"My love for you could move mountains and the hearts of ISU judges," Phichit murmured. His tone was saccharine, his accent thick and atrocious to the point of being borderline offensive.
"Ah, but I have loved you since the moment that I saw you, when I was but a child," he replied passionately. The ridiculous accent was gone, his tone higher and breathy, but the words were no less coated in syrup. "I'm a man now."
"I will prove my adoration by shouting it from the rooftops!" He clasped his hands together over his heart.
"I'll make you super-cute bentos every day with rice balls in the shape of figure skates and poodles!" He pressed the back of one hand against his forehead and cast his eyes dramatically skyward.
"What are you doing, mon petit?" That was all the warning Phichit was afforded before two hundred pounds of weaponized flirtation draped itself over his shoulders.
Phichit craned his head back to meet Christophe Giacometti's amused, upside-down features. "I'm spectating the pairs short program, in a spirit of solidarity and good sportsmanship?" he offered guilelessly. Christophe quirked an eyebrow at him, and he grinned back. "And I may also be shipping our respective besties for my own personal amusement."
Christophe shifted his gaze down to where Phichit had been looking a moment ago. "Ah," he said after a moment. The French representatives on the ice were skating a solid but unremarkable program to something from Carmen. Yuuri Katsuki was ostensibly watching from a seat in the front row, but was far more engrossed in his phone than in synchronized double axels or footwork. Half curled up in his chair, comfortable as only someone who was intimately familiar with stadium seating could manage, Yuuri's posture was all college student with no classically trained dancer to be found. And two rows directly behind the oblivious Yuuri, Victor Nikiforov sat like a king observing his kingdom. Which, to be fair, he pretty much was. His spine was straight, his head tilted just enough to display a thoughtful, television-ready smile. And although his own phone was resting in his lap, out of sight to the casual observer or rogue audience-cam, his fingers were flying over the virtual keyboard. "They do rather look as though they're conversing, don't they?"
They really did. Yuuri would type, and a text balloon would appear on Victor's screen shortly after. A mischievous expression ghosted across the champion's face, and suddenly Yuuri was cramming a fist in his mouth to stifle giggles. It was endearing. It was perfect.
It was a total coincidence, of course.
"Sadly for your no doubt extensive imaginary wedding plans, I know all too well the identity of Victor's current amour."
Phichit shrugged. "And I know Yuuri's. That's not going to stop me from having fun with a situation. Besides, you can't tell me those two wouldn't look stunning in black and white."
"Perhaps." Christophe's tone turned teasing. "But what of you, mon petit? This is your second year of seniors, and we've barely spoken. Are you as bashful as our darling pain au cannelle, or must I take offense?"
"I'm not shy." Anyone who so much as glanced at Phichit's Insta feed would be well aware of that. "But I was underage until recently, and my coach had me on a tight leash. I hate to be the one who has to break this to you, but you, sir, have a bit of a reputation."
A velvet chuckle tickled his ear. "Nothing good, I hope?"
Now it was Phichit's turn to laugh quietly. "I'm sure that Miss Manners wouldn't approve, but I hear you're easy, fun, and honest. You respect a hard 'no' and listen carefully for soft ones. Your list of rumored partners is as long as a certain living legend's, but backed by more evidence, and yet you don't seem to have left a string of broken hearts in your wake. In short, Monsieur Giacometti," he softened his voice until it matched Christophe's purr, "you seem like a gentleman who I would very much like to get to know."
Christophe looked surprised and pleased. "You should work in intelligence, mon petit."
Without missing a beat, Phichit shot back, "And who's to say that I don't?"
Christophe was grinning in open delight now. "Now we simply must get better acquainted," he said.
"Yuuri and I haven't decided on dinner yet." He hoped that Yuuri wouldn't be too upset that Phichit was making plans without consulting him, but one additional person shouldn't be too stressful after the short program skate. And Yuuri did like Chris.
"Alas," and Christophe really did seem disappointed, "I have reservations with Victor tonight. I'd love to invite you along, but our seating is for two and I'm told that the waiting list is really rather extensive."
"Plus we'd be scraping bits of Japan's Ace off the ceiling after he spontaneously combusted." Phichit knew that Christophe had offered to introduce Yuuri to Victor in the past. Such attempts had gone over... poorly.
"That, too." He shook his head. "It really is a pity you can't join us. In Victor's words, the chef de cuisine is a 'mad genius'. I'm quite looking forward to tasting his art."
Phichit went still. No. Yes? That phrasing. The coincidence in timing. The refusal of a certain chatroom dweller to let slip so much as a picture of his dog when talking – evasively – about his personal life. The frequent travel, so much of it coinciding with skating events. The so-interactive-seeming dual text messaging that was still going on not fifty feet below where he and Chris were standing. "Oh?" he kept his tone playful, interested. "What's it called? I'm always up for new experiences, and Chicago's not too far for an off-season road trip."
Chris pursed his lips, apparently detecting something different in Phichit's manner, but not sure what to make of the change. "Alinea, I believe."
Holy fuck.
It wasn't certain. Hell, it wasn't probable. That this was a complicated series of misunderstandings and coincidences orchestrated by a universe that was deliberately, maliciously, out to break Thailand's Sweetheart Phichit Chulanont's brain made a whole lot more sense than… what? Yuuri Katsuki somehow spending every waking non-skating moment unknowingly flirting with his own personal lord and savior, the god of ice skating himself, Victor Fucking Nikiforov? Who he'd met in a random IRC channel for mental health support? And wait, did that mean that Victor Nikiforov was suffering from depression? How? Since when?
On autopilot while his entire worldview was rebooting, Phichit thanked Christophe pleasantly for the information and wished him and Victor an enjoyable evening. They swapped numbers, and he followed Chris' Instagram. He floated the idea of getting together Monday morning for brunch. He even engaged in a bit of good-natured trash talking for the upcoming men's short program. And all the while, the same two thoughts were circling endlessly in his head.
How can I tell him?
How can I not tell him?
If Phichit informed Yuuri that his best non-amazing-hamster-dad friend KingElsa was actually Victor Nikiforov – after doing an actual metric fuckton of sleuthing beforehand, because he'd be damned if he would even hint at such a thing without being at least a hundred and twenty percent sure – Yuuri would…
Assuming that Yuuri even believed him in the first place? He'd run. He'd swear Phichit to secrecy, delete his chat client, and vanish completely from the internet without another word or thought. Which, Victor (!) aside, would be terrible for him. The #TCF regulars had stopped being merely an anonymous support group for Yuuri years ago, and not only would it be impossible for him to replace them, he wouldn't even try. He'd be throwing away part of the backbone of his emotional stability.
Or would he? Yuuri had come so far in the four years since he and Phichit had met. He was so much stronger. Maybe he'd be able to get past the shock when he realized that the pun-loving goofball that he livetweeted terrible American television with was so much more and less than the legend on his posters. Maybe it could be the beginning of something magical. Maybe—
"Hey, Yuu-chan! Smiiiiile!" Holding his phone up as though taking a picture, Phichit watched Yuuri straighten in his seat and turn to face him. He saw the instant when his best friend took note of the man just two rows behind him, turned instantly scarlet, and practically teleported himself under his seat in his effort to hide himself from Victor's sight.
Maybe someday, but not today. Oh, Yuuri.
"That was cruel, mon petit." Christophe was equal parts amused and chiding.
"Our love is strong and pure and he'll forgive me with the application of enough chocolate," Phichit chirped, unrepentant.
Because what I'm about to do is going to be so much crueler.
But I honestly can't think of another way to be kind.