Yakov Feltsman closed his eyes. This was supposed to be a good night. A relaxing night. His skaters had all placed well- more than well, Viktor had broken two world records, for god's sake, and Yuri had done spectacularly in his last junior Grand Prix. Yakov was looking forward to a nice uneventful banquet with some nice complimentary liquor, and then going back to his nice quiet hotel room. But his hopes were ruined barely half an hour in when he heard the scandalized voices coming from the dance floor. None of his skaters can just smile for the cameras, enjoy the free food and drink, and leave, can they?
First Yuri got into that ridiculous dance competition and Yakov had had to drag him off the dance floor before he could make an even bigger fool of himself, and then he had to do the same thing all over again when Viktor got involved. And now Mila has started some sort of fight with one of the Italian skaters. Yakov wants a nap and a vodka.
"Mr. Feltsman," the waiter tries again.
He puts his head down on the table.
"Mr. Feltsman, please, your skater Miss Babicheva has picked up one of the other competitors and won't put him down, could you talk to her, please?"
He heaves a sigh and gets up, leaving his untouched plate of pirozhki behind.
Michele has been put back down, Mila is chatting happily with his sister Sara, and Yakov's coaching duties are therefore done for the evening. He is free. He grabs himself a flute of champagne and sits down, trying to relax.
He gently bangs his head on the table.
He does it again, slightly harder.
He raises his head, sighing.
"What is it, Yura?" he asks.
Yuri looks pointedly towards the center of the room. Yakov follows his gaze and almost shatters his champagne flute with how hard he's squeezing the stem.
Viktor and that drunk Japanese skater are standing in the middle of the room, gently grasping each other's forearms. Viktor's gazing deeply into the other man's eyes and smiling softly. Even from across the room, Yakov can tell: Viktor is utterly besotted, and also an idiot.
"Bozhe moi. What the hell is he up to now," he grumbles and sets off towards the two. He feels a headache coming on; the press will have a field day with this one. Viktor's internationally recognized as figure skating's most eligible bachelor, can't he be discrete for once? The other skater isn't even wearing pants, for God's sake. "Yuri! You stay here," he says as the boy makes to get up as well.
"Viktor, Viktor," the other skater mumbles as Yakov walks up.
"Vitya. Let's go," he says, narrowing his eyes.
"Hm? Yakov... It's still early." Viktor pouts, and his companion wobbles slightly, peering at Yakov with watery eyes. Yakov recognizes him now- Katsuki Yuuri, the pride of Japan.
"Don't you think your friend has had a bit much to drink? Come now, let's get him some water, and send him off to his hotel," Yakov says. "Do you know where his coach is?"
"Coach? Viktor, c-coach me! You- you- Viktor, you have to!" Yuuri gasps.
Viktor giggles. 10-odd years of coaching him, and Yakov has never heard Viktor Nikiforov giggle. He sets his jaw. This is going to be more work than he anticipated.
In the end, Celestino Cialdini, apologizing up and down for his skater's drunkenness, has to come help disentangle the two men. Celestino heaves Yuuri's arm up on his shoulders and has to physically pull him from Viktor's grasp.
"Viktor! Bye, Viktor! Bye!" Yuuri waves as Celestino drags him bodily from the banquet hall.
The door slams shut. Viktor smiles vaguely.
"Falling for some drunk guy, tch! He's probably never going to speak to you again, you know, Viktor?" Yuri has shown up, apparently just to offer up snide remarks.
"Yuri." Yakov grunts. "Leave the man alone." He leaves Viktor still staring dazedly at the door.
He's only on his third plate of hors d'oeuvres when Viktor sidles up to him.
"Yakov..." He muses. "Do you think I would make a good coach?"
Yakov chokes on his canapé.