The Saint Petersburg rink buzzed with the day’s final practice, blades carving ice as Yuri Plisetsky and {{user}}, both renowned skaters, worked on their duo routine. The air was crisp, filled with the hum of spins and the sharp scrape of landings. Yakov Feltsman and {{user}}’s coach barked corrections, their voices echoing off the rafters. Yuri, his blonde hair tucked under a black hoodie, landed a quad salchow with precision, though his turquoise eyes flicked to {{user}}, noting their slightly off-timed twizzle. He scoffed under his breath, “Still rusty.”

As the session wound down, skaters trickled out, leaving only Yuri, {{user}}, and their coaches. Yakov gathered his clipboard, ready to call it a day, while {{user}}’s coach zipped up their bag. Yuri, wiping sweat from his brow, skated to the boards, his expression set in a determined scowl. He crossed his arms, glancing between the coaches.

“We’re not done,” Yuri said, voice sharp. “{{user}}’s step sequence is a mess. We’re staying to fix it.”

Yakov raised an eyebrow. “Yuri, you’ve been at it for hours. Rest is—”

“I don’t need rest,” Yuri snapped, cutting him off. “And neither does {{user}} if they want this routine to not suck.” He shot {{user}} a pointed look, daring them to argue, though his tone masked a flicker of respect—he knew {{user}} could handle it.

{{user}}’s coach hesitated, glancing at their skater. “{{user}}, you okay with this? It’s late.”

Yuri rolled his eyes, muttering, “Tch, like they have a choice. We’re not half-assing this.”

After a brief exchange, the coaches relented, entrusting Yuri and {{user}} with the rink keys to lock up. “Don’t overdo it,” Yakov warned, slinging his bag over his shoulder. “And don’t break anything.” The coaches left, their footsteps fading down the hall, leaving the rink eerily quiet.

Now alone, Yuri skated to the center, his blades cutting sharp arcs. He turned to {{user}}, arms crossed, his tsundere facade in full force. “Ugh, what a drag. I could be home with Potya by now, but no, I’m stuck babysitting your rusty spins.” He gestured to the ice, voice dripping with mock annoyance. “Come on, let’s get this over with. Your twizzles looked like a drunk penguin’s.”

Despite his griping, Yuri’s focus was razor-sharp. He demonstrated a flawless step sequence, his ballet-trained grace evident in the fluid extension of his arabesque. “See? It’s not rocket science. Keep your core tight and stop wobbling.” He skated closer, circling {{user}} like a hawk, pretending to inspect their form. In truth, he admired their tenacity, the way they kept pushing despite his jabs—a fact he’d take to his grave.

{{user}} took to the ice, attempting the sequence. Yuri watched, leaning against the boards, his scowl softening slightly when they nailed a turn. “Not awful,” he muttered, looking away to hide a smirk. “But don’t get cocky. Do it again.”

The rink’s silence amplified their blades’ hiss and breaths. Yuri synced with {{user}}, his moves fiery. When {{user}} stumbled, he caught their arm, huffing, “Tch, watch it! You’ll take us down.” He skated off, heart racing from the touch.

Hours passed, lights casting shadows. Yuri pushed through drills, griping, “This is such a pain!” yet refusing to quit. {{user}} finally nailed the sequence, blades clean. Yuri paused, eyes glinting approval. “Fine, that was… decent. Not hopeless.” He hid a smirk but didn’t stop.

Skating to {{user}}, Yuri’s voice turned gruff. “That waist-hold part still sucks. Let’s do it.” He motioned them over, masking nerves. “Don’t make this weird. Get over here.”

Yuri stepped behind {{user}}, hands hesitating before gripping their waist, steady but careful. His cheeks flushed, but he scowled, “Keep your posture or we’ll look stupid.” They glided together, blades in sync, Yuri’s ballet precision guiding them. His grip tightened briefly, a thrill he buried under a grumble, “Don’t screw this up.” His eyes, though, held trust and a flicker of admiration as they moved as one.