I don't own Yuri! on Ice.

Chapter 11: #NoFilter

(In which Viktor once again lives up to his name but ticks everyone else off in the process.)

They were amazed.

"So, what did they make you think of?" Viktor asked, drawing up to the rinkside.

Yuri pursed his lips. "Well, that first one, 'a grape'-"

"Agape," Viktor interjected.

"Yeah, whatever. That first one was about a goody-goody two-shoes."

"I… don't really think that's true," said Yuurika.

"It's about a form of love, the unconditional, platonic sort specifically. And they do say opposites attract. Do you love goody-goody two-shoes, Yuri?" asked Viktor curiously.

"What, like her? No way," Yuri scoffed. "I don't love anyone who isn't as great as I am. No one's as cool as me, except grandpa I guess."

"Is he a grumpy kitty too?" Yuurika jabbed back.

Viktor laughed. "No, not really." Recovering, he continued. "A lot of people love what they're naturally talented in. Is there anything besides skating you're good at?"

"Anything we're good at?" Yuurika echoed, affronted.

"I didn't mean it like that," Viktor backtracked lamely. Yuurika considered that dubious. "I meant, what particular thing do you excel in or enjoy doing besides skating?"

Yurt stonily trained his gaze to the floor. He had experienced Viktor's idea of fun once. It was awful. It had involved bruised insteps, split seams, and his rabid fans setting the whole escapade to various remixes of Caramelldansen on various gag sites. Outside of that, he didn't think those two needed to know his berserker-class main's stat levels in that one MMORPG.

Yuurika hummed thoughtfully. "Well, I was told I should become a professional mold-grower after an experiment in preschool."

Yuri nodded. "I can see that."

"Yuri!" Viktor snapped.

"What, she has that kind of face."

"That's rude," Viktor reprimanded.

"I don't hear you denying it," Yuri retorted.

"It wasn't a compliment?" Yuurika asked, confused.

Viktor took a deep breath. "Well, enough about agape for now. What about eros?"

"It's about a person who's got it," Yuri stated.

"'It'? What's 'it'?" Yuurika prodded.

"You don't even know what 'it' is? Pathetic," sneered the belligerent teen.

"Well I might, but you definitely don't," the (only very slightly, currently) more mature woman retorted.

As a matter of fact Yuurika did know 'it'.

While she knew the Grand Prix final this year was to be held in Barcelona, and she was very excited to experience the city (if she made it that far, that nagging internal voice reminded her), that competition would not mark her introduction to Spain. During a very chaotic set of semi-finals in her college days, she, Phichit and Celestino had been forced to travel partway by train in order to fly out of airports with conducive weather. Long story short, one night between Renfe stops landed the small party in the city of Sevilla, an oasis of exotic charm where the modern met and melded with the rich history of the region. During their scant free hours between rides, Phichit and Celestino had dragged Yuurika to a bar recommended to them by their hostel, hidden away in an older part of town.

Yuurika could still feel the dampness on her finger from condensate as she ran it over the cool glass pitchers of sangria scattered about on wooden tables. She could still smell the acrid cigarette smoke swirling about over their heads (her nostrils flared, irritated at the mere memory), and taste the soft mouthfuls of the tortilla espanola she so enjoyed during her travels in that country. And even with her eyes closed, she could still see the rolling hips, the sharp tap-taps, the slow but sure curls of the arms of the flamenco dancer as she performed with her musician accompanists, her face set stern but passionate. The flowing lower whirls of her tight black dress mesmerized her audience, their eyes never leaving her commanding form on the stage.

Yuurika had always remembered the dance, so foreign to her ballet training, without ever expecting to see it again. But here it was, right here in Hasetsu, in the guise of this eros routine. Both flamenco and this eros exuded something that Yuurika could definitely identify. It was a burning confidence, a prowess able to pull everyone around to spin within one's orbit and never let them go.

In short, eros equals swag.

And Yuurika got no swag.

Viktor cleared his throat, effectively interrupting her reverie. "So which routine do you each prefer?"

"Dibs on Eros!" Yuri called, hand extended.

Yuurika wasn't confident she could perform either routine to her satisfaction - neither really seemed particularly suited to her strengths. But she was even more confident that her embarrassment in even attempting that flamenco-eros would burn a hole in the ice and swallow her up on the spot.

So, "Agape."

"Hmmm, I don't know," Viktor frowned at the pair. "Oh, I've got it!"

Their potential-coach slowly lifted his finger for his momentous pronouncement.

"Eenie-meanie-minie-mo…"

Yuri cursed.

Yuurika gaped.

"And-you-are-not-it!" Viktor sang. "Okay, so Yuuri is eros, Yuri is agape!"

"If your stupid random decision makes me lose, I'll stab you in your sleep with my knife shoes," Yuri vowed.

Viktor merely laughed at his rage. "It wasn't random!"

"You just assigned routines that decide who our coach will be with a children's rhyme," Yuurika reminded him.

Viktor peered at her intently. "Yuuri, when you use your finger to point to two options and move it according to a set number of syllables, and you can clearly see which option you start with, how many outcomes are there?"

Yuurika could do that math (The answer was less than the number of options).

"That's… a fair point, but if you already knew what you were picking, why did you eenie-meanie-minie-mo to begin with?"

"To see the looks on your faces right now, obviously," Viktor explained proudly, ducking Yuri's water bottle.

A/N: Don't smoke, kids. Smoking kills, and makes Yuurika wrinkle her nose at you. Very nasty. Also don't threaten to stab people, with knife shoes or other implements.