Chapter Text
Sochi, 2014
Victor
The Sochi Olympics hadn’t even really started yet and Victor was already exhausted. Everyone expected him to be buzzing with energy, what with being the poster boy of his home Games, but he just…wasn’t. He felt drained.
These were his third Olympics.
Turin, 2006. He’d been eighteen years old, fresh into the senior division. His eighth place finish had made everyone who mattered in the sport sit up and look at him.
Vancouver, 2010. Twenty-two and on the cusp of starting his winning streak. Gold medals were still rare. He chased each and every one with the hunger of a starving man. He’d left with a silver medal, determined to go one better the next time.
But now it was the next time, and all he’d known since that silver medal had been placed around his neck was gold. He was getting bored of it, and he hated himself because of it.
Still, when he was dropped off in front of one of the city’s many rinks, he couldn’t help his sigh.
Today, it was Aeroflot’s time to have him. Yesterday, it was Visa. The day before that, Samsung. At least he got to be on ice for this shoot. He was to appear against the captain of the Russian ice hockey team, for his sins. Ilya Rozanov, he bet, knew less about how to move elegantly on the ice than Victor did the American hockey league he played for, which was really saying something.
“Ah, Mr Nikiforov,” the creative director smiled at him as he walked through the door. He shook off his bad mood and smiled at her in his charming, practiced way. “It’s so lovely to meet you. If you would follow me, I’ll show you your outfit and your changing room, then you can join Mr Rozanov on the ice.”
The costume was simple, just a pair of black trousers and a sky blue blouse. It suited him, he thought as he twisted this way and that in a mirror, but he couldn’t imagine a hockey player pulling it off in quite the same way.
He touched up his own makeup, unsure if they had an artist out there, but unwilling to be photographed under the harsh lights of a rink without at least attempting to conceal the dark bags under his eyes and the rough, chapped texture of his lips.
Satisfied, he laced his skates and made his way to the rink, where a tall, broad man was cutting up the ice with showy stops, spraying ice everywhere. Victor only just resisted rolling his eyes.
He took off his skate guards, placed them on the barrier, and pushed off onto the ice with a sigh of relief.
His peace was cut short a mere five seconds later.
“Nikiforov,” a deep voice greeted him.
He turned and saw Ilya for the first time. He was nicer looking than Victor would have expected, with hazel eyes and wild but soft looking curls. He didn’t have that broken-nosed, beaten up look that most hockey players he knew had, though he looked like he could have caused them.
“Ilya Rozanov,” he smiled and offered his hand. “Nice to meet you. Are you enjoying being back in Russia?”
It was clearly the wrong thing to say, if the way Ilya scowled was anything to go by. “For a chance to bring glory to the Motherland? Of course.”
The sarcasm took Victor by surprise, and he laughed, which seemed to surprise Ilya in turn.
“Isn’t that what we all live for?”
Ilya snorted, “careful, golden boy. Don’t let them hear you talking like that. If they find out you actually have a personality behind the medals, they won’t be happy.”
Victor ignored the dig and studied the man in front of him harder. Ilya Rozanov was full of bluster, but even just these moments of quiet study seemed to shake him.
“Whatever,” he scoffed and looked away, “when’s this stupid thing starting anyway?”
“They might have been waiting for you to fully destroy the rink first,” Victor said airily, pointedly looking down at the rough surface of the ice before pushing off to finish his own warm up in blessed silence.
*
Ilya
Breaking: Victor Nikiforov of Russia wins his first Olympic Gold, continuing his unbroken winning streak.
Ilya scowled down at his phone. Victor fucking Nikiforov. Mr Perfect.
His victory wouldn’t be as bitter had they not gone into the Games as its two poster boys - one ice rink, two sports, two chances at gold. Victor had upheld his end of the bargain, and Ilya had let down himself, his team, and his country.
Fuck.
He didn’t know what to do. He didn’t want to be in the Olympic Village anymore, but going home was unthinkable. He didn’t want to be alone, but he couldn’t stand the looks of pity on everyone’s faces. He didn’t even want to talk to Shane, to see the pride of his silver medal reflected in his eyes, even if a small part of him was happy for him.
He looked back down at his phone screen, at the photo of Victor standing on top of a podium, holding up his gold medal for a rapturous home crowd, a smile plastered to his face.
Victor looked every bit the perfect hometown hero, but Ilya had seen him close up. There had been a brittleness to him that he hadn’t expected, one that resonated uncomfortably with how Ilya himself often felt, dressed up in cool, well-earned superiority.
Maybe Ilya should have expected that fragility. After all, Victor was one of the most famous athletes in Russia for both his winning streak and his winning looks, but the rumours about him had swirled for years. Even Ilya, living in America most of the time, was well aware of them.
He locked his phone and threw it away from his body.
Time to go out and celebrate Victor’s win whilst assuring everyone in earshot that he wasn’t like that. No, he lost gold medals as a real man, all dressed in shoulder pads with a helmet and mouth guard. He hated that people would respect that.
*
Yuuri
The Olympic Games were blaring out from every TV in the onsen, defying escape. Each glimpse at the festivities in Sochi sent a rush of shame through Yuuri’s body, and then admonishment at even thinking that he could have been good enough to go. Of course he wasn’t there. He never would be.
The TV was currently showing an ice hockey match, everything about the sport so different to his own that Yuuri found himself watching it in rapt confusion. He couldn’t believe the speed of the play and the violence of it all, how the game turned a peaceful, elegant ice rink into a battleground. He tuned into the commentary, hoping everything would be explained, but the commentators were gushing about one player in particular: Shane Hollander.
Apparently, he was the best of the best. The reason they were saying this so gleefully was revealed a minute later when a goal was replayed and the close up of Hollander’s face showed him to be Japanese, or at least of Japanese descent. Yuuri bit his lip. The commentators’ pride at his skill was silly, he knew that. This guy played for Canada, had probably lived there his whole life, he wasn’t on the Japanese team. There was no reason for Yuuri to compare himself to him.
But when did logic ever stop him from spiralling?
He got out his phone.
Shane Hollander was the same age as him. Shane Hollander was a second time Olympian, having been at his hometown games in Vancouver four years before. Shane Hollander was at the top of his sport, and had been since he debuted on the professional stage.
And Yuuri was on the brink of quitting his sport entirely, after years of trying and failing and embarrassing himself. Yuuri was living at home, working for his parents. Yuuri had never been the best of the best, not even at the Ice Castle. Yuuri had never given the Japanese commentators anything to shout about so happily.
He resigned himself to spiral. At least Victor was skating later, he could look forward to that.
*
Shane
“Shane Hollander?” His name, said in a Russian accent, made him shiver instinctively. But before he’d even turned around, he knew he wouldn’t see Rozanov there. The voice was too soft, too silky, the accent a little less harsh. He was right. It was Victor Nikiforov, the Russian figure skater. He’d just won gold, Shane recalled.
“Victor Nikiforov, nice to meet you.” Shane stuck out his hand, “hey, congratulations on the win.”
“Thank you,” Victor smiled at him and Shane’s stomach twisted a little. He was undeniably pretty in a way that put him on edge a little. His eyes were bright, ice blue and lined with almost white eyelashes, and his silver hair flopped over his forehead in a way that just had to be styled. He was…distracting, to say the least. And he wasn’t even Shane’s type. “Congratulations to you, too.”
“Oh, er, thanks.”
“Silver medal, nothing to sniff at. Although next time, you’ll go for gold, yes?”
“Um, yeah, of course.”
“Is what I did,” Victor smiled serenely, “silver in Vancouver, gold here.”
“And what’s next?”
“Pah, I am old for figure skater already. There’ll be no next time.”
Victor didn’t look old, not even with his silver hair. He squinted at the other man, “how old do figure skaters compete until?”
“Hmm, twenty seven to thirty. There is always old man out there, but normally not past thirty one.” He laughed, seemingly to himself, “although maybe I break that record too.”
Shane laughed along, not at Victor’s words, but at how they could so easily have come from Rozanov. The thought of his part-time lover made his amusement fade. He wondered where he was. Licking his wounds alone in his room or having them licked away by someone else? Another athlete, another pretty stranger. Shane felt vaguely sick.
“I suppose I’m lucky, hockey players don’t usually retire until their mid to late thirties.”
“Yes, lucky,” Victor agreed with his words but his face pinched slightly, like he couldn’t imagine having to skate that long.
“So how old are you, then?”
Victor’s eyes lit up at that, his whole demeanour turning into something mischievous. Again, Shane was struck with his similarities to Rozanov.
“Why?” The Russian purred, “are you looking for gold medal trophy husband?”
The words, so brazen in their forwardness, shocked Shane into speechlessness. The balls on this guy, to come out with that here, in Russia, as one of the most recognisable athletes of the Games!
He just laughed, and answered the question like he hadn't just said that. “Twenty seven,” he said around chuckles, “like I said, old. Need retirement plan.”
“Well, you might need to look elsewhere,” Shane tried to say it dryly, but it came out as more of a squeak.
“Oh, you are taken already by different gold medal winner?”
This time, Shane really was speechless. There was no way Victor could possibly know, right? No, he couldn’t. And he was Russian, he wouldn’t be laughing about the hockey team’s loss like this if he was talking about Rozanov.
“No matter,” Victor continued on without waiting for Shane’s brain to come back online, “I will think of something else to do after skating.”
He winked, took an overly sexy sip of his drink, turned on his heel and left.
What. The. Hell.
Did Shane just have a vibe that attracted any queer Russian athlete to him like bees to a bright flower?