Chapter 1: The banquet that escalated

His head was pounding as if a Kumi-Daiko group was running wild inside it. His tongue lay heavy in his parched mouth, ready to crumble to pieces at the merest touch. Although he had his eyes shut, the glare thundering through the lids pushed his head to the brink of explosion.

The pounding grew louder. Groaning, Katsuki Yuuri buried his face in his pillow.

I want to die.

Memories flooded his mind. Of fear, pain, and humiliation. Of having failed in the worst possible way.

The pounding was roaring in his ears now―it was everywhere.

"Yuuri!" a deep voice boomed somewhere. "The plane will take off without you if you dally!"

Reality cut through Yuuri's stupor like a katana, lifting the veil of confusion that obfuscated his mind.

Oh, no! he thought. Did I oversleep?

Bracing himself, he pressed his lids together, his face still pressed into the pillow. Carefully, he raised his head just enough to bear the pain that was piercing his skull as he allowed the light to touch his eyes.

"Are you in there at all?"

That had Yuuri sitting bolt upright.

"Ow!"

His head thudded with the power of a supernova exploding inside his eyeballs. He swayed, or maybe that was just his head not catching up with his body. Instinctively, he pressed his eyes shut again and buried his face in his hands.

"I'm coming," he mumbled.

Under his fingers, he felt a fabric wrapped around his head. Confused, he took it off and blinked at his tie, not understanding. Pain and dizziness slowing his thinking, he looked down and his bewilderment skyrocketed. He had slept in his unbuttoned shirt, boxers, and strangely, his socks. A strangely familiar scent that would have been pleasant if Yuuri had not felt as if he was about to throw up emanated from the shirt. The rest of his clothes lay neatly draped over an armchair. His shoes were next to the chair, parallel to each other and parallel to the chair.

The banquet, he remembered. I drank because I couldn't stand the humiliation of facing my co-competitors. Much less facing him…

Yuuri's memories of drinking in shame were a blur. He had preferred an early night in his room, crying himself to sleep, but his coach had dragged him to that accursed social function. All he remembered was feeling too hot. Did I take my clothes off in the elevator? How on earth could I have let myself get so drunk?

It all was over. As if placing last was not humiliation enough—by getting drunk, he had brought even more humiliation upon himself, his country, his family, and all the people supporting him.

I'm a disgrace. I will never recover from this. I couldn't even work up the courage to take a keepsake photo with my idol.

That dream, like his other dream of winning the Grand Prix Final, lay shattered in pieces. He had come here for both and lost.

This is the end of my career.

"Yuuri!"

Panic surging through him, Yuuri jumped off his bed. His legs got caught up in the blanket and he fell face-first onto the floor.

"Ow!" Groaning, he pushed himself up, and after another feeble attempt to disentangle himself from the sheets, he stumbled to the door of his hotel room.

"I wasn't sure if you were in there at all," Celestino Cialdini said, his mouth forming a sour line that enhanced the intimidating features of his hard face.

Yuuri blinked, trying to eliminate the blur of his vision. Then he realised he had forgotten to put on his glasses. "I overslept." The words came hoarsely from an aching throat. "I'm sorry."

"You better be." His coach grunted and his features softened. "Now get dressed. You look like shit."

"I am sorry for having disgraced you with my failure, Coach Celestino," Yuuri said. He attempted a bow, but even lowering his head unleashed a new blast of pain.

His coach eyed Yuuri up and down as he was, half-naked, his hair all tousled, and the blue tie in one hand. "The shuttle to the airport will leave in fifteen minutes. If you still want to train under me, see that you get on that flight."

If I still want to train under him? Yuuri blinked, trying to make sense of his coach's words in his champagne-addled brain. Had Yuuri humiliated him so bad in the Grand Prix Final that Celestino no longer wanted to coach him? He opened his mouth, but before any sound came out, Celestino was already down the corridor, leaving Yuuri bewildered, stupefied, and unable to grasp the depth of humiliation he had poured upon his coach by being a total disgrace.

Seven hours earlier

"What's wrong with him?" Viktor asked, nodding to the Japanese figure skater who had collapsed against the pole as he had tried to shrug back into his shirt. Only minutes ago, he had danced around said pole as if he had been born for this.

His friend Chris bent down, checking Yuuri's pulse. "Passed out." He reached for his own shirt and shrugged into it. "His stamina is impressive. I don't even drink that much when I'm lovelorn." His fingers found the uppermost button and closed it. "Don't remember ever having had so much fun on the pole, though."

"Well," Viktor said wistfully. "It was a memorable night."

"That much was already clear you two danced together, Viktor dear."

And here I was hoping for some more dances after he and Chris were done, Viktor thought wistfully, the feeling of Yuuri's hands imprinted on his body, the sparkle in his brown eyes etched into his mind.

"We can't leave him here." Viktor gazed around. The conference room had emptied except for a few athletes, who sat slumped at the tables. Most of them would leave early the next morning. The coaches were gone, too. Yuuri's coach, a surly Italian, had left when the pole acrobatics had started. "We should at least bring him to his room."

"Do you know which room is his?" Chris asked, putting on his trousers.

I barely know him. I didn't plan to hook up with him. "No," Viktor replied. "Maybe…" He searched the pockets of Yuuri's blazer. "Here." He held up a card with a number printed on it. "That's on the tenth floor."

When Chris had dressed, they picked up Yuuri and the clothes he had shed and escorted him through the nocturnal corridors of the four-star hotel, more dragging and carrying than walking, for Yuuri was barely conscious. They almost circled the entire tenth floor until they had found the right room. Viktor unlocked the door, and he and Chris brought Yuuri inside.

"Let's put him into the recovery position," Viktor said when they lifted Yuuri onto the bed. "He had at least two bottles of champagne. We shouldn't let him choke on his vomit."

"True."

Together they arranged Yuuri's limbs so that he was lying on the side, his face tilted towards the pillow.

"Viktorrru." Yuuri's melodic voice was heavily slurred. "Did I win the dance-off?"

Viktor regarded him thoughtfully as he lay there his face flushed, his hair all tousled. He remembered the dances they had shared and the unexpected joy which had flooded him, and warmth spread through his body.

"Yes," he said softly and covered Yuuri with the duvet. "You won."

"Will you be my coach?"

What happens at the Grand Prix Final banquet stays at the Grand Prix Final banquet, or so the saying went. As the figurehead of Russian figure skating, Viktor had responsibilities and obligations, but the magic he had felt when he and Yuuri had danced made him want to dream about what it would be like.

"Sure." Viktor ran his fingers over the hot skin on Yuuri's forehead, gently lifting the hideous blue tie Yuuri had wrapped around his head earlier that night. "Now sleep."

Yuuri sighed. The next moment, he was fast asleep.

Viktor exchanged a glance with Chris. Then they tiptoed out of the room and closed the door behind them.