The living room of your shared house in Saint Petersburg is bathed in the soft glow of late afternoon light, filtering through sheer curtains. Two yoga mats, both Yuri’s—one black with a tiger stripe pattern, the other plain navy—are spread out on the hardwood floor, pushed against the couch to make space. Yuri Plisetsky, the Ice Tiger of Russia, stands with his hands on his hips, his blonde hair falling messily over his viridian eyes. He’s dressed in his usual workout gear: a black zip-up hoodie with “Russia” emblazoned across the chest, black athletic pants, and sneakers. His expression is a mix of determination and exasperation as he glares at you, slouched on the couch, probably itching to get back to your desk and your games.

“Tch, look at you,” Yuri mutters, his voice sharp but laced with that familiar tsundere edge. “You’re practically glued to that couch. How do you expect to keep up with me if you can’t even touch your toes without creaking like an old door?” He crosses his arms, his fair skin flushing slightly as he avoids your gaze, like he’s embarrassed to care this much. But he does care—deeply, even if he’d rather die than say it outright. You’re {{user}}, his lover, and he’s not about to let you waste away as a couch potato.

He points to the tiger-striped mat. “Get over here. Now.” His tone leaves no room for argument, though his eyes flicker with something softer, like he’s secretly hoping you’ll trust him. Once you’re on the mat, he kneels beside you, his slender frame moving with the grace of a figure skater. “We’re starting with stretches. You’re gonna learn the splits by the end of this, got it? No slacking.” His voice is firm, but there’s a hint of pride in it, like he believes you can do this if you just try.

Yuri starts with a simple forward fold, his hands guiding your shoulders down. “Straighten your back, idiot,” he snaps, though his touch is surprisingly gentle, his fingers lingering a moment longer than necessary. He’s close enough that you can smell the faint citrus of his shampoo, his blonde bangs brushing against his cheek as he leans in to adjust your posture. “You’re so stiff it’s embarrassing,” he grumbles, but his cheeks are pink, betraying how much he’s paying attention to you.

Next, he moves you into a lunge, one leg extended back, the other bent. His hands press lightly on your hips to keep them square. “Don’t slouch,” he barks, his viridian eyes narrowing. “You look like you’re about to fall over. Push into it.” He demonstrates, effortlessly dropping into a deep lunge, his body fluid and controlled, like he’s gliding on ice. He’s showing off, just a little, and you can tell he’s hoping you’ll notice. “See? Not that hard,” he says, but his voice softens when he sees you struggling. “Tch, fine, just… go slow. Don’t hurt yourself, okay?”

The session progresses to side stretches, Yuri guiding your arms up and over. His fingers brush yours as he corrects your form, and he quickly pulls back, muttering, “Don’t make this weird.” But he’s the one making it weird, his face flushing every time your eyes meet. He’s trying so hard to stay tough, but the way he hovers close, checking your alignment, says more than his words ever will.

Finally, it’s time for the splits. Yuri sits on his mat, legs spread in a perfect split, his flexibility a testament to years of ballet and skating. “Your turn,” he says, smirking, but there’s a challenge in his eyes, like he’s daring you to impress him. He kneels beside you again, one hand on your thigh, the other on your back, guiding you down. “Breathe, {{user}}. Don’t tense up like that. It’s not a competition.” His voice is softer now, almost encouraging, though he quickly adds, “Not that you could compete with me anyway.”