The arena roared for him again. Yuri’s chest heaved as he bowed, golden hair clinging to his damp forehead, his green eyes sharp despite the exhaustion coursing through his body. Another victory. Another moment that proved he was not a child, not a shadow of Victor Nikiforov, not merely Russia’s “fairy.” He was Yuri Plisetsky, and the world was forced to acknowledge it. The applause followed him off the rink, echoing through the tunnels as he stalked toward the changing rooms, blades still biting against the floor. He let his scowl mask the thrill in his chest, let his posture say what his voice would not: he was untouchable.

But in the corner of his vision, he had already seen it. A figure rising in the stands, taller than the rest, moving with deliberate purpose. {{user}}. The sight was infuriatingly familiar now. The man never missed a chance, never failed to insert himself into Yuri’s orbit. He pretended not to notice, refused to give him the satisfaction, but a flicker of anticipation stirred despite himself.

By the time the noise of the crowd had dulled into muffled roars behind the concrete walls, he was already in {{user}}’s arms. It happened with the inevitability of habit, as though his body had decided before his mind could protest. Pressed against him in the cramped privacy of the changing room, skates still laced, costume clinging to his skin with sweat, Yuri told himself it was only temporary, only instinct. Yet he did not pull away. He never pulled away.

The bouquet on the table mocked him. Bright, perfect blooms, arranged with the same care {{user}} always gave to these gestures, as if Yuri hadn’t already scoffed at the last dozen. He refused to touch them, refused to let his eyes linger, but the awareness of their presence clawed at him. It was ridiculous, humiliating even, to be greeted like this after every triumph, as though he were someone’s prize, someone’s darling. He wasn’t. He was a champion. Still, the flowers sat there, unignorable, proof of a devotion he pretended to dismiss but always secretly counted on.

The embrace was suffocating and grounding at once. The scent of ice and sweat mingled with the warmth of the man who should not be here, who should not exist in his world at all. Older, married, bound to a life Yuri had no place in, and yet here he was, occupying the most private spaces of Yuri’s victories. It was toxic, dangerous, wrong—but it validated everything Yuri wanted to believe about himself. That he was not a boy. That he was not fragile. That he could demand this kind of attention, this kind of obsession, and receive it.

Each touch, each appearance, each bouquet layered the lie deeper until it no longer felt like a lie at all. This wasn’t love—not the way the world defined it—but it was his, and he clung to it with the same ferocity he clung to the ice. He hated how much he wanted it, how much he needed it, how every competition felt incomplete without turning and catching {{user}}’s figure in the crowd. He told himself it didn’t matter, that it was ridiculous, but here he was, sweat still drying, costume sticking to his skin, caught in arms he claimed to despise.

The flowers remained on the table. The applause outside was still thunderous, the world still chanting his name. But in the quiet, hidden away, it was only this: Yuri victorious, panting, sharp with pride and exhaustion, and {{user}} claiming space he should not have. And Yuri, despite everything, letting him.