Yuuri Katsuki once believed gold was a finish line...
Yuuri thought moving to Russia would feel like the next chapter.
Like skating into a warm-down routine after the final spin.
Instead, it felt like standing on the edge of a frozen lake and realizing...he didn’t know how thick the ice was.
St. Petersburg was beautiful. Beautiful and brutal. The cold clawed through the seams of his coat. Strangers stared. He missed conbini coffee. Missed vending machines. Missed understanding signs without squinting.
Viktor said he could teach him Russian. “Start with the important words,” Yuuri said. So Viktor taught him любовь, then здесь, then остаться.
Love. Here. Stay.
Yuuri didn’t say them out loud. He just nodded.
Mila showed him how to haggle for apples at the market.
Yakov yelled at him less than expected.
The rink smelled like metal and ice—different than Detroit’s sterility, different than Hasetsu’s warmth.
But it was a rink. He could work with that.
Viktor’s apartment had high ceilings and cold floors.
Too many mirrors. Not enough ramen bowls.
Yuuri unpacked slowly, like he wasn’t sure if he was staying or just if this was real life now.
He forgot how to move with Viktor.
He knew how to be his student. His competitor. His fantasy.
Now he was brushing his teeth beside him, buying milk, folding socks.
It felt more intimate than kissing.
And when Viktor returned to the ice... Yuuri didn’t know how to watch him.
As a coach?
Or as a lover?
Or maybe as the boy who once idolized him?
He just watched. And felt like he was bleeding in reverse.
They trained at different times.
Yuuri liked the silence.
Viktor liked the music.
Yuuri didn’t say he felt small next to Viktor’s effortless charisma or how much he missed being the only one Viktor skated for.
They fought.
Over nothing, at first:
A forgotten lunch. A bad practice. A towel left on the floor.
Then over something stupid Yuuri said,
“Maybe you don’t need me here.”
Viktor flinched. Didn’t answer.
Phichit called.
Yuuri cried into his phone and Phichit said, “This isn't a 'lovers to enemies' trope. You just moved in together, it's a big change.”
Then, they talked about Detroit and that time when attempted to make a pizza, almost blasting their apartment when they forgot about the oven. Now, they laughed about it.
The next week with Yakov's blessing, Yuuri started skating before sunrise.
Alone.
He built a routine from scratch.
Raw. Stripped of flourish. Just breath and blades and fear.
He didn’t show Viktor. Not yet.
This was his.
They apologized.
In gestures. In silence.
In holding hands under the table at dinner.
“I want you here,” Viktor finally said.
Yuuri answered, “And I want to stay.”
Yuuri learned how to curse in Russian from Yurio.
He used it once when the toaster exploded. Viktor nearly fell off the couch laughing.
They started using Japanese at home.
Viktor mispronounced everything with dramatic flair. But when he said okaeri, something knotted in Yuuri’s chest came loose.
Yuuri finally showed Viktor the routine.
No music. Just movement.
Viktor watched, silent, glassy-eyed.
When Yuuri finished, Viktor whispered, “That’s the most honest thing I’ve ever seen.”
It didn’t get easier overnight.
Some days Yuuri still felt like a guest.
Some nights Viktor curled around him like he was afraid Yuuri might disappear.
But there was laughter again. And practice. And tomorrows.
Hasetsu was his family.
Detroit was memory.
St. Petersburg was still strange.
But it was where his skates lived now.
And his toothbrush.
And Viktor.
And if Viktor was here, then it was home.
Yuuri Katsuki once believed gold was a finish line.
Now he understood... there was no final pose.
No standing ovation.
This wasn’t the end.
Because their love had no end.
One night, curled up on the couch, Yuuri asked, “What now?”
Viktor smiled. “Now?”
He reached to take Yuuri's hand into his.
“Next level.”
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