Yuri moved to Saint Petersburg when he was ten.

Finally, his talent was being noticed. Yuri's head almost swam with happiness for a while; state money – that would help out his family so much, especially now that Mom was working so inconsistently – and a new coach. Not just any coach, either. The same Yakov Feltsman who had been teaching Victor Nikiforov since he was a kid thought Yuri had the same shine to him. Yuri couldn't wait.

Grandpa was the one who helped him figure out all of the specifics. He helped chase down Mom when they needed her to sign something. He found a homestay program for Yuri, and got everything worked out for Yuri to change to a new school. And in the early summer, he was the one to take Yuri all the way from Moscow.

Yuri put off packing till the last minute – it was boring – but when he finally sat down to throw everything in his suitcase, Grandma came in and tutted at his system. "Everything will get wrinkles," she said, and Yuri didn't care if his clothes had wrinkles, but if it made her feel better to take an extra few seconds to fold everything properly, he could live with it. "And don't forget these two," she said at the end of the night, handing him Mr. Tiger and Ms. Lion.

Yuri had actually been planning on leaving them behind. He wasn't a kid; he didn't need his stuffed toys anymore. And they were both getting kind of old and worn from behind dragged all over the place, thrown about, and occasionally chewed on. But Grandma was giving him that smile, the one that made him feel squishy inside, and instead of saying, "I don't need them," like he'd meant to, what came out was a mumbled thanks, and he tucked them in between his clothes.

The next morning, Grandma gave him a long hug before they left – she had work and couldn't come, but she made him promise to call home once in a while. (Mom wasn't there. Of course she wasn't. He didn't need her to be.)

The trip was long and far and he worried about Potya the whole time, but she seemed calm enough when they finally arrived at their hotel and he let her out of the carrier. She ate her food like normal, begged to play fetch with a crumpled scrap of hotel paper, and slept on his feet when he went to bed.

They met his host family the next day. They seemed fine; one mom, one dad, one son a year younger than Yuri but half a head taller. They liked cats, and Potya seemed to like them once she'd had a few minutes to figure out that she was in a safe place again. The family lived near his new school for next year, and more importantly, they lived near the rink.

Yuri was sure that he could have figured everything else out on his own – that was what the internet was for – but his host parents insisted on showing him around the area, and Grandpa at least seemed relieved about that.

"I know you'll make us proud," Grandpa said when it was finally time to say good-bye. Yuri didn't want to let go of him. "You're talented, but it's not just that, Yurochka. You're not going to waste that talent of yours."

"I know," Yuri mumbled into his shoulder. "I'll become real strong, I promise. Stronger and better than anyone else."

Grandpa patted his hair, and then Yuri had to release him, and then they were waving good-bye, and then Grandpa was gone.

He wasn't alone, but it soon felt like it was just Potya and him. His host family kept asking him questions – especially the son – about what did he like to eat and was there anything he wanted to do in the city and was there anything he needed. Yuri, once he had unpacked into his part of the bedroom he was going to share, wanted nothing more than to lie down for a little while and get some peace and quiet. He knew they were trying to be nice; it didn't make the questions any less annoying.

Thankfully, he only had to endure that for a couple of days. Potya discovered a high shelf by a window to look out of, and Yuri discovered that while his host parents couldn't cook like his grandparents, their food was more than serviceable. Their son was kind of annoying, but after a couple of death glares when he interrupted Yuri, he seemed to understand that they were not going to be instant best friends.

So that was all fine. Which was good, because once Yakov's summer training camp started, Yuri didn't have the ability to concentrate on anything else.

From the beginning, it felt like he was behind. Not so far that he couldn't catch up, but – Yuri was used to being the best among people his age at his home rink, and here was a different story. Here were kids who had never worried about paying for lessons, who had taken ballet lessons earlier and had better coaches and had whatever natural talent they had, and believed just as much as Yuri did that they were the best.

He had to prove them wrong. It didn't matter how much he hated the repetition of practice or how exhausted he was when he got back each day. He had to keep Yakov convinced that he was worth his time, had to keep moving forward.

So he swallowed his natural urge to complain. He stayed quiet during ballet class and did extra stretching at home; he didn't say a word when he was bored or tired. He didn't focus on anyone else, not the foreign kids struggling even more than him and not the ones who might be his competition in a few years, except to pick out their strong points and try to do even better.

And at the end of the camp, Yuri was the one who stayed when everyone else scattered back to wherever they normally trained. He could feel that he was much better than he'd been at the start of the summer already; the competition pressing in all around him had helped, and then he'd risen above it.

Yakov introduced him properly to his new rinkmates: Mila, who chirped at him and ruffled his hair, and Georgi, who smiled at him with too much eyeliner on.

He didn't introduce Victor. Victor probably never had to be introduced to anyone. Instead he called Victor over, put his hand on Yuri's shoulder, and said, "This is Yuri Plisetsky. He'll be training here from now on."

Yuri's heart jumped. He'd seen Victor around, but this was the first time they'd actually spoken, and – quick, he had to seem cool and natural, not like an over-excited kid meeting their idol for the first time.

So he stuck out his hand (what else was he supposed to do?). Victor took it with a smile. "Hi, Yuri! Welcome to our rink. Don't let Yakov scare you off, I promise he only yells out of love."

"I yell because you never listen if I don't," Yakov grumbled. "Now, did you figure out what was wrong with your choreography yet?"

"Nnno," Victor said, sliding his hands behind his back. "But maybe if I took a break to show our cute new rinkmate around—"

"He already knows his way around. Get back to work, Vitya." The words were said gruffly. If there was any hint of fondness in there, Yuri didn't know how to hear it. But Victor laughed and skated away.

That... hadn't been what he was expecting. Yuri tried not to feel too disappointed. Victor was busy. Yuri hadn't proven himself yet. He couldn't read too much into it, could he?

With Mila and Georgi, his initial impressions turned out to be fairly correct. Mila was always cheerful and liked to tease, although when school started up, sometimes she invited herself over to study together despite the fact that she was three years ahead of him. Georgi was sweet but over-shared about his romantic life at every opportunity.

Victor was – well. He wasn't the Victor on the screen and in the interviews. He whined about practicing sometimes; he pouted and told Yakov he was being mean before sweeping out to do run-throughs of his routines that would have won gold. He liked to show off pictures of his dog too much. He chattered with Georgi about romance novels and teased Mila right back, and sometimes he would give Yuri advice and sometimes he would ignore him entirely and sometimes he would watch him practice with an unreadable look on his face.

In short: he was both infuriating and way more likable than he would have been otherwise. Yuri told himself that he didn't desperately want his attention, but at the same time, whenever he felt those eyes on him, he showed off a bit more than usual.

"Wait," his host family's son said one night at dinner. "You're training with Victor Nikiforov? The Victor Nikiforov?"

"Yeah?"

"What's he like?" He leaned forward, all wide-eyed and breathless.

Yuri shrugged. "He's okay."

"Wow. Does he teach you jumps and stuff?"

"He's my rinkmate, not my coach."

He opened his mouth again. "Three questions at a time is enough," his host mother said. "Eat your dinner, okay?"

His host parents seemed to have picked up on the fact that he didn't want to spill his entire life story to them. They cooked him dinner and made him clean up his part of the room when it got too messy, and it wasn't anything like living at home, but it was okay.

He missed his grandparents, though. He'd been so busy that he'd forgotten to call, he realized. So he slipped outside after dinner and called them, trying not to wish he could feel their arms settling around his shoulders. Their voices would do.

~!~

Under Yakov's instruction, Yuri did amazingly well, just as he'd known he could. His skating got better and better; he learned how to jump quad Salchows, to Yakov's horror; and going into his first year as a Junior, was prepared to crush the competition and get Victor's fantastic choreography for his Senior debut in a couple of years.

One afternoon, in the early summer, Yuri thought he'd just done a pretty good run-through of his routine, but when he skated to the boards, Yakov was frowning down at Yuri's phone. He kept it on silent during practice, but maybe it had turned itself on? "Your grandfather's called five times in a row," Yakov informed him. The screen lit up again. "See what it is."

What on earth...? His grandparents never called him during practice, so it had to be important. Yuri answered the call and slumped against the boards. Yakov gave him some space and turned to shout at someone else. "Hello?"

"Yurochka," Grandpa breathed, and just hearing his voice sent Yuri's heart plummeting in his chest. He couldn't remember ever hearing him sound like that. Scratchy. Hesitant. Sad. "I'm sorry, are you at practice?"

"Yeah, but it's fine. I was taking a break anyway." What could it be? Yuri twisted his spare hand in the hem of his shirt, mind running through all kinds of terrible possibilities. "What happened?"

On the other end, Grandpa sighed. "I'm afraid Grandma is very sick," he said, and oh god, Yuri felt like he wanted to throw up, she couldn't be— "She's at the hospital right now, but the doctors said it could be serious." His voice had a little hitch in it. "They aren't sure what's going to happen."

"Should I come home?"

Pause. "Yes," Grandpa said. Not if you aren't too busy. Not when it fits into your schedule. Just yes.

Yuri tried not to panic. "Okay," he said, and then after a few more words, he hung up. Stared at his phone. Tried to understand what had just happened.

"What is it?" Yakov asked, suddenly next to him, though Yuri hadn't noticed. His voice had gone lower, softer than usual, too. "Is it an emergency?"

"I – I, my," words, right, "My grandma might be dying."

Yakov stared at him for a long moment. "Then why are you still on the ice?" he snapped. Yuri jumped, surprised – Yakov yelled at Georgi for getting too mopey after breakups, told Victor to knock it off when he started wondering how Makkachin was doing without him before they'd even left Russia – but, right, Yakov wasn't actually mean under all the shouting. Yuri hastened to the side of the rink and needed a couple of tries to get his skate guards on.

The person who handed him the second one wasn't Yakov. Yuri blinked when he realized it, looked up, and saw Victor there instead. "Are you feeling alright?" Victor asked.

"Family emergency," Yakov answered for him.

"Oh." Something in his face softened. "I can take you to the airport."

"I can get there on my own."

"I'm sure you can," Victor said, "but just in case."

Whatever, he wasn't going to stand around and argue. Yuri ran off to the take the quickest shower of his life and change back into street clothes, and when he was done he found Victor frowning at his phone.

"Yura, what's your birth date?"

"What?"

"I found you a flight, though we should hurry if you want to make it. It's March something, isn't it?"

Yuri took the phone from him and put in his information himself. His head was too busy going over the short conversation with Grandpa to protest when Victor took it back to enter his own payment details. Whatever, Victor could afford it.

Victor made friends with Potya while Yuri packed; he remembered Grandma folding his clothes neatly for him, and though he usually did just throw everything in his suitcase, for once he took two seconds to fold every piece of clothing before tossing it in. Either way, he was packed in under ten minutes.

On the way to the airport, he texted his host family (his third; the first one eventually decided that he was too 'aggressive' and the second had moved unexpectedly, and the third had no kids, were quiet, and gave Yuri his own room, so that was working out pretty well). They were due to go on a trip in a few days, and he might have to pay them back for cat-sitting. Then he tried to call Grandpa, but he didn't pick up – probably he was at the hospital – and Yuri made a mental note to buy him a cellphone for New Year's or something.

Victor waved him good-bye at the airport, probably with some vague statement of well-wishing, but Yuri didn't even hear. He made it through security, made it to his flight – not with enough time to grab food first, and he was hungry, but he could wait until he made it to Moscow.

Grandpa had always met him at the airport when Yuri came back for a competition or came to visit for the holidays. For once, Yuri had to figure out how to get home on his own, and then how to get from home to the hospital. (He did pause to make himself a sandwich at the apartment, although he barely tasted it.)

Once he was there, and once he'd gotten the lady at the front desk to understand what he was there for and who he was trying to visit, he burst into her ward, terrified of what he might see.

Both Grandma and Grandpa looked up at him (along with a couple of other people in the room, who Yuri barely even noticed). And Grandma was – propped up on a bed, and she was looking at him, and she wasn't dead. She looked kind of sick, but not like she was dying.

"Yurochka, you're here already?" Grandpa asked, and he swept Yuri up into a hug.

Grandma seemed kind of confused and slow, but she was sick; Yuri was never at his sharpest when he got sick, and he'd never even been sick enough for the hospital. And when they came back the next day, she was better; not well enough to leave the hospital, but better. Yuri felt a little foolish to have hurried home like he had, but he didn't mind spending some time with Grandma, talking and reading to her and trying to relieve the boredom of being stuck in a bed all day.

He thought she would get better. She wasn't that old, even if she was his grandmother, and this was the 21st century; they had modern medicine to treat her with.

And then the day after that, she was worse.

And the day after that.

And the next day.

It was scary, to watch Grandma get put through more interventions as time passed.

It was scarier to watch her get worse despite them.

It was terrifying, to creep up beside her when she was struggling to breathe so he could hold her hand. She barely noticed him any more, too exhausted even when she wasn't sleeping, but sometimes she squeezed his fingers a little. He could hear the doctors whispering with Grandpa, and he wasn't sure if he wanted to know what they were saying. He was pretty sure he got the gist of it just from their faces.

Yuri didn't believe in God, or prayer, or anything, but he still found himself thinking please let her be okay at nothing in particular.

She wasn't.

Yuri had never seen Grandpa cry before. Not really. Not more than a couple of tears of joy, discreetly wiped from his eyes before anyone could notice. He'd never seen Grandpa lean over, put his face in his hands, and sob like he did in the hospital parking lot, after. Yuri didn't know what to do. He didn't know why he wasn't crying. Maybe he was still in shock, like when he hurt himself and the pain took a few seconds to flood in. Numb, he watched from his side of the car.

At home, he wasn't sure what he was supposed to do. He washed the dishes that had started to pile up. He reheated some soup, even though he wasn't hungry, and he was pretty sure that Grandpa wasn't, either. He thought about going to his old rink. Instead, he curled up in bed and wondered why he wasn't feeling – sadness or grief or anything.

Some of it did kick in by the funeral. It crawled into his chest like the infection must have crawled into hers, left it feeling tight and constricted every time he took a breath. A lot of people showed up. Friends. Co-workers. Distant relatives Yuri had never met and didn't expect to meet again.

Not Mom.

The day after, Yuri made himself go skate. Being at the apartment was driving him crazy – seeing the traces of Grandma left everywhere, like the jacket in her sewing basket that she hadn't finished sewing a button back onto. The ice offered an escape, something to do to get his mind out of himself for a while.

It also offered something else. He thought, as he laced up his skates, about the government funding, and about how money had never been plentiful even with both Grandma and Grandpa working. He had to be more than just good at skating. He had to be the best. Grandpa would never, ever say it, but he needed more income than his job gave him to keep up and stay in their – in his apartment., and Yuri was the only one left who could continue to help.

If he was the best at skating, then on top of the government aid, there would be prizes from competitions, money from sponsors, income from ice shows. Enough for him and Potya in Saint Petersburg, when he was old enough to live on his own, and enough for Grandpa, and Mom if she ever bothered showing up again (Grandpa would never have the heart to slam the door in her face, like Yuri would if she came to his doorstep).

He could do it. People were already paying attention to him; it wasn't every twelve-year-old that could land a quad Salchow, and he had solid programs for his Juniors debut. He wouldn't let Grandpa down.

By the time he returned to Saint Petersburg, his host family hadn't just left for their vacation; they were nearly back, and suggested that he stay with a friend for a night so he wouldn't have to come back to an apartment devoid of food. Georgi was out. Mila might have been okay. He ended up texting Victor instead.

Victor picked him up from the airport and didn't ask. It was probably pretty obvious what had happened. He took Yuri to his place, and left him sitting in front of the couch petting his dog while he ran off to take care of laundry or something.

Makkachin wasn't as good as Potya, and she never could be since she was a dog, but Yuri couldn't stop himself from scratching her shoulders anyway. One of his wrists was sore from catching him on a bad jump the other day, and he let go of her to shake it out with a wince.

"Is everything okay?" Victor asked from the other side of the couch, peering down at him.

Yuri didn't know why that did it. Why that was the thing that pierced the numbness that had settled on him days ago, hearing those words. Why that got him to scream and slam his fist into the floor. "Of fucking course it's not! What do you think, my grandma is dead! Nothing is okay!"

And then, to his own horror, he burst into tears.

Makkachin scampered away. Yuri hid his face in his hands, trying to stop crying, but it didn't work. He sobbed and sobbed, curling up into himself, breath shuddering and tears coming no matter how much he hated it.

At least Victor didn't try to hug and coddle him. He did slide down next to Yuri and put an arm around his shoulders, but that was it. No shushing sounds, no reassuring him that everything was going to be okay, no telling him to let it all out. Yuri would have punched him. The arm was okay.

It took forever to get his stupid body and stupid brain to stop crying. Last time, he'd held his breath until it was back under his control, but when he tried that this time, another sob would burst from him, even harder than before.

But finally, his breath evened out, and the tears stopped leaking from his eyes, although his body didn't stop shaking. When Victor got up and came back with a box of tissues, Yuri's hands were trembling so badly he could hardly take them. He felt awful; his cheeks were sticky with drying tears, there was snot everywhere, and his back hurt from curling up so hard. Crying sucked. He didn't even really feel better, just emptied out.

"Why don't I make tea," Victor said, and thankfully disappeared, letting Yuri have a moment to recollect himself and go wash his face in the bathroom. He didn't look much better than he felt. Even beyond the red eyes and blotchy cheeks, he looked sad. Yuri tried to wipe the expression away, but it didn't work, and it made him feel worse, too, so he went back to the living room and tentatively sat on the couch. Victor could deal with looking at his ugly face.

Victor was saying cutesy things to his dog in the kitchen. There was still a pile of tissues on the coffee table. Yuri picked them up for something to do and threw them away.

He still didn't feel better.

Victor came back with tea. Yuri cringed at the awkward silence as he sat back with his mug. Makkachin was the one who helped break it; she came back to sniff at his jeans and poke her head into his hands, looking for attention, before she wandered off.

"Do you want to talk about it?" Victor asked. Yuri shook his head. Even if he did, it wouldn't be with Victor. "I thought so," he said with a forced little laugh. "We could just watch something, if you wanted? Oh, and dinner. We should make that."

Yuri didn't trust his voice quite yet, but he scrambled over to his backpack. His grandpa, even dealing with his own grief, had made sure that he had pirozhki, just like he always did. Yuri should've thanked him better. He pulled the paper bag out and went to sit next to Victor again. He bit into one, tearing up again at the taste, the taste that still reminded him of weekend visits and coming home from practice. Stupid.

There were a lot of pirozhki. Yuri dug out another and offered it to Victor.

"Thanks," he said, taking it slowly.

"My grandpa made them, so you better appreciate it." His voice came out rough and clogged-up. He coughed to help clear it.

Victor took a huge bite and made a pleased sound. "These are really good. He must be an excellent cook."

"Yeah." Yuri nibbled at his own pirozhki. He still didn't have much of an appetite, but he could feel a bit of it coming back for these. "He taught me how to make them, but it's not the same."

"That's because you're missing the special ingredient!"

"Don't you dare say it's love."

"Haha. How about we go with 'experience', instead? I bet he's been making these for a long time."

"Since he was a kid, he says," and that was strange to think about. There were only a couple of pictures of Grandpa when he was young; he'd always been serious-looking.

"Then you've got a few decades to go before you can match him," Victor said. "Maybe less, if you open a bakery after you retire."

"Why the hell would I open a bakery?"

And then they were bickering, and Victor was laughing, and that was – Victor probably would have left him alone, if he'd said anything. But Yuri didn't want to be alone and think about Grandma all night. He wanted something to distract him and let him turn his brain off for a few hours, and Victor was good for that. Yuri caught himself almost having fun, for the first time in days, when Victor said something so stupid about the movie they were watching that Yuri just had to yell at him.

~!~

At fourteen, Yuri won the Junior GPF for the second year in a row, and he expected to do the same with Junior Worlds. There was no way that Victor wasn't going to give him the best choreography ever next year.

It wasn't thinking of that which had Yuri trailing him to the Seniors competition, because he wasn't there to watch Victor. Or most of his competitors: Giacometti was obscene, JJ was insufferable, Crispino was weird, and Bin was... there.

He was there because there was another Yuri.

Not Russian. Japanese. Yuri hadn't heard of him before, but he had to be good if he'd made it this far. And his short program, at least, was; it didn't have the magic of Victor's, and he sort of screwed up two of his jumps, but his step sequences were some of the best Yuri had ever seen. Better than Victor's. Surely even Yakov wouldn't have had anything critical to say about them.

And then his free skate was... well, the step sequences were still excellent. The crowd attempted to cheer him on after every flubbed jump, but other Yuri looked like he was about to cry when he finished.

Geez. Was he injured or something? Intrigued despite the score for the performance, Yuri followed him afterward, curious what kind of person he was, thinking of introducing himself. He had to be pretty tough – not just to reach the GPF, but to keep on going despite how badly his performance went, instead of falling apart totally. Yeah, so his jumps had been painful to watch. But he'd held it together for the spins and step sequences.

He turned out to be a crybaby, and Yuri ended up yelling at him in frustration and disappointment – what a loser – before slipping back out to meet up with Yakov and Victor.

Still miffed about that encounter, Yuri brushed off Victor's attempt to give him advice on his own step sequences. He wanted to improve, sure, but he was already so far ahead of his fellow Juniors. It also wasn't like he needed critique right this minute, despite how Victor had taken it into his head to try and coach him in bits and pieces when Yakov was busy elsewhere. There was no lost opportunity. Victor would just try again later.

Though maybe in the meantime, it would be more effective to re-watch the other Yuri's skating and pay close attention to his step sequences. Maybe from his qualifiers, given how badly he'd screwed up today. Just because his personality was weak didn't mean Yuri couldn't learn something from his skating.

At the banquet, Yuri planned to do the minimum amount of socializing that Yakov would let him get away with, and then sticking with one of his rinkmates until he could escape. Either Victor, if he wasn't being too boring or drinking too much of the champagne, or Mila, depending on which of the other ladies she was with. (Georgi was actually pretty reliable at these sorts of events, but he currently back in Saint Petersburg, no doubt making out with his girlfriend.)

He didn't notice the other Yuri at all until he stumbled into him on the dance floor, stinking of alcohol and still clutching a bottle of champagne. Ugh, disgusting. But then his eyes lit on Yuri, and somehow it turned into a dance-off. There was no way Yuri was going to back down from that challenge, no matter how drunk Katsuki was.

And it didn't stop when Yuri, winded, let Katsuki slip away for another challenger and tried to figure out what the hell had happened to his buttons. There was pole dancing with Giacometti – disgusting, not that it stopped Yuri from sliding in next to a delighted Mila and Victor to take pictures – and then Victor begged him to take photos while he danced with him, too. Thank god, with more clothes on.

All in all, it was a strange and (Yuri wouldn't have said) humiliating evening. Mila wouldn't stop laughing as they retreated to their hotel rooms. "I can't believe you challenged him to a dance battle and then lost," she crowed.

Yuri couldn't remember who had challenged who at this point. "I didn't lose," he snarled. Mila proceeded to spend their long wait for the elevator trying to prove he had with her photos.

He almost wanted to delete all of them, like he could delete the entire evening with them. But scrolling through them the next morning, lingering on a couple of the nicer ones, he decided it wasn't worth the effort.

~!~

Yuri fully expected to have the world's best Senior debut when he was fifteen.

What he did not expect was for Victor to go missing halfway around the world before giving him his promised choreography. Victor wasn't exactly known for making sensible decisions, but this was a new level of surprise even for him. And it had to be for the other Yuri, too? When there was a better one right here in Russia? Who had been waiting on his promise for years? What the hell?

When he found out where Victor was, Yuri wanted nothing more than to march straight to the airport and buy a ticket for Japan. Only he had to time it so that Yakov wouldn't notice he was gone right away, and he had to slip away from his host family, too, after stocking up on everything Potya needed.

It was a long week of waiting for the right moment before he was finally heading toward Hasetsu. Yuri didn't have a real plan for how he was going to find Victor, but the town didn't look that big on Wikipedia. How hard could it be to find one famous foreigner with silver hair?

He certainly didn't need a plan for bringing Victor home. There was a good chance he was getting bored already. If not, Yuri would just have to yell at him some, maybe show up the other Yuri, bring his attention back to him. He was good at that; Victor was watching him more often, lately.

It would work out, Yuri knew it. Just as he'd known that he'd skate with Victor someday when he was a kid trying to copy him on the living room floor. He'd made that happen; he could easily persuade Victor to come back to Russia, too.

Maybe he could pick up a present for his grandfather while he was there. Japanese tea or something, he didn't know what they had there. He felt kind of bad about not being able to visit this summer, especially with Grandpa being alone now, but Grandpa said that he understood about his training schedule.

Yuri curled into his window seat, pulled on his headphones, and settled in for the flight. It wouldn't be long before he was flying back, Victor in tow, his future as bright as the sun gleaming on the clouds.