meanwhile, Piggy FREAKING POUTS at me frivolously as if I was standing in the way of some game they were playing with Viktor.

Damn, this is one hell of a freak show.

"Thanks, Viktor, for yesteraday. Katsudon, thanks for today. I hope you don't destroy each other. If you catch a glimpse of Yakov, tell him I'm leaving town. I'll be training on my own for a while."

Somebody has put my skates in a cool brand-new rucksack after I left them discarded on the floor. I run my fingers over the white tiger-patterned fabric. White Tiger. Ice Tiger.

Viktor reaches out and grips my hand.

"Yurio, where are you going?" He sounds like he cares, for real.

"I don't know. Maybe Kazakhstan."

He nods with a strange looking face and lets me go. "Take care."

"You take care. Of that crazy Katsudon, too." I actually decide Katsudon is the crazier of the two. He's scrolling through Phichit's Instagram page like Viktor and I couldn't matter less. This, after he listened to my entire life-story? I want to try talking to him, but the lump in my throat rises again and I simply can't. I leave hastily the creepily silent rink, the only place in Misersburg I could call home. Not anymore. I pull out my phone. An opened message from June 20th appears as I unlock the screen.

LAME!VITYA!FUCKING!VICKY!GORG…: Yurio, you'll be training with Yuuri and me from 8 am every day for the rest of the week. Yakov might show up for individual sessions during the weekend, but all group ones are called off. Please, don't freak out. ;* Call me tonight and show up tomorrow!

It's not like I called him, but I did show up despite my better judgment. Give me a call, once you decide to be a proper coach again, I tap down quickly. The message I send to Yakov Feltsman.

...xXxXxXx…

I slowly appraise my room in Andrey Yanovich's house. It's spacious; with large windows and a glass door that leads to a porch by the riverbank. I've already packed all the stuff I need in two large suitcases, woolen coats and boots included. I won't be coming back here again; I also can't run the risk of Yanovich throwing out or freaking burning my winter clothes.

There are plenty of things left in the room, though. For once, it's entirely covered in rock and metal posters. The shelves are full of all kinds of shit. Take for instance the large puma with high-quality synthetic fur, the gold-plated tiger statue, and the stuffed once alive scorpion, encased in glass. These are the presents ridiculous me chose for his eleventh birthday together with Andrey Yanovich. I've little clue how he agreed buying what he would normally dub as useless crap, and not cheap by any means – the gold-plated tiger we got from a classy Misersburg gallery; it's a beautiful piece of art! I hope he sells him instead of merely dumping him in the trash (ah, he's greedy, so he probably won't throw him away – yeah, him, his name is – don't laugh at me, Steinmeier – Bernd).

Though Yanovich had his revenge on me for spending that much money on bullshit presents – he called me "little Puma-Tiger-Scorpion" for years…

I immediately look away from my Puma-Tiger-Scorpion shelf. The rest are mainly filled with books and CDs (yeah; I've bought plenty music CDs despite having everything I want illegally downloaded – it was at Yanovich's expense after all). As a matter of fact, the books were bought during the same "spend Yanovich's money on anything that catches your eye" period. I've got beautiful, luxurious editions of classic novels most of which I haven't even read. Last but not least, there's the one shelf stuffed with sci-fi bullshit, my way of escapism from fucking Rybatskoye (besides skating, of course, which is therapy for everything, really). Yanovich has been criticizing me for years for the sci-fi books and comics he indirectly bought for me. Let him have the chance to destroy them.

I throw the room a disappointed look. I really shouldn't have bought all this stuff with Yanovich's money; I would owe him much less. At least it's not like I'm taking any of this crap with me; he will have his money back paid in freakin' comic books, too.

I leave my keys on a shelf and get my suitcases near the front door. Usually, I use the door facing the river in my room to exit the house, but it has to be locked from the outside. However, instead of leaving, I climb the stairs to a room inhabited by the one resident of the house that I want to bid farewell to.

I walk silently into a colorful sunlit room. The 1-year-old little beastie is supposed to be asleep during the brief time she spends alone, from the time the nanny leaves to when Natalya comes home from work. But since it's Anastasia Andreyevna Plisetskaya we're talking about, she is on her feet, supporting herself with one hand, and awkwardly trying to box the moon and stars hanging over her baby bed with the other.

As she spots me, she beams and shouts something in her unintelligible baby language. For a second, she forgets to hold to the bed bars for support and nearly falls on her butt.

I laugh at her and scoop her up into my arms. She laughs, too. Her eyes are light-green, the same as mine and Yanovich's, but she's the person they look the best on. They are so large, almond, and sparkly and have this friendly and amused look to them that makes baby Ani always appear joyful. They also make a nice contrast to her dark brown wiry wild hair – she has Natalya's crazy curly hair that almost seems African.

I pet her on the soft foamy top of her head, and she keeps smiling at me. Gosh, this baby girl is adorable! I may hate little girls, but this little girl in my arms is illegally cute!

I can't help kissing her forehead. In return, she starts cooing things with her tooth-decayingly sweet baby voice.

"Moy slavneey katyonak (= my sweet kitten), your stupid bratik (diminutive for brother) Yuri can't understand a word you're saying."

Yeah, that's right, she's the cute little kitten, all the people calling me that are retarded!

My baby sestrichka (= sis) laughs at me again. She does that all the time. I really, really don't mind.

"I have to go now, baby Ani," I tell her then and look her in the eye. She catches my no-joke tone, and the smile fades from her face. Oh, no, baby sis, don't! I don't want to make you sad! What the hell have I done?! I'm such a jerk!

"You are going to be fine, alright? Mama Talya will take good care of you."

Her eyes don't light up even when I mention Natalya! What do I do now? Her big sad green eyes are wide open, and her brows are shooting up, and her lips are curled! Is she shocked or angry? How can she be? Does she truly understand that I'm leaving and I have no idea when and whether I'll see her again?!

"Sshh," I start bouncing her up and down; I can't bear looking at her right now.

I don't know about my baby sister, but I'm about to start shedding fucking tears! I swallow, trying to get my voice back.

"You are Ani Plisetskaya, do you hear me? This means there's nothing you can't live through. You are the bravest little girl in the whole world," I try my best calming voice, but Ani's eyes are still sorrowful. Is she somehow picking up on my mood?

I have to disappear straightaway if I want to leave unnoticed. But there's this perturbed little baby in my arms that's got me nailed in one place.

"I really have to go now, Ani," I repeat. The baby grunts defiantly. What the heck am I supposed to do now?

"Go where, exactly?"

I turn around with Ani in my arms to see Natalya Petrovna standing with crossed arms by the door. She's about my height, but that doesn't hinder her from looking fucking dangerous.

I have no intention of letting her ruin my plans though.

"Wherever I want. I'm moving out of this wretched place. I'm 16 and I earn my own living," Yeah, Yanovich and everybody might take me for a silly brat, and I almost believed them, but I skate in men's singles and I'm 16 already. If I can win Worlds senior gold, then no one can stop me from living on my own.

"Yes, you're 16, very well underage. Where do you think you'll go once you walk out that door?"

"I'll crash at Viktor's until I find a suitable apartment. He'll sign the rental contract for me," I lie. That might have worked, was Viktor in his right mind. I'm not going for anything in the world into that wasp nest his apartment must be now with Katsudon and him there.

"Is that right?" Natalya Petrovna doesn't seem to believe me. Has she talked to Viktor or what? "I think that you're just dropping everything and running away," she says steely brandishing… my plane ticket to Almaty! Damn, I must have left it on one of the suitcases for some reason!

"No, I'm not! I'm going to Kazakhstan to visit my friend Otabek Altin! I'll train together with him for a while; his coach agreed to it!" I shout the truth. I talked to Beka. His coach gave the green light. Damn, Ani shifts in my arms and I note she's a little scared. I kiss her, and she calms down a little.

Natalya's mahogany eyes get warmer. I nearly blush; it's not like I usually kiss Ani in front of anyone.

"Does Yakov know about your trip? And do you know where you'll live after you get back?" she asks. I know she gives a damn because she's the kind of person who would give a damn about any homeless 16-year-old. Nothing more than that, though, it's not like she's my mother or something.

"Yakov has gone nuts. He's called off all training sessions for the week and answers his phone only to Viktor, who already knows about Kazakhstan. I have no coach right now, so I found a placeholder. After I get back, I can crash at Viktor's, at Mila's, at Georgi's, at Yakov's, or at Lilia's until I find a permanent place." Yeah, right, I wish I could. Natalya seems convinced, though; she gives me my plane ticket back.

"I… I wish there was something I could do to keep you here, but… I will miss you, Yuri. We will miss you," she smiles sadly and caresses Ani's face. Little baby sis frowns (looking briefly a bit like Yanovich, damn it) and starts blabbering something with agitation. Natalya and I look at her worriedly.

"Natalya! What are Yuri's suitcases doing by the front door?! They're fucking full!" Natalya and I trade unnerved glances. The cursed Yanovich is back early! We hear him opening and closing doors loudly in search of anybody. Then he thunderously enters the baby room. This is sooo where I've inherited my anger problems from, Steinmeier (fine, alright, I'm not always in control of my temper - but I'm still a teen, isn't that normal?).

I take a deep breath. My leaving is gonna go the hard way.

"What are you doing to my daughter, Plisetsky!" he screams, for some reason. This guy has some serious issues.

"I'm assassinating this cute little girl, Yanovich," I smile at baby sis, who needs soothing again.

"Cut the crap, and tell me where do you reckon you're going with those suitcases?" Yanovich asks in a more humane manner.

"I'm leaving this house, Andrey Yanovich," I reply as composedly as possible with a straight posture and, hopefully, unwavering gaze. You're not gonna stop me, un-father!

"What?! No, you're not. Put your sister down and unpack this instant!"

"No."

We stare at each other for a while. Yanovich looks like he can't fucking believe he's not scary enough to make me obey him. Truth is, I've rarely obeyed him when I didn't want to. But it's also true that I've never dared to openly do anything going much against the house rules.

It's a precarious game I'm playing. I shouldn't anger him because he can simply pick me up and frigging lock me in my room. If only just to spite me. I must slay him with facts he can't argue against.

"You never wanted me here in the first place, Yanovich. You moved to Saint Petersburg so that you would be a comfortable distance away from me. You didn't write me back for two years. You left me without coming back to visit for five. You didn't even live with me for the five years of my life during which you were in Moscow! Remember what you told me at Sheremetyevo right before your flight to New York? Well, I'm the one telling these words to you this time – it'll be for both our good if we never see each other again."

Damn, I said it. I said this to his face. My voice cracked a little, but it doesn't matter. It doesn't matter because Yanovich can't dispute his own words. I will win this. I will be free. Unless I bulk under the pressure.

My body is so tense that I'm convinced it'll explode unless I end this high-strung conversation this minute. Let it, at least I'll die a free man. My fingers are shaking, but I succeed in getting out of my pocket several sheets of paper folded together. However, at this moment an opinionated 1-year-old starts ranting unintelligibly and moving in my right hand. I wrap my left hand that's still gripping the sheets around her, too, lest I drop her. Anastasia, stop sabotaging me! I look at her furiously, she looks back at me with her big baby eyes, and says earnestly one word:

"Yuri!"

My jaw drops. She can speak?! She just said my name?! I turn my gaze to Petrovna and Yanovich. They are as astounded as I am. Is my name the first word she's ever said?

It doesn't matter Plisetsky, it doesn't matter, you have to finish what you started!

I hand the papers to Yanovich, whose attention snaps back to me and the situation at hand. I can see his body tense, too, and his frown wrinkles get deeper than ever as he unfolds the documents. The baby gives out an angry yelp in an attempt to steal the spotlight again, but I've no intention of letting her do that.

"The money will be in your bank account soon, according to the transactional time of the different banks. Everything is here – all the money you sent me from America and my educated guess of how much you spent on me in Moscow and Saint Petersburg. I have roughly calculated the six year's rent of a room like mine in a house like this in Rybatskoye and included it, too. If there's anything I've missed, I'll gladly add it. I haven't included compensation for lost time or emotional damage suffered because this has been mutual in the course of the last 16 years 3 months and 20 days."

As I take a breath after saying all this at maximum speed, Yanovich skims through the invoices. He looks at me afterward. His mouth opens and closes. The bastard is fucking speechless! Damn sure he is!

"I don't owe you a thing anymore, Andrey Yanovich. Good riddance," I declare in cold fucking triumph.

But at this moment, I realize I'm still holding Anastasia Andreyevna. She has been oddly silent throughout my second improvised speech… She's none of your concern, Plisetsky.

"And here's your daughter back, too," I hiss like some wild cat and shove the baby towards Yanovich. He has no choice but to take it, holding it nearly as awkwardly as a person who's never held a baby in his life would.

I walk past all three of them. I don't even look at Natalya who observed the final scene as silently as her daughter did. I reach the door, but then a horrible sound spreads across the room; Ani is crying louder than I've ever heard her cry in my life. It makes my eyes water; I immediately regret handing her that roughly to none other than Andrey Yanovich who doesn't really treat her that much better than he treats me.

But I can't go back now. And even if I do, what will change for her? She'll still have a shitty father for life.

I close the door, and I lean on it to gather some strength.

"Take this baby from me, Natalya!" I hear over the crying.

"This baby is your daughter Andrey Yanovich Plisetsky! You will learn to communicate with her!"

"Communicate? She is crying her lungs out, she doesn't like me one bit, just take her!"

Moron. Hold on there, baby sis.

I fly down the stairs in a sudden desire to get away from Yanovich's house as soon as possible.

I slam the front door behind me victoriously. My suitcases together weigh only a little less than I do, but I'm pulling them forward and running effortlessly.

...xXxXxXx…

It's 8.30 pm at Sheremetyevo Airport, Moscow. I intentionally booked a shitty connection flight. I needed to be here tonight.

Terminal D. There are people lining for their flights to New York, JFK. As there were 11 years ago.

Perhaps there will be a day when I'll come here and feel nothing. But it will be a long time from now.

I slowly drag my suitcases towards Terminal F. They seem much heavier now.

...xXxXxXx…

I yawn. I'm having a hard time deciding whether I'm more tired than hungry. I'd probably opt for hungry because I had eaten very little the day before and there'd been hardly anything edible on the plain. I'd gotten some sleep though.

"Damn!" I shout as I spot my suitcases nearing the end of the carousel. I run over, not wishing to wait for them to re-appear. I somehow manage to pull them both off in time. They are fucking heavy, the cursed things!

The closer to the exit I am the more nervous I get. Otabek is waiting for me right at the arrivals section of the terminal; he texted me minutes ago. He probably fucking woke up at 4 am to be here at 5 because of me. He's been waiting for 20 minutes because of the flight delay.

What do I do when I meet him? What do I say? I haven't seen him in person for months!

I should have just stayed in Moscow with my dedushka!

As a matter of fact, I had given this thorough consideration. But there are photos of Andrey Yanovich all over Dedushka's house. Baby Andrey, boy Andrey, teen Andrey, grown-up Andrey with baby Yuri, older Andrey with teen Yuri. I also have memories of said Andrey there. It is too much to bear right now.

I'm still thinking of Andrey as someone bigger than me steps in my way and grips me by the shoulders, firmly, and yet gently.

"Yuri!"

I freeze. I'm probably blushing as I make myself lift my head up and shake the fallen hair back.

Here's Otabek Altin staring at me with his dark eyes. I shiver. Why the hell is he looking me like that?! It's only making me feel more uncomfortable!

"Yuri, are you alright?" he asks. His voice is… deep and pleasant, as always, and… worried? One of his hands slides towards my back and I jump anxiously in my place. He pulls back.

Fuck, Plisetsky, get a grip and power up your brain!

"Uh, Otabek, hi, sorry, I'm still sort of sleepy." Stupid, stupid, stupid, he woke up at 4, but that doesn't mean he's acting like a retard, too.

There's just a small trace of a smile on his face.

"Dobroe utro, sonya." Did he just call me a sleepyhead?

"You fucking drag your entire shit from Misersburg to Kazakhstan, and we'll see how energetic you'll be by the end of the ride!"

It is then that Otabek notices my enormous suitcases and eyes them astonished. In an instant, it hits me how my bringing all my stuff to Almaty might look from Otabek's point of view.

"Damn it, I'm not moving in with you!" I shout out, embarrassed as hell.

Otabek… plain GRINS at my fervent denial. "I wouldn't mind if you were, Yura."

He's snatched both my suitcases and started rolling them towards the exit by the time I process this is the first time I've seen an actual toothed smile of his and that he's just said that he'd… gladly have me as a roommate?

I quickly catch up with him; I've made quite enough of a fool of myself already; no need to get caught standing still and gaping at him.

"You shouldn't have come to the airport this early. I could have caught a cab or something," I say because coming so freaking early here is abnormally nice.

"I wanted to, Yura."

His black eyes are on me again, and I've no clue what's in his head AGAIN. He's frustrating with the way he can shoot you down with this penetrating gaze without revealing a chunk of information about himself.

He smirks. Did I let my frustration show? Before I can blurt out something silly and probably offensive at him, he adds: "We'll arrive just in time for breakfast. Early rising and eating together is a family tradition."

Family tradition? I frown. He's probably spotted my odd expression, so he elaborates, "My parents place much value on simple things like eating together. They're both early risers, so breakfast is obscenely early in the morning. They literally drag me out of bed, in case I oversleep."

Ah, Otabek's adopted after all (he told me so in Barcelona); that's why his parents probably aren't too nice to him. Bad luck. But, wait just a minute, parents, traditions - he's still living with his parents!

"You're still living at your parent's place?" Are you kidding me? I'm 16, and I just moved out. Lame-ass Katsudon moved to the States at 18 and spent 5 fucking years there before going back home. And Otabek here…

"You got a problem with that?" Otabek's suddenly defensive.

"I'd better stay at a hotel; I don't want to intrude on anybody." I've not escaped from one dysfunctional family to come live with another! And he's gonna introduce me to his parents right away? No way!

"My parents gave their permission for your stay. And I live with them according to Altin tradition."

Tradition this, tradition that, what's this family bullshit? What exactly have I signed myself up for?

Good that there are daily flights back to my dedushka in Moscow…

I'm probably scowling, as Otabek stops and grabs me by the shoulders for the second time.

"Yura, we're going to have one hell of a time together," he promises with sparkling eyes.

I don't know why I suddenly can't help smiling wickedly, like a total idiot, this weird family situation of his all but forgotten. Almost.

"Your parents are NOT dragging me out of bed at 5 am every morning," I state.

"Guest or not, they will do it if you're late. Mark my words." Otabek's little all-mysterious smile is back. He proceeds to pull a pair of keys out of his pocket, and the trunk door of a big black Lexus next to us opens.

Otabek Altin's either got a shitload of sponsors, or his parents are dirty rich, I conclude. That SUV, with a fucking glass roof, perhaps costs as much as Yanovich's Tesla. What the heck does his father drive then? A golden car?

Though, in all honesty, I sort of suspected Otabek would show up with a big black SUV. I just didn't expect it to be that bloody expensive… As he drives, I reminisce once more of my moving out of Yanovich's house, a pair of large bright-green eyes haunting me. My baby sister called my name, and I tossed her to Yanovich like some unanimated object, say a sack of potatoes. That's the most repulsive thing I've done to date, no doubt about it. I so gotta find some sneaky way to visit this girl from time to time, now that we'll live apart... Last year, I left for Japan days after she was born. This year, I left for Kazakhstan hours after she called me by name for the first time. Damn, I should have just kidnapped her this time around!

Otabek seems to notice my foul mood, and he plays a song by a band I'm currently obsessed with. I smile my silent thanks. This is a person I get on with like a charm; he understands without words, and he comforts the same discrete way, while people like Yanovich don't shut up and hurt you with every 2nd word they say. Too bad I end up being his type of person far too often.

...xXxXxXx…

A good deal of great rock songs later, we're waiting for the tall black steel doors to a large five-story house-castle with a fairytale-style garden in front of it to open.

"You've never cared to mention a thing about THAT to me before?" I gesture at the sight in front of us half-nervous, half-mad.

"Does it matter?" he asks with his usual unreadable poker-face.

It damn well matters, you fool! I could have at least gotten dressed in a presentable manner. I cringe at what Lilia would say about my black T-shirt with a big angry tiger mug at the front and my second-best tiger pattern sweatshirt. My favorite one got eternal-flamed after all, so I had to go with this one. Unfortunately, both are no good for meeting the owners of a fucking castle.

"Damn, talk to me!" Otabek interrupts my panicked thoughts.

I throw him an astounded look. Otabek Altin, losing his cool? He closes his eyes briefly.

"Sorry, just… Don't keep to yourself anything that upsets you." It was a plea, of sorts. It dumb-struck me.

"I… It's fine, I just hope your parents won't take me for a loon when they see me covered in tiger prints."

"Better fear the possibility of them finding you adorable. Then they won't stop pestering you with questions."

"What the hell?!" storms my mind and gets blurted out on the spot.

"You might hate it, but that's how you look all the time. Tiger prints add to it."

I glower at Otabek who ignores me while parking the car.

As we get off, a man approaches and greets us in Russian. In answer, Otabek frigging orders him to take my suitcases to my suite!

"No need, I can manage, I'm not some fucking lady!" Uh, Plisetsky, forget swearing on Altin castle-palace-mansion grounds.

"You are an honorable guest of Mr. Otabek, blah-blah-blah…" the man replies. I just thank him and follow said Mr. Otabek.

"We have lots of staff, just let them do their jobs. They feel uncomfortable otherwise." Feeling uncomfortable not catering to some teen govno like me? I have my doubts, but I keep them to myself because we enter the castle-palace-mansion-house-thing. An enormous dining room is situated right by the main entrance.

I hope I don't look as poor and dumb as I feel following Otabek into the luxurious room (note that Yanovich is damn well-off, my mother is a TV star in Germany, and I'm the reigning Ice-Tiger-King). Inside, a quite fat, bald and short man in his fifties and a younger, thinner, taller dark-haired and dark-eyed beautiful woman are sitting by themselves at a large vintage table and having breakfast with the aid of what I presume is golden cutlery.

Otabek's fat non-biological father's lips stretch into an impossibly wide smile.

"You must be Yuri!" he rumbles, and seconds later I'm squeezed towards a giant round stomach. Fucking great, Otabek's father seems as goofy as a certain Viktor Nikiforov once he finds himself in Hasetsu, Japan. The mother's much less extra, from the few words she utters I gather she's the one Otabek's taken after with his talkativeness.

Much to my annoyance, big-belly Papa Bulat takes to posing questions immediately. The good thing is that he loves talking so much that the questions get lost between tales about his starboy Otabek's first figure skating medal, first time on the ice, pet snake (yeah, a motherfucking snake!) and so on. Mama Aynur, surprisingly, gets out of her shell each time Otabek becomes the topic of discussion and keeps correcting Bulat's narration and further embellishing it.

Wait just a minute; they were supposed to be far less caring given that Otabek isn't even their actual son… I can't believe my eyes and ears as I continue taking in the Altins' ridiculously loving and at the same time utterly casual interaction. Do they really do this all the time – talk to each other as if nothing matters more than their mutual well-being and as if Otabek's winning some puny local competition is an epic event of colossal magnitude?

This silly breakfast is just too confusing for me. I'm starved here, but I can barely eat; I don't even know why. When I sense fat Bulat's about to ask me something again 'cause he's been talking non-stop for far too long, I interrupt him with a question.

"What do you do for a living actually?" Yeah, good question, why the hell do you live in a fucking palace?

"Ah, you don't know? My, my, I thought my dear boy has cared to mention a thing or two about his parents. Oh, well, why would he talk to you about boring old people?" Bulat's disappointed voice turns mischievous. That man can NEVER get even remotely close to angry with his son; now it's official. Can I trade a 35-year-old handsome well-off jerk for a 50-something goofy fat happy Bulat?

As it turns out, fat Bulat's the head of Kazakhstan's biggest petrol company. I gather that from Aynur and Otabek who make sure to revise the man's rather modest description of his position in the said company. Duh, can't fat Bulat just talk straight? Though now that I know where his money comes from, a little imaginary Andrey Yanovich starts spitting shit in my head aimed at poor Bulat.

"A petrol magnate from frigging Kazakhstan? Cursed sleazy oligarch! They come in two revelations, the mongrels – fat and seemingly harmless, but actually damn cunning, or good-looking ripped ones some of whom are actually dumber than Jim Carrey in "Dumb and Dumber", but are damn fucking vicious to compensate for the lack of brain cells. So, good luck with the obese individuum across the table. You've brought this on yourself!"

While Andrey Yanovich continues insisting on making my life a living hell even when he's kilometers away from me, Bulat's already asked me in turn what my parents do for a living. Awesome, let's discuss Andrey Yanovich, why not?

"Well, my (un!-)father is in the renewable energy business. My mother though…" Bulat isn't that interested in my mom 'cause he buts in the minute the sentence about my un-father's finished rolling out of my mouth.

"Renewable energy in Russia? That's rather… unusual. There's only one man currently making it big on renewable energy there, but who knows how long even he'll last. Don't get me wrong; it's just that countries like Russia and Kazakhstan aren't that supportive of renewable energy companies with the vast oil resources at hand. I guess cheers to your father for making it in that business."

Bulat raises a toast with a cup of coffee and suspicions in my mind. Is imaginary Yanovich really that far from the truth? Maybe not.

"My father is the one man you just mentioned," I declare. Duh, he's not the man, it's DIMAndrey, after all, but I'm certain Bulat was talking about my father, not Dima.

"Andrey Yanovich? How curious…" I can swear Bulat is sizing me up with his small apparently cheerful eyes. Or it might be that Yanovich has simply made me incurably paranoid. "I didn't know he was Andrey Yanovich Plisetsky."

"He just doesn't want to get overshadowed by his son," Otabek jokes to save my sorry ass from talking about my un-father. Even Otabek is different though. Here, with Aynur and Bulat, he's more open and easy-going than I've ever seen him. I don't know if I know this Otabek at all.

"Hahahahha!" Bulat's stomach is shaking with laughter. "Your father is a clever man, Yuri, the only Altin from Almaty that's famous right now is Otabek. No one has even heard of poor old Bulat."

As he's finished laughing, Bulat looks at me with a raised eyebrow. "Hmm, I doubt your father would be pleased to find out Otabek Altin and Bulat Altin are related. He's made his opinion on those involved in the petrol business rather well-known."

Of course he has! I bet my face grows red as I realize Yanovich's publicly insulted Otabek's father indirectly on plenty occasions.

Bulat laughs again and says something like "Haha, no worries, lad!" but he fails to convince me. I start watching him closely and paying more attention to his behavior, and it's there to see – a wariness of me. "You're welcome and treated with respect in my home so long as you're a perfect friend to my son and make him happy," is what his actions tell. Now I'm damn sure he's that nice only because Otabek sort-of likes me, not because he's as nice a person as he appears to be. Andrey Yanovich is a jerk, but he's a smart one (when it comes to reading people that aren't part of his un-family).

Does it really matter, though? Fat Bulat here might be the worst oligarch of them all, but I'd still live with him than with the worst father of them all. To all would-be fathers: better be an evil oligarch and a great dad than a shitdad and a renewable energy god.

I observe this breakfast drag on with a sick feeling. I can't stomach such a blatant reminder of what I'll never have the morning after I finally left my un-family in Rybatskoye. They are not even eating anymore; Bulat's on his third cup of coffee as he praises Otabek on his motorcycle driving skills and DJing, hobbies many parents would discourage their kids from pursuing. I get it why the Altins eat so early – Bulat's addicted to endless blabbering and joking around with his family (maybe to coffee, too), and otherwise he'd be late for work.

The three of them even start repeating themselves; here's Otabek's snake again hunting her living mice for lunch in her giant glass aquarium and scaring the shit out of some British businessman the day before (the guy figured the snake was coming to get him, failing to notice the glass or the mice). The Brit wasn't thrilled to watch the blue-eyed freakish white python kill off the little rodents afterward either.

"Ahahaha, what if he owns a bunch of hamsters?! Or guinea pigs?" Bulat laughs once more at the man's expense.

"Dad keeps inviting people into Lucy's living room, and she somehow keeps unsettling most of them. It's just my Lucy, and she's locked in an aquarium, I don't really get what puts them off," Otabek explains to me. Well, probably the fact that freaking Lucy is a leucistic ball python longer than I'm tall.

"My dear boy, you know that's how I find out which ones are no good doing business with," Bulat coos.

"Yeah, that's right, we don't need people that don't like our Lucy!" Otabek grins at his father like a whimsical child.

That's it. I'm finished. Imagine Andrey Yanovich picking his business partners according to their attitude towards my pet snake (that even has its own room!). Otabek's family is fucking heartbreakingly ridiculous, even if Bulat wasn't being serious about the snake. I can't survive a minute more of this already hour-long breakfast.

"Otabek, where did you say my room was?" It's not like he did, but I try being less straightforward.

"Fifth floor, first door to the elevator's left," Otabek frowns, his carefree mood shattered.

"Excuse me, I forgot I had to make an important call," I lie, my voice plain pathetic. I slip out of the room fast, wondering how many red points I just scored in Bulat's "Make my starboy happy" notebook. Perhaps there's no need to unpack at all.

Behind the door left to the elevator, there's a whole frigging apartment. I huddle on the bed in the bedroom, painfully aware of how fucked I am. Why me? I swear it, I was like every other little kid; all I wished for being a normal family, parents that lived together and if not loved then at least not hated each other; parents for whom I wasn't an unwanted burden.

But the years rolled along, and both of them left me, my dedushka remaining the only person who's ever truly cared about me. My living with Yanovich in Misersburg was a sad and torturous attempt at rebuilding a family that never existed.

So, yesterday, I was the one to leave. A house, I had no place in. After the ride to the rink with Yanovich, it was damn clear I would find no peace until I was finally on my own. Luckily, I'm 16 and had about 77 000 dollars left from the competition awards last season. Winning senior gold is ten times more lucrative than winning at the junior level. Anyways, since Yanovich refused to fund my skating, most of my junior money from competitions went for paying non!nuts Yakov, plain tickets, costumes, etc.

Well, I was rich for two months, now I'm poor again. I spent 100,000 US dollars on buying my freedom from Yanovich. Worst of all, a good deal of the money my mother's been sending me are gone, too, and those are money I'll probably be paying back as well. Now I have no choice but to spend the rest of them on renting some shithole to live in, food and covering my skating expenses.

I'll be even relying financially on my shady wealthy Chinese sponsor (a guy I wanted nothing to do with in the first place). Seems like I'll have to win competitions to survive the season, go out of debt towards my mom, and be independent of dumbass sponsors!

So, I'm huddled here in a palace I'll be made to leave in no time, on a shoestring budget, homeless, family-less, friendless, coach-less, and, honestly, hopeless. Here's Yuri Plisetsky, the 16-year-old tough Russian man skating in men's singles, now crying on a bed in his rival's home 'cause his mama and papa don't hold him by the hand and buy him expensive snakes that have their own rooms and are allowed to make business decisions.

To my utter horror, the door opens, and I hear Otabek call my name.

"Just leave, please, just…" I reply shakily, humiliated by him seeing me in such a state.

The bed dips, and two hands are wrapped securely around me from behind. Otabek's so close that I can feel his chest rising and falling. This is my Otabek, my grown-up, independent, self-assured Otabek, not Bulat's baby boy. I turn around and hug him fiercely because he is the only thing I can hold on to. His closeness and warmth make me sob even harder on his shoulder. Most possibly there's no way I could humiliate myself more than that, but it's not like it matters right at this moment.

Otabek is here, and he cares.

---

I hope you enjoyed taking a peek into Yurio's head. I'd love to hear your thoughts on this oddball chapter (Hopefully, I didn't do a terrible job of portraying Yurio's insolence :D I've tried to toe the line between over- and underdoing the foul language).

What comes next is a Yuuri-centric chapter again (we focused on Viktor and Yurio some more, and we're back to our Katsudon). An all-Viktor chapter is on the horizon, too. I'd better not promise anything about the length and the publication time of future chapters anymore, though :D

Additional notes (with tiny spoilers):

1. On Yurio's memory: He has HSAM (highly superior autobiographic memory), one of the milder cases, which means that he started storing everyday memories from a young age that are more detailed than the ones of the average person. It's nothing deadly, but can be a pain, as letting go of the past is more difficult for him than the rest of us.

2. Otabek, Yurio, Bulat, Aynur, and blue-eyed Lucy (of course) won't be neglected while resolving the Viktuuri mess. We will be following the noteworthy events from Almaty (Yurio will be the storyteller for everything happening in Kazakhstan).

3. "Super-Andrey", Mama Talya, and opinionated baby Ani (this diminutive is not that popular in Russia, but Yur likes it best) are secondary characters that are here to stay (whatever Yurio might imagine right now :D ). There's no escape for the Ice Tiger King.

4. The Viktuuri tension will be resolved soon (after it escalates a tiny bit more).

5. * Yuri P. tries entering his headspace from the events he's retelling. His thoughts on the story from the time in the future he writes it down creep in sometimes though.