Chapter Text
Previously
The moment the doors of Aeroporto di Milano Malpensa slid open, the chaos hit Yuri like a slap in the face, disorienting him briefly. Camera flashes, voices shouting, and a barrage of noise sliced through the crisp winter air.
He gritted his teeth, his muscles stiff, his skin itchy under the expensive fabric of his shirt beneath the Team Russia Olympic jacket. The relentless clamor was the last thing he needed after the nightmare of a flight he’d just endured. It had been a disaster—every second dragged. Yuri didn’t sleep, not a single goddamn second, and now every nerve in his body was on edge and raw.
Since their arrival, everything had been set off by the news of Katsudon’s being stranded in Shanghai. He had watched Viktor attempt to mask his stress, but the tension was palpable. Even while putting a brave face on while talking with Katsuki over the phone as he was told the situation at hand, and attempting to keep his usual demeanor. Yuri knew the man was struggling inside. There was a slight tension in Viktor’s jaw, the way his fingers tightened around the handle of his suitcase. The Russian Coach was trying his hardest not to let the media see how stressed he really was, but Yuri could see it clearly in the way his Coach’s smile didn’t quite reach his eyes.
Seeing Viktor’s emotional state only made Yuri’s own frustration and anger deepen. He knew how much Viktor had been looking forward to reuniting with Yuuri, how he’d gone to the lengths of planning this day by meticulously tracking transatlantic flights and even accounting for the possibility of delays. But Viktor Nikiforov, with all the power of love and over-the-top extraness, hadn’t been able to predict the Japanese Olympic Committee massive screw-up with their own delegation’s flight by not securing seats from Shanghai to Milan.
It was a mistake so ridiculous that even Yuri, as detached as he often tried to be, found himself deeply irritated on his behalf. Yuri really did understand the disappointment, and that understanding fueled his own anger toward the media swarming them.
These vultures had no idea what Viktor was going through and now, here they were, not giving them even a moment of space. Poking and prodding with their incessant questions and flashing cameras. The injustice of it all grated on Yuri’s already frayed nerves. He could feel the anger simmering beneath the surface, threatening to boil over.
If there was one thing Yuri hated, it was seeing those he cared about suffer, and Viktor’s barely concealed sadness only made Yuri more scornful of the media hounding them.
A reporter’s voice cuts through.
“Ice Prince! How are you feeling?”
At the question, Yuri’s jaw clenches so hard it aches. How the hell do they think he’s feeling? The question is so absurd it almost makes him laugh.
“I just spent the whole night on a plane. What do you think?” He spits, sarcasm dripping from every word in his thick, accented English.
He doesn’t wait for their response, just keeps walking, but they’re relentless, sharks circling for a taste of blood.
Another question is thrown his way, this one digging deeper, more pointed.
“Are you planning on repeating Silver, as in the last 2022 Beijing Olympic Games?”
The question hits a nerve, sending Yuri’s thoughts spiraling back to the last Olympics. He remembers how Katsudon—Yuuri Katsuki—had rightfully earned the gold. Yuri had stood there, just behind him on the podium, his silver medal hanging heavily around his neck, but his heart had been light. He had clapped and cheered, genuinely happy to see the man he admired retiring with a consecutive Olympic gold medal. Yuuri deserved it, every ounce of that victory.
But now… everything has changed.
The ice, once a place of thrill, peace and happiness, now felt like a battlefield. The boundaries that once defined relationships—friendship, partnership, something more—had blurred beyond recognition, and Yuri found himself desperate to draw new lines. It wasn’t just about skating anymore; it was about survival, about protecting the one thing that still made sense to him—his drive for victory.
If Yuri could convince himself that Otabek was no different from the other skaters, that he was just another obstacle…useless, pathetic even, like the rest of his competitors on the path to gold, then maybe he could finally reclaim control. He needed to harden his heart, to shield himself with anger and hatred, to protect himself from the vulnerability that had crept into his life. He needed to stop caring, to dig deep into his chest and rip out the feelings that had grown too strong, too real.
But also, the bitter taste in his throat made him acknowledge that this wasn’t just about winning anymore; it was about sending a message. He wanted to make himself clear. Not just to the world, but to ‘him’. Yuri wanted him to know that he better not fucking pretend things were still the same, that they could just go back to being friends, as if nothing had changed.
It was over.
Whatever connection they once had, Yuri was severing it now. And he wanted Otabek to feel it, to understand that this wasn’t just a competition—it was a battle for regaining his rightful place.
With a deliberate motion, Yuri rips off his sunglasses, his piercing green eyes locking onto the camera with a gaze that’s colder than the ice beneath his skates.
If the reporters want to know what’s different this time around, they’re about to find out.
“People better not expect the same result as the last Olympics, and especially not the last Grand Prix,” He growls, his voice laced with venom. “I will have no fucking mercy. The Gold Medal is mine this time around; it was mine all along.”
A commotion follows, the crowd around them buzzing with excitement, shock, and maybe a bit of disbelief.
But Yuri’s not done.
“All of the other competitors are a fucking disgrace, and they can suck my dick. Each and every one of them.”
Gasps ripple through the crowd, some of the reporters laughing in disbelief. Viktor steps in, his usual charm trying to smooth over the situation, but Yuri barely registers it. He’s too far gone and seeing red.
“It’s a figurative suck, all in the name of friendly competition,” Viktor clarifies with a dazzling smile, but Yuri just huffs, brushing past him.
He’s had enough of this, of them, of everything.
“Move out of my way, you blood-sucking leeches,” He snarls, shoving through the throng of reporters, his mood darker than the Milan sky threatening snow above.
He doesn’t look back
The moment had sent shockwaves through the entire Olympic community after the scandalous declaration of war had exploded across the internet like wildfire. And the fallout was immediate.
Viktor had been bombarded with calls, emails, and messages from the Russian Olympic Committee, all in a frantic attempt to minimize the potential damage to Yuri’s image and sponsorships. The media was relentless, sponsors nervous, and the Russian Olympic Committee was in full-blown damage control mode. It didn’t help that Viktor was already on edge, as the Japanese Olympic Committee couldn’t get the team another flight, and with every passing minute, Viktor’s mood darkened and was barely holding it together.
The cab ride from the airport was tense. His Coach frantically answered messages, cursing between whispers.
Yuri stared out the window. The blaring sounds of Milan's traffic did little to drown out the echo of Yakov’s furious voice over the phone.
"Yuri needs to stay inside a room in whatever hotel you can find until the Federation arrives! Blend him with the team when they get to the Village, and don’t let him out of your sight!” Yakov had roared over a voice note, his anger palpable even through the phone's speaker.
But by the time Yakov’s message had come through, it was already too late.
They had just arrived at the Olympic Village, only to be met by yet another horde of reporters. The scene was a nightmare, and Viktor, trying to shield Yuri, had to make a quick decision. They escaped the chaos by ducking into the same taxi, heading straight to downtown Milan.
Yuri grimaced, staring out the window at the blurred Milanese streets.
It wasn't like he’d planned for this to happen.
He knew better than anyone the importance of keeping a low profile before the competition, but by the time the plane landed, Yuri was a tightly wound spring, ready to snap at the slightest provocation. Something about that press crowd had made him do exactly that and—well, the rest is history. Now, the consequences of his impulsiveness were crashing down around him like an avalanche.
When they arrived at the Portrait Milano-Lungarno Collection Hotel, Viktor ushered Yuri inside with a firm hand on his shoulder. The lobby’s elegance was lost on Yuri, who was too exhausted to care about the polished marble floors or the soft, ambient lighting. Viktor led him through the lobby and up to their suite in silence, his usual cheerful demeanor replaced with a more serious expression. Once inside the room, Viktor turned to Yuri, his expression of clear frustration creasing through his forehead. He took a deep breath before speaking, his voice edged with tension.
"Listen..." Viktor began, choosing his words carefully. "We’ve got a plan. The Russian Federation and the Olympic Committee are already pulling some strings to minimize the damage. I’ve found a small rink outside Milan where we can train in peace if things get too crazy here. But you need to lay low, okay? No more press, no social media, no more statements."
Yuri leaned against the wall, his exhaustion evident.
Viktor's phone buzzed loudly in his pocket, breaking the brief silence. He glanced at the screen, frustration flared across his face when he cast down his eyes to the screen before he looked back at Yuri, his tone softening slightly.
"Yusha, just this once—listen to me..." Viktor said, his voice almost pleading. "Get some rest. Let me handle things for now."
Yuri nodded again, too tired to argue. Viktor looked at him, the worry in his eyes was still clear.
"I need to go register us at the Olympic Village and arrange a few other things. I’ll be back soon."
With that, Viktor turned and left the room, leaving Yuri alone. Hours went by.
Yuri spent most of the time in the hotel room dead to the world, though he wouldn’t call it sleep. It was more like his brain short-circuited from sheer mental exhaustion and decided to shut down completely. When he finally woke up, it felt like he’d been dragged back from some medieval torture chamber where the punishment was stewing in his thoughts until he passed out. Disoriented, he stared at the ornate ceiling, trying to remember what century it was. For a split second, he half-expected to find himself in a different era altogether—maybe a time when things made more sense.
For a glorious moment, everything was still, blissfully blank. But of course, reality came crashing back in, bringing with it the mess he'd left behind.
With a groan that was half frustration, half resignation, Yuri rolled off the bed and hit the floor, dropping into pushups like they were going to solve all his problems. Each pushup was a battle against the thoughts clawing at the back of his mind. It was almost funny, in a dark, cynical way—he was trying to outrun his own mind, as if that was even possible. The burn in his muscles was real, at least—something tangible to hold onto while everything else felt like it was slipping through his fingers.
When he finally stopped, his arms trembling from the effort, Yuri peeled himself off the floor and headed straight for the bathroom. He turned the water to its coldest setting, the kind that could snap you awake no matter how deep in your head you were. The icy blast hit him like a shock to the system, making him suck in a sharp breath, but it was exactly what he needed. He let the water run over him, trying to wash away the tension that had been building up since...well, since forever, it felt like.
Once he finally dragged himself out of the shower, he caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror. At least his face looked the same—no signs of the mental wreckage going on underneath. That was something, at least. But his hair was another story. It stuck out in all directions, a chaotic mess that would normally send him diving for his suitcase to pull out his hair products and tame the disaster. But not today. He was too drained to even care. The thought of styling his hair felt like an insurmountable task, so he just let it be, deciding that the wild look suited his current state of mind anyway.
After pulling on some clothes, Yuri ordered room service without even glancing at the menu. What did it matter what he ate? It would all taste like cardboard anyway. He flicked on the TV, half-hoping to find something mind-numbing to drown out the noise in his brain. Some action movie was on, explosions and car chases filling the room with a comforting level of chaos that almost matched the one inside his head.
He couldn’t stop his mind from wandering back to the trouble he’d caused. The press was probably having a field day, the sponsors were likely panicking, and Viktor—Viktor, who had tried so hard to hold everything together—was probably running around trying to put out fires that Yuri had carelessly ignited. The thought made Yuri’s stomach churn with guilt. He didn’t mean to drag Viktor into this mess.
And then, of course, there was Otabek. Because even when Yuri was trying his damnedest to avoid thinking about him, the guy still managed to sneak into his thoughts. What would he think about all this? Was he watching the chaos unfold from the Olympic Village? Did he even care? The idea of Beka being disappointed in him—on top of everything else—made Yuri’s chest tighten in that familiar, treacherous way that always left him feeling more vulnerable than he cared to admit.
But there was also a part of him, the bitter, cynical part, that found some satisfaction in knowing that he would see all of this. That he would understand just how astronomically pissed Yuri was. It wasn’t just petty—it was a dark, twisted pleasure, the kind that made him want to throw this whole chaotic mess right in Otabek’s face. Let him see the storm Yuri was capable of conjuring when pushed too far. Let him feel the sting of it, let him realize that the boy he used to know wasn’t about to play nice anymore. Maybe Otabek would finally get it through his thick skull that Yuri wasn’t someone to be taken lightly, to be pushed aside or underestimated. The thought of Otabek witnessing this disaster unfold, of him maybe feeling just a fraction of the turmoil Yuri was drowning in, felt like a victory in itself. It was spiteful, yes—downright malicious—but in a world that constantly demanded Yuri to keep his emotions in check, this was one thing he could control. If Otabek was going to see the worst of him, then fine. Let him see every jagged edge, every bitter drop of venom that Yuri was capable of spewing. Let him choke on it, just like Yuri was choking on his own anger and hurt.
Reality, of course, had to come crashing back in. Of course he wouldn't care. Otabek had his own life, his own plans, his own priorities—like that girlfriend of his, for example. The reminder was like a slap to the face, snapping Yuri out of his downward spiral. A bitter scoff escaped his lips as he shoved the thoughts away, forcing himself back to the here and now. He needed to get his head on straight, to change his mentality. He was on his own, and that was just how it was going to be. No more dwelling on what could’ve been or what should’ve been. He’d have to fend for himself, just like he always had with his Grandfather. And if the world wanted to throw obstacles in his way, well, he’d smash through them, because there was no way in hell he was going to let this mess take him down.
Twenty-four hours later after last seeing his Coach, as he stared blankly at the ceiling, a knock sounded at the door. He almost didn’t move, too lost in his thoughts to care, but the persistent knocking finally forced him to his feet.
When Yuri opened the door, he was greeted by Mila’s amused expression, a smirk playing on her lips. She was dressed in a long tan coat that swept around her legs, revealing sleek leather pants tucked into stylish white boots. Her white blouse peeked out from beneath the coat, adding a touch of sophistication to the ensemble. Over one shoulder, she carried a designer handbag, and behind her, she dragged not one, but two massive suitcases that looked like they were packed for a three-month expedition rather than a 22-day stay competing.
“You look like shit.” Mila said breezily, as if commenting on the weather, before striding into the room with the confidence of someone who knew they looked damn good.
“Gee, thanks,” Yuri muttered, closing the door behind her. “Nice to see you too. What are you doing here? You’re supposed to arrive tomorrow with the rest.”
Mila flopped down onto the couch, kicking off her shoes.
“Well, Yakov sent me of course, to keep an eye on you. And you were the perfect excuse to see Sara later today.” She replied, with little to no shame of her real intentions. “You’ve caused quite a mess, you know that?” The redhead asked, nonchalant.
Yuri slumped into an armchair, crossing his arms defensively.
“It’s not like I planned it. They were being assholes, so I treated them like what they are.” He replied, rolling his eyes.
“And how’s that working out for you, hm?” Mila asked, raising an eyebrow.
“I know I messed up, okay? But I’m not going to apologize for saying what I said.” He glared at her.
“Yusha, it’s not exactly about apologizing. It’s about damage control.” Mila said, leaning forward. “Right now, you’re the ass in this story, and that’s bad for your image, bad for your sponsors, and bad for your chances at the Olympics. We need to fix this, and we need to do it ASAP.”
Yuri scoffed.
“How? By making some bullshit apology video? There is no fucking way I'm going to do that. Ugh.” The blond cringed.
“No.” Mila said, a small smirk tugging at her lips. “I’ve got a better idea. We need to start shifting the narrative. You’re not just some angry kid who lost his temper; you’re a passionate athlete who’s determined to win. We’re going to play up that angle, make you look like the fierce competitor you are, not just some hothead. It’s all about perception, and we’re going to make sure people see you in the right light.”
He eyed her warily.
“And how do you plan on doing that?” He asked, still not really believing her.
The redheaded woman stood up, a determined glint in her eyes.
“Leave that to me.” Mila said, her tone full with confidence as she waved a dismissive hand. “I’ve already got a few ideas in mind. Trust me, by the time we're done, the whole world will be back to drooling over you. They'll be all ‘Yurochka is so fine,’ ‘Yurochka is so talented,’ and ‘See Yurochka go.’” She added, imitating some Yuri's Angels, he suspected, with an exaggerated, high-pitched voice and an overly dramatic swoon.
"What exactly are you planning, Mila?" Yuri narrowed his eyes at Mila, suspicion creeping into his voice. “Why do you keep saying ‘we’?”
Mila just smirked, her expression giving nothing away.
“You’ll see…” She said, a hint of mischief in her tone.
A few hours later, after a change of clothes and a visit from a hairdresser to style his hair into something a little more camera-ready, Yuri found himself sneaking out of the hotel with Mila by his side. They moved quickly and quietly, slipping through the streets of Milan like they were on some secret Russian spy mission, which, given the circumstances, wasn’t too far off. The city’s early winter chill hung in the air, making their breath puff out in little clouds, adding an almost cinematic feel to their covert operation.
Yuri wore a sleek black jacket that gave him an edge, the fabric heavy enough to keep the cold at bay but light enough. The jacket even had a hoodie and underneath, he rocked a fitted black sweater that clung just right. His pants were a pair of tailored gray slacks, and on his feet were bright yellow sneakers. But perhaps the pièce de résistance was the white cashmere scarf from the Team Russia Olympic set. He had ditched the more obvious jacket, opting instead for the scarf with its discreet little Russian flag embroidered at the end.
As they approached the grand, domed entrance of the Galleria Vittorio Emanuele II, with Ornate architecture, glass ceilings—it was like someone had decided that shopping should also be a religious experience. The Galleria was packed, a constant flow of people moving in and out of the luxury stores, their conversations a steady hum that buzzed in Yuri’s ears. It was the perfect place to stage whatever ridiculous stunt Mila had cooked up.
And then, right in the middle of it all, was Phichit Chulanont, waving at them like they were meeting up for a casual brunch instead of executing a last-minute PR plan in a foreign country.
Phichit, at 30 years still as energetic, stood out in the crowd. Time had been absurdly kind to him—his features only seemed sharper, his skin still holding that glow that spoke of his blessed genetics more than the skincare routine Viktor had recommended years ago. Despite being "old" by figure skating standards, he looked every bit the high-performance athlete, even now. Dressed in a sleek dark fitted puffer jacket, while a black scarf was wrapped casually around his neck. The tailored washed off denim jeans and pair of black gloves and a knit beanie completed the look.
The winter chill of Milan didn’t seem to faze him. Phichit’s eyes sparkled with the same mischievous energy that Yuri had always known, and as they approached, that familiar, slightly devilish grin spread across his face. Yuri sighed internally. Even after all these years, Phichit was still a walking ray of sunshine, almost annoyingly unchanged.
"Yuri! Mila! Over here!" Phichit called out, his voice cutting through the noise of the crowd. His wave was as enthusiastic as ever, drawing the attention of passersby, curious about the sudden burst of energy disrupting the otherwise composed Italian morning.
"You’re not serious, right?" Yuri shot Mila a look that clearly conveyed his exasperation.
"Oh, shut up and wait to hear the plan. You’ll thank me later." Mila just grinned, her eyes twinkling with amusement and mischief.
As they got closer, Phichit greeted them with a grin that was a little too wide for Yuri’s liking.
“Hey... Just so you know, I’m all to helping, but I’m not sucking anything from you. Not even for a Gold Medal. Is that okay?” The Thai man said with a wink to the blond, that was meant to be playful but just made Yuri want to die for a moment.
Mila burst into laughter, the kind that turned a few heads in their direction.
Yuri just rolled his eyes so hard it was a miracle they didn’t get stuck.
“Yeah, yeah, hilarious.” He grumbled.
Yuri narrowed his eyes, a skeptical scowl pulling at his features as he turned to Mila. His patience was already thin, and this little setup wasn’t doing it any favors.
“Are you serious?” Yuri’s voice was laced with exasperation as he gestured toward Phichit, who was standing right there with a 'I can hear you, you know?' look in his face. “This is your big plan?”
Mila just shrugged, unfazed by his irritation. She was still chuckling, clearly amused by the whole situation. “Shut up and wait to hear it out, Yura,” she said, her tone teasing but firm. “You might actually like what we have in mind.”
Yuri huffed, crossing his arms over his chest. He glanced around, noticing a few curious glances from passersby who were clearly wondering what this small group was up to. The grand architecture of the Galleria Vittorio Emanuele II loomed around them, its intricate designs and high glass ceilings making everything seem both more significant and utterly ridiculous at the same time. The early morning light filtered through the arches, casting a golden hue over everything, but Yuri wasn’t in the mood to appreciate the scenery. Phichit, noticing Yuri’s growing irritation, tucked his phone into his pocket and took a step forward, his expression shifting from playful to slightly more serious. For a moment, the usual exuberance in his eyes was replaced by a calculated, almost strategic gleam.
“Relax, Yuri.” Phichit said, his voice taking on a more soothing tone. “We’ve got a strategy that’ll make this whole scandal work in your favor. You just need to let me work my magic.”
Yuri’s eyes narrowed further. Trust wasn’t something he handed out easily, even to people he had known for years. His mind raced, considering the possible implications of whatever ridiculous scheme these two had cooked up. But at the same time, a part of him—likely the part that was completely exhausted and sick of the whole situation—was curious.
“This better be good,” Yuri muttered, crossing his arms even tighter, more as a defense mechanism than anything else. He couldn’t afford another screw-up, not with everything that was riding on these Olympics.
Phichit’s smile returned, full force, and this time, it was almost blinding.
“Oh, it will be. By the time we’re done, you’re going to be trending for all the right reasons.” As Phichit spoke, a small group of tourists passed by, their heads turning as they recognized the trio.
Their plan was simple yet clever: they would attribute Yuri’s outburst to a lack of sleep, portraying his foul mood as the result of exhaustion—something every athlete and their fans could understand. But that wasn’t all. To create a compelling visual bait—or as Mila put it, "honey to the bees"—Yuri would showcase his ballet skills.
Yuri raised an eyebrow, still skeptical but curious. “And how exactly do you plan to do that?” he asked, his tone sharp with sarcasm.
Phichit didn’t miss a beat. “We’ll kick things off with some ballet shots—show everyone that you’re not just a skater but an artist. We’ll hit all the major spots in Milan—the Duomo, the Sforza Castle—and then we’ll flood Instagram with these stunning images. We’ll make it clear that your outburst was just the result of exhaustion. You know, ‘All I needed was a little beauty sleep’.’” he added with a grin, already picturing the captions that would accompany the photos.
Yuri’s scowl deepened. “So we start here?” he repeated, looking around the Galleria.
“Exactly,” Phichit confirmed. “The Galleria is perfect for this. It’s grand, it’s elegant, and it’s quintessentially Milan. Plus, it’ll make for some stunning visuals.”
He thought about his ballet sessions with Lilia, the hours spent perfecting each movement, the discipline it required, and how maybe at the beginning it was only something he made as obsessively as he did for the ambition of being the best-it had always been a refuge for him even until now—a place where he could channel his emotions and find some semblance of peace. Now, that discipline would be put to a different kind of test, one that involved more than just his usual audience.
Mila, who had been listening intently, finally spoke up. “This will show a different side of you, Yura. People love a good redemption arc, and this will give them just that. Plus, it’ll remind everyone why you’re a champion—not just because you can skate, but because of your dedication.”
Yuri listened, a small part of him begrudgingly impressed by how well-thought-out the plan was. He wasn’t thrilled about having to dance around Milan for the sake of PR, and wasn’t a fan of this whole “redemption arc” nonsense, but he knew it was necessary. The media could be vicious, and if this was what it took to get them off his back, so be it.
It was then that he noticed someone else approaching—a familiar face that added another layer to this already bizarre day. Sara Crispino, dressed in a chic winter coat and boots, her dark hair cascading in loose waves. Since retiring from figure skating two years ago, Sara had become a well-known TV personality in Italy, working on a variety show on RAI 1, the most viewed TV channel in the country. Her section was all about sports, making her the perfect ally in this situation.
“Sorry I’m late.” Sara said, her breath visible in the chilly morning air. “Traffic was insane.”
Yuri raised an eyebrow, watching as she effortlessly integrated herself into the conversation. It looked awfully suspiscious.
“Let me guess,” he said dryly, “You’re part of this grand scheme too?”
Sara smirked, unfazed by his sarcasm.
“Oh, you bet I am. I’ve already arranged to talk about the importance of sleep for athletes in my section today. We’ve got a doctor lined up to explain why it’s important for high-performance athletes, especially during something as intense as the Olympics.”
Mila nodded approvingly, clearly pleased with Sara’s addition to the plan. “This is perfect. While Phichit and I handle the social media side, Sara’s segment will reinforce the message on television. We’ll have all bases covered.”
Yuri’s thoughts began to spiral as he realized the full extent of their plan.
As the group continued to hash out the finer details, Phichit couldn’t resist a bit more enthusiasm. “And we’ll end it all at the main Townsquare in the Olympic Village. That’ll be the grand finale—maybe a perfect arabesque, or something equally stunning. It’ll be the perfect statement, right in the heart of where everything is happening.”
Sara added, “And I’ll make sure to hype that up on my show. ” Her lips curling into a teasing smile.
“You all better be right about this.” Yuri rolled his eyes, but a tiny, reluctant smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth.
“Have a little faith, you idiot.” Mila said, her voice filled with confidence.
Yuri shook his head, trying to ignore the grin threatening to break through his usual scowl. He wasn’t going to admit it out loud, but maybe—just maybe—this could work out after all.
But he suddenly stopped in his tracks, the false wave of optimism coming to a screeching halt as a realization finally caught up to him.
How the hell had he managed to forget about Viktor in all this chaos? Sure, things had been moving at breakneck speed since Mila arrived, but still—his coach, his idiot coach, had been radio silent since yesterday after lunch. He’d even considered sending a text to apologize for dragging him into this mess but never got around to it. And now, with everything happening, he hadn’t heard a single word from him.
“Wait... I need to let Viktor know what’s going on.” Yuri said aloud, pulling out his cellphone. “Does he even know about this plan?” he asked, his fingers already dialing Viktor’s number. Mila and Phichit exchanged a quick glance, the kind that Yuri knew all too well—the one that screamed, “Oh crap, how do we tell him?”
Phichit, who had been scrolling through his phone, suddenly coughed awkwardly and looked a bit flustered. He stepped forward in a half-hearted attempt to stop Yuri from making the call. “Uh, actually, Yuri—”
But it was too late. The phone had already started ringing. Yuri waited, each ring feeling longer than the last, before deciding to hang up. Something was definitely off. Viktor never missed a call, especially not from him.
“What’s going on?” Yuri asked, the edge in his voice sharper than before. “Why are you acting weird?”
Phichit hesitated, the usual cheer in his demeanor faltering. “Well,” he began, then sighed. “I’m sure I sent Yuuri a message letting him know I was with you and Mila, working on a plan. But... I don’t think Viktor’s in any shape to, um, emerge into the world right now.”
Yuri’s eyebrow shot up, his concern now blending with irritation. “What are you talking about?”
Phichit’s gaze shifted to the floor as he scratched the back of his neck, clearly trying to find the right words. “So, Yuuri finally made it to Milan after scrambling through a bunch of different connection flights, and... well, he had a little ‘surprise’ for Viktor.”
It hit Yuri like a speeding Zamboni, and his eyes widened in horror. He immediately held up a hand, cutting Phichit off before he could dig his grave any deeper. “Nope. No. I already know too much about their sex lives. I don’t need any more mental images scarring me for life.”
Phichit stifled a laugh, clearly enjoying Yuri’s reaction a little too much. “Trust me, I wasn’t planning to give you details—although my dorm back in the Village is probably the only thing 'scarred for life'. But yeah, it’s probably best if Viktor stays, uh, not really available for a little more.”
Yuri rolled his eyes, trying to shake off the unwelcome mental images. Viktor and Yuuri were probably off somewhere having some kind of grand, over-the-top sexcapade, and while the thought made him want to hurl, he grudgingly admitted to himself that it was better this happened now rather than during the competitions. Viktor being a lovesick puppy was manageable; Viktor being a sad, tense and distracted coach, not so much.
“I swear, those two...” Yuri muttered, half in exasperation, half in resignation. But somewhere deep down—beneath all the layers of sarcasm, bitterness, and annoyance—there was a small part of him that was relieved. Viktor and Yuuri finally being together and reunited at last, and in the midst of all the chaos, it made things feel a little more bearable. Almost as if the pieces of his life were finally starting to fit together after months of everything being off.
Mila then smiled and gave him a knowing look. “Come on, Yura. Let’s get started. We’ve got a lot to do today.”
Yuri huffed. “Yeah. Let’s do this.” He nodded, steeling himself for what was to come. Then, with a dramatic flourish, he shrugged off his coat and handed it to Mila. “Would you take my coat? I’m not about to dance around Milan in this thing.”
Mila took the coat with a smirk. “Of course, Your Highness. Can’t have anything ruining your grand performance.”
Yuri shot her a mock glare, but there was a ghost of a smile tugging at the corners of his lips. “Just make sure to not wrinkle it. It’s not cheap.”
Phichit, who had been trying (and failing) to contain his amusement, finally let out a snort. “Don’t worry, Yuri. We’ll make sure everything goes perfectly. By the end of today, you’ll be back to being the Ice Prince everyone loves to hate.”
Yuri rolled his eyes, but he couldn’t help the faint grin that crept onto his face. “Yeah, yeah. Just remember, I’m not smiling for any damn camera.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it.” Phichit quipped, already mentally drafting the perfect Instagram captions.
The setting sun casted long shadows across the designer storefronts—luxury boutiques that seemed out of place amidst the normally rugged atmosphere of an Olympic venue, but this was Milan, after all. The city of fashion and luxury. Snow had begun to fall lightly, dusting the ground with a fine powder and adding a layer of quiet beauty to the bustling village. Otabek sat in the cozy café, the warmth inside a sharp contrast to the cold, snowy evening outside. The café was bustling with energy, filled with athletes, volunteers, and a few lucky tourists who had found their way into the Olympic Village. The scent of coffee and freshly baked pastries mingled with the low hum of conversation, creating a comforting atmosphere, but Otabek could hardly focus on any of it.
Vetta, bundled in her bright pink parka, sat across from him, sipping her hot chocolate. She was talking, but Otabek barely registered her words. His thoughts were elsewhere, tangled in the tension that had been building inside him since yesterday. The café, usually a place of refuge, only heightened his sense of disconnect tonight.
As he absentmindedly stirred his coffee, Otabek’s attention was drawn to a large OLED screen mounted on the wall. The volume was low, but the visuals were impossible to ignore. RAI 1, Italy’s most popular channel, was running a live segment from the town square in the Olympic Village. Otabek recognized the scene immediately.
There, in the center of the square, was Yuri.
Despite the cold, Yuri was shirtless, a white scarf draped elegantly around his neck. His movements were precise, powerful, and mesmerizing. The camera captured him mid-performance, executing a series of Tour Jeté jumps with an ease that belied the difficulty of the maneuver. His final move, a Grand Jeté that seemed to defy gravity, left the crowd clapping and cheering in the square.
Otabek’s chest tightened as he watched. Yuri’s raw emotion was palpable, the anger and determination clear in every jump, every spin. Even through the screen, he could feel the intensity, the raw emotion that Yuri poured into every movement. He knew Yuri was angry—angry at him, angry at the world—and seeing him channel that anger into his performance only made it more evident. The bitterness in Yuri’s movements, the fierce determination in his eyes, it all spoke volumes.
The café patrons began to notice the broadcast. Excited whispers and murmurs spread through the room as people turned their attention to the screen.
"Isn't that Yuri Plisetsky?" someone near the counter asked, their voice tinged with awe.
"Yeah, that's him! He's been all over the city today," another added, leaning in closer to watch.
“He’s even more incredible in person,” a woman at a nearby table commented, her eyes glued to the screen.
A young couple entered the café, brushing snow off their coats. They were still talking excitedly about what they had just witnessed outside.
“We literally bumped into him!” the young man exclaimed, his voice filled with excitement. “And he smiled at us! I swear, my heart stopped for a second.”
“He’s so much hotter in person,” the woman added, her face flushed with excitement. “And that performance was amazing!”
Vetta leaned forward, her eyes wide with disbelief and excitement. “Oh my god, Beka, did you see that? He’s amazing!” she exclaimed, her voice filled with awe.
Otabek couldn’t respond. He couldn’t tear his eyes away from the screen. He was close, so damn close to Yuri, but he might as well have been a world away. The tension in his chest tightened, and the café’s warmth felt suffocating.
As the live feed continued, Sara Crispino’s voice filled the café, her tone serious and professional as she narrated the event. “Right now, we’re live in the town square of the Olympic Village, where Russia's very own Ice Prince, Yuri Plisetsky, has been performing for the crowds. Despite the chilly weather, he’s putting on an incredible show, demonstrating why he’s one of the top contenders for gold this year.”
The camera panned to the crowd, who were captivated by Yuri’s performance. Sara continued, her voice more animated now, “You can really see the passion and determination in his movements—Yuri Plisetsky is known for his fierce competitive spirit, and it’s on full display here tonight. But remember, as we host the Winter Olympics here in our beautiful country, it’s important that we respect the athletes who have traveled from all over the world to compete. They need their space, and we should be mindful of that.”
The camera zoomed in on Yuri’s face, capturing the intensity of his expression as he completed his final move and took a bow. He was panting slightly, but a smile formed in his lips. The applause from the crowd was deafening, even through the screen. The café erupted into applause as well, the other patrons caught up in the spectacle playing out on the television. Otabek remained stil. He could feel the pull, the urge to go find Yuri, but something held him back.
Vetta noticed his change in demeanor, her eyes narrowing with concern. “Beka, you’re zoning out! You’re not even paying attention. Did the cold freeze your brain or something?”
Otabek blinked, snapping back to reality. “No, just... thinking.”
Vetta grinned, clearly enjoying herself. “Thinking? About what? Let me guess—you’re planning your next brooding photo shoot. ‘Otabek Altin: the Silent Hero of Kazakhstan.’ Very mysterious, very cool.”
Otabek only blinked at her teasing. “Something like that...” he replied, not really sure how to feel.