December 13th, Hasetsu

Viktor Nikiforov loved to skate.

This fact was not particularly remarkable; many people loved to skate. But Viktor also loved to win. He loved the attention and the awards and the whole world looking up at him in awe. Once, he had loved it like a starving man loved food: desperately, obsessively, and willing to throw away his education, his inheritance, his social life, even his very sense of self for it. He had been willing to mold himself into whatever his country and the media wanted him to be, even if it drained the life from him.

There was still a part of him that wanted that. He wanted to claw his way back up the podium and prove to the world that reports of his death—literal or metaphorical—were greatly exaggerated. But it was less pressing, now. He had people who wanted him, even if he never won another medal. He had friends who didn't ask him to play a role, but simply liked him the way he was. Viktor knew now that he could walk away from the competitive circuit at any time, and still be happy. He might have wanted to win again, but he didn't need it.

But he really wanted to win.

But he also really wanted to stay with Yuuri.

Damn.

Now that the media frenzy had faded, he and Yuuri returned to the ice rink. They had taken a break from practicing jumps—Yuuri would learn the quad toe loop, Viktor was sure of it—and were just messing around now, seeing if they could adapt their pas de deux dance to the ice. But Yuuri stopped suddenly, his hands fidgeting and his eyes averted. He hadn't looked that nervous around Viktor in months.

"Yuuri? What's wrong?"

Yuuri took a deep breath. "Viktor, have you decided whether you'll go back to Russia yet?"

Viktor frowned, and looked down at the ice. His heart twinged. He couldn't answer the question any better than he had last time.

"Because if you do go," Yuuri said, "can I come with you?"

Viktor's head snapped up, his eyes wide.

"I know it's a lot to ask, and we've only known each other six months," Yuuri rambled, "But I've always wanted to see the world, and I never had anyone I could do it with. I don't know Russian, but you learned Japanese, so...I could try?"

"Yuuri, do you mean that?" Viktor asked, "Would you really go with me, if I went back?"

Yuuri took another breath, fists clenched. He lifted his head and looked Viktor in the eye.

"Yes. If you'll have me."

Viktor surged forward and hugged him so hard they toppled over onto the ice. Viktor felt a huge heart-shaped grin spread across his face.

"Oh my god," he said, shaking his head disbelievingly at the wonderful man beneath him. "I'd never thought—Wow."

Yuuri's mouth twitched. "So that's a yes?"

"God, yes. Wherever I go, I want you with me."

Yuuri's eyes glistened, and he hugged Viktor again. Viktor hugged him back.

"Wherever you are, I want to be," Yuuri replied. "But maybe not freezing my butt off on the ice."

They both started laughing at that, and Viktor helped pull Yuuri up. Viktor immediately returned to hugging Yuuri. He couldn't help himself. Yuuri had just made it possible for both of Viktor's dreams to come true.

"Tell me about St. Petersburg?" Yuuri asked, smiling and resting his chin on Viktor's shoulder.

"It's beautiful," Viktor said, and he was so glad he could remember his homeland now. "It's at the mouth of the Neva River on the Baltic Sea. It's full of concert halls and libraries and museums and cathedrals and art. Much of the city is hundreds of years old and the architecture is stunning. They have a fantastic ballet tradition. In the winter the river freezes—I first learned to skate on one of the lakes."

"It sounds amazing, Viktor."

"I think you'll like it."

He really, really hoped Yuuri would.

"When can we leave?"

Viktor startled, and pulled away from Yuuri slightly.

"Wait, you're ready to go already?"

"Not immediately, silly," Yuuri chuckled, "I'd have to pack and let everyone know, and get documents to stay in the country somehow. That could take a while."

Suddenly, Viktor had a marvelous idea.

"Yakov could train you! You could quickly get permission if he coached you for competitions!"

"What?" Yuuri's eyes went wide. "Would he even want to?"

Viktor nodded. "He was really impressed by your routine. He thinks you could be internationally competitive, especially if you learned a couple quad jumps. I told you, Yuuri, you are amazing at this."

"But I've never competed before." Yuuri reddened and shook a little. "Not for real, anyway. I don't know anything about the higher levels."

Viktor grinned. "Good thing you have people who do know then, right? We could shorten the Hammerklavier routine so it can be the long program—which would lower the difficulty for you, by the way—I could choreograph your short program, and you could start at local and regional competitions. You're overqualified for those but the rules will make you start there. And at the NHK Trophy you could theoretically be invited next fall, even though you aren't ISU ranked yet. If we move fast, there's still time for you to enter local competitions and reach national level by this time next year."

Yuuri made an incoherent noise, mouth agape.

"We'd have to fly back and forth between Japan and Russia, because Yakov is a popsicle and he would melt into a puddle of rage if he had to stay here, but that also means we could visit your family again and—"

"Viktor," Yuuri interrupted.

"Yes?"

"Our family."

Viktor's grin got even bigger. God, he loved this man.

"I have no idea whether I'd be any good in a competition," Yuuri said. "And this is a lot to think about. But if it means I could stay with you in Russia, I'll give it a try."

Viktor embraced him again. Yuuri would be a fantastic competitor. He just knew it.

December 25th, Pulkovo Airport, St. Petersburg

Viktor had not been kidding about the quick visa. Apparently the immigration officials were familiar with the frequent relocation that athletes did at the international level, and gave Yuuri provisional permission to move to Russia before all the paperwork was finalized. The fact that the Viktor Nikiforov and Yakov Feltsman were involved certainly sped things up, too.

So in a few extremely hectic days, Yuuri signed a coaching contract, registered for Japan's upcoming figure skating competitions, packed his bags, changed his mailing address and said goodbye to his friends and family. He was a little sad to leave them, but he and Viktor would be visiting Japan several times over the next few months, so he wasn't too broken up about it. Mostly, he was just excited to finally, finally see the world beyond Hasetsu, and to see it with Viktor.

They had arrived in St. Petersburg without a problem, and Yuuri was relieved that his first airplane flight was over. Now they were riding in a cab from the airport to Viktor's apartment in the city. It wasn't the pristine wilderness Yuuri had once imagined, but still fascinating, in its own way. The late winter dawn was just now breaking in the east, and the snow glittered upon the rooftops.

Viktor was half asleep, and his head rested on Yuuri's shoulder. Yuuri looked down at their entwined hands and marveled at the fact that this was actually happening. They were in Russia. Together. It could have passed him by, like so many opportunities before. But this time, Yuuri had reached out for what he had wanted, and he had gotten it.

The taxi driver said something in Russian, and Viktor sleepily translated it as, "We're coming up on the city center now."

Yuuri craned his neck to look forward. The skyline was beautiful, full of spires and domes, and it seemed to be shining with pinks and golds in the morning light. There were ships and sailboats dotting the water, and he heard the cries of seagulls. He smiled. Seagulls were the same everywhere.

"I thought there would be skyscrapers."

"Mmm, no," Viktor murmured, opening his eyes a little but otherwise not moving. "Too many pretty things in the way."

"Pretty things?" Yuuri smiled. His boyfriend was adorable when he was like this.

"Palaces. Museums. Theaters. Historical...stuff," Viktor murmured. Yuuri felt his heart lift in anticipation.

Viktor lived close to the center of the city, and their route took them right through the historical district, and Yuuri could not turn his head quickly enough to take in every monument and architectural wonder that he saw. The city squares were full of people dressed in all different styles of clothing, and the streets were lit up with color and music. They passed over the frozen Neva River, and Yuuri grinned at the thought of Viktor skating on the lakes as a child.

They arrived at Viktor's apartment complex, where one coach, three figure skaters, and one big brown poodle were waiting for them. Viktor gasped, dropped his luggage on the sidewalk, and knelt down to hug Makkachin, who jumped into his arms and would not stop licking his face. Georgi helped Yuuri pay the cabbie while Mila laughed and took pictures. Yurio looked up from his phone, rolled his eyes at Viktor, and tried to hide his smile.

"Best birthday present ever," Viktor said, half-muffled by poodle fur.

"Get up, Vitya," said Yakov, his face stern but his voice fond, "It's about time you took your dog back. Now get inside, it's cold and you've hardly time to rest before practice." He nodded at Yuuri. "That goes for you, too, Yurik."

"Yurik?" Yuuri repeated.

Yurio elbowed him. "We've already got a Yuri here. Suck it up."

Yuuri shook his head, lips twitching. Turnabout was fair play.

Their welcome meal turned out to be several large boxes of hot Ethiopian takeout, which he welcomed after the chilly trip here. Traditional Ethiopian, it turned out, was not meant be eaten with chopsticks. Or any utensils, apparently. Mila and Georgi had ordered it on purpose to mess with him. He got a lot of stains on his sleeves, before she showed him how to eat it properly. When his stomach was full, he leaned into Viktor's side, and closed his eyes, letting the food and the conversation wash over him.

Something licked him.

He cracked an eye open, and found a poodle head in his lap, nose half-buried in Yuuri's sleeve.

"Makkachin," Victor cooed, "Are you being neglected? Did the big mean Yakov not feed you ever?"

Yakov grunted. "Your dog is fine, Vitya. He just likes the new skater better than you."

"No!" Viktor gasped, and put on a face of fake horror.

Between them, Yuuri grinned, ducked his head, and scratched Makkachin's ears. The poodle nuzzled him, licked Yuuri's sleeves again, and gazed not-so-subtly at the table. Yuuri hugged Makkachin close, away from the take-out boxes.

Somewhere distant, he could hear the Hammerklavier Sonata playing.


A/N: And it's done! Thank you so much for reading, and extra thanks to everyone who reviewed. I hope you enjoyed the story!