Viktor had an unnatural amount of control over his body. However, an abundance of blue flowers and confetti were bombing him, and the earsplitting cheers were watered by his ringing ears. The stadium erupted, and fans leapt into the air. He watched them, soul above his body. He no longer felt the pit in his stomach, his heart in his throat, or the sweat on his brow. A flash of light blurred his faulty vision, but his eyes met Yakov, who watched him with a quenched grin from across the stadium. Viktor's feet dodged incoming landmines, and carried him to Yakov.

He was disconnected from his voice. It said, "what just happened?"

Yakov pat his shoulder: chuckled at him. "You just won the Grand Prix Final."

At once, invisible hands yanked him into the center of the rink, and pulled his gold medal around him. Cameras flashed. People swarmed to ask him questions, have him sign things, shake his young, corruptible flesh.

How does it feel being the senior world champion?

Who created your routine?

Do you plan on competing again next year?

Not knowing what to say, and his English being shaky at best, Viktor stared at the flashing cameras and held the microphone in his awed hands.

"I want to feel like this forever, I think."

A distant voice, seductive and dangerous, said: "Now that you have it, you can't let it slip. You've tumbled into fame."

Viktor made his way to the lockers, floating into and out of his body. He was golden. His art and his athleticism had won. Only the weight of his trophy, possessively clutched to his chest, drew him down to Earth. He felt its gravity.

But he was exhausted from the countless nights spent with a pounding heart and aching knees. He was physically drained from his incredible performance, and mentally drained from the exertion of preparing it. He was a content, floppy mess.

He changed from his leotard into sweat pants, fully expecting to go straight to his bedroom. He regarded a pair of seafoam green eyes from across the room - Chris something-or-another, this year's Junior champion.

"Congratulations," Chris said, his voice smooth as jazz as he fumbled with a neck tie.

"You as well," Viktor replied, gesturing to his smaller, but equally as brilliant, gold metal. He slid into his tee shirt and shut his locker. "Are you going to the banquet?"

Chris nodded, all twinkling eyes and butt cheeks. "Of course! I have to keep up my image, right?"

Viktor regarded him curiously. Keep up an image? Why did he have to do that if he was exhausted and shaking from exertion?

Chris waved genially, puckering his lips and staring ahead, terminally sure of himself.

Viktor ripped on a suit and tie, and called Yakov to assure him that, of course! he'd go to the banquet. He'd smile and wave and sign photographs for hours if that's what it took.

He's approaching a third golden metal when Viktor realizes that fame waxes and wanes like a round cheese in the night sky. After his second victory, Viktor was in the spotlight for being a consecutive winner at such a tender age. He watched his routines go viral on youtube, his name get printed into countless magazines. People would approach him on the street and take photographs, hands slipping around his waist so easily but begging to touch his divine skin. He'd feel like moving gold. He'd feel warm and full. But the weeks would pass and his fame would ebb: soon nobody would care who he was, and he'd grow stale. Fame was tidal, pushing him away and pulling him in so aggressively that Viktor, no matter how much control he exercised over his body, could barely keep his feet planted.

He couldn't keep doing this. He'd impressed everyone too well in the beginning, winning twice in a row by a large margin. Analysts had already predicted that his third victory, so long as he didn't choke at the last second, would be large as well. Nobody was surprised. Nobody saw his art: the effort and beauty behind each performance. Creating beautiful art and demonstrating his superior athleticism simply wasn't enough for people to care. Everyone knew he'd win the prelims, so he wouldn't make the headlines.

He chopped off his hair. It was one of those parts that was so tightly wound into his identity that it was the perfect solution. He was approaching twenty years old. He could pull off an alteration into a seductive young bachelor. Surely he'd find himself, if he was sexy enough in his free program, featured a women's magazine, or around tumblr with cute animals at least.

It worked. Cameras and eyes and media outlets swarmed for a time. But like all of his surprises, this one would subside, too.

Yakov found other solutions, because Viktor was his career. He said it was time for Viktor to take the next step as an athlete in the spotlight. He found a lawyer to set up a deal with skating gear companies. Viktor signed the papers in the appropriate places, the English too complex to read and his hand too used to performing someone else's motions. The lawyer guaranteed that simply wearing clothing with the logo in obvious places would make Viktor a walking advertisement. So long as he won the next Grand Prix, he'd have plenty of photographs printed in magazines for a long time.

Suddenly, Viktor became yet another man's career, and a moving mannequin. The entire season was spent in interviews with big-whig magazines that were paid to advertise the clothing he wore, but advertised his name just the same. He grew closer to the spotlight, and finally, wasn't stale.

So, although restrictive and overpriced, Viktor wore the skates that he was uncomfortable in, but could still win with. Even if they bruised his feet, and even if he felt an ankle injury brewing beneath the laces, he had to wear them. Even if his art suffered. He couldn't spend his time in bed, nights he couldn't sleep, without the company of his own name in the headlines. He couldn't be that alone.

He won, anyway.

By the beginning of his fifth consecutive season, Viktor's instagram had 100k followers. He'd found the perfect angles and lighting for his morning "#breakfastselfie," and the right ways to turn his hips for his "#workoutselfie." He found ways to hide his thinning hair. He bought burberry sunglasses, and would whip them off to wink at the flashing cameras on the way to his competitions. He lived for the snaps and applause. He loved finding his pictures in remote areas on the internet. He was seduced by the sound of his own name, especially on unfamiliar tongues. He loved hearing about his competitions on the morning news, a fleeting mention of his yet another victory to engrain in the withering pages of history.

Winning became a fact, not an option. Because whoever scored second place would always lose by such a large margin, Viktor believed nobody would ever beat him. He was bored, not even needing to try to win anymore.

It took more than ever to entertain. He'd advertised his art, his body, and his life. He had to find more ways to gain attention. He winked at the top of a triple salchow during his national final, not needing to pay attention to his tricks, and was printed on the cover of Sports Illustrated the next morning. He brought Makkachin to his competitions, and would hug him before going out on the ice. He'd add jumps in his routines as he went, keeping the entire audience on their toes. It became too easy.

Practice became optional, much to Yakov's discontent. Viktor would compete, soak up the applause, and find himself at a bar without stretching his overworked muscles. He'd wake up the next morning in a stranger's bed, cellphone screaming at him from across the room.

"You can't keep doing this, Vitya." Yakov said.

"Why? I won, didn't I?"

A sigh. "Because it's destroying you."

Viktor was at his lowest point after his fifth Grand Prix gold metal. He smiled and kissed it, but felt bored. He didn't even try to win. His art was the same as it always was.

He smiled at his fans, shook their hands, and made his way to grace his fellow athletes with his presence at the banquet, fully expecting to continue sinking lower and lower into a place so remote he couldn't recognize himself.

A breath of oxygen in a gas chamber. A candle in the dark. A set of hands that grabbed Viktor's sinking form and heaved him from beneath heavy, dark waters. Finally, some sight: some air.

That's what Yuuri was. Viktor had paid him no mind before, too deep inside himself to watch him fail his routine, or realize he was a fellow athlete, not some fan wanting a commemorative photograph. That night, however, Yuuri singlehandedly awoke Viktor from a gripping coma.

The banquet was dull, as usual. Viktor enjoyed the praise from his fellow athletes, but numbly, not knowing where his life was leading him. He was growing older. He didn't know if he could continue skating for another season. He didn't know how to retire, either, fearing the limelight would fade and he'd be grappling in the empty darkness. He'd spent so much time perfecting his art, obsessing over himself, and trying to stay in the spotlight that he didn't know how to simply enjoy being alive. He silently sunk.

That young man didn't even approach him, which was, alone, rather curious. However, things got more interesting when Viktor turned to take a selfie with Chris for a minute (because, come on, getting the angle right took time), turned back, and saw half of the champagne was gone, with a suspicious japanese man fidgeting beside it.

Then the dancing happened, and what was originally a lifeless formality became the most entertaining event of the night. Yuuri had started out just tipsy, weirdly swaying to some song in the corner. Viktor went to the bathroom, and came back - stunned, by the way - to a dance off between him and the junior world champion.

The whole situation was preposterous. The man had just lost the world championship, and yet had the audacity to get hammered and dance to dirty songs in front of all of his competition's family and friends. Some stern faces glared at him from the corner. Others clapped and laughed along with the dancers, cheering and swaying themselves.

Viktor felt a sort of warmth bubble inside his chest. He found he was not insulted that this guy just "soiled" his banquet. Rather, he felt his body become lighter, not knowing what to expect next.

Yuuri's body seemed to create the music. He moved like a hooker and a ballerina at the same time. He'd seemed insecure, yet was the life of the party. He'd flubbed all of his tricks on the ice, but worked the strip pole (why the fuck did Chris bring that with him) like a professional. He slurred his words, but created art with his fingers. He had rippling abs and dopey hair. He did a backflip on the floor, but couldn't zip his pants back up. He was a cacophony of contradictions. This man was the epitome of surprises.

Viktor couldn't take his eyes off him. Even when Chris pulled Yuuri's pants back on and draped his now-stained white shirt over his tight shoulders, Viktor felt his feet itch to join them.

"Wow," a woman - presumably an owner of some skating gear company, here to see the competition - said beside him. "That's just despicable."

Viktor breathed beside her, considering it. Yuuri currently shoved at his competitors, who struggled to button his shirt back up with laughter dancing in their eyes. Yuuri escaped their grasp, pointing and cackling and stumbling around once again. Yakov would not like this. His sponsors would not like this. Viktor was more nervous to inch toward the dance floor than he was entering the rink in front of thousands of people. For the first time in ten years, Viktor felt a spark inside.

"Oh, really?" He said, his champagne making him a bit brave himself. "I think he looks fucking sexy."

He didn't turn to see her face, too set on Yuuri's lit up expression at the sight of his hero approaching to tango.

A crowd must've gathered sometime, but Viktor only saw Yuuri's shifting shoulder blades, spinning heals, and shining eyes. Each time he touched his hands, arms, and back, Yuuri's warmth would send fire through Viktor's veins. He ignored the flashing cameras and clapping hands. It was Viktor, the music, the movement, and Yuuri.

He hadn't wanted it to end, but his dance partner was growing feeble and nauseous. Some of his competitors thought it best to take him to his bedroom, but not before Yuuri wrapped himself around Viktor - pants somehow missing again - and spoke the words that would alter Viktor's life forever.

"Be my coach!"

Laying in bed that night, but without his instagram page running wild, Viktor felt his tunnel vision fade. He could finally see a world outside of himself again. He'd finally felt something other than pride. He'd lost his hair, skates, and life. Fame had robbed him of everything he loved.

Viktor rolled over, turning away from the faded grey wall and toward the bright door, unlocked and waiting.

If the dance at the banquet was the spark, then the video of Yuri doing Viktor's choreography was the confirmation, and everything that followed was the expeditious process of falling completely and madly in love.

The morning after the banquet, Viktor awoke and rushed down to the free breakfast, hoping to see the beautiful man from the night before. But, as his competitors informed him, he'd left early that morning without saying goodbye to anyone.

Viktor's mood dipped for the next few months, wondering if Yuri even meant what he'd proposed that very special night.

Viktor skated for hours a day. Yakov saw this as Viktor finally taking his advice, and not destroying himself anymore. He was wrong. Yuri had become a fixation. Viktor skated, eyes closed, to the mental screenshots of that night. He made up routines as frequently as he ate sliced bread. Every time he thought of the man, his emotions ran rampant, and the movement would demand escape from his tingling fingers. Viktor was obsessed and confused, too much of a novice at feeling that he couldn't work up the balls to ask Yuri if he'd meant what he'd said. Instead, Viktor went wild, finally finding his artistry again, but still feeling that familiar emptiness. Yuri was gravitational, and Viktor felt the pull every day.

After watching the video, Viktor simply couldn't wait any longer. Once again, Yuri managed to surprise him. Yuri had taken something Viktor created, and represented it even more beautifully. Viktor saw Yuri as a new medium for his art: a body without the experience and arrogance, but perhaps with an emotional maturity that Viktor, despite being three years older, lacked.

He, once again, became entranced in Yuri's magnificent movements. In that video, Viktor saw perseverance, artistry, a little extra body fat, and the most beautiful person he'd ever laid eyes on. He bought the plane ticket the next morning, assuming this was Yuri's invitation, and blinded by rose-colored elatedness.

Viktor was the luckiest man alive. He could skate with his muse each day. He could finally experience life outside of skating. He ate probably an unhealthy amount of pork cutlet bowls. He fell comfortably in love with Yuri, and watched him grow the same feelings. He'd gained an appreciation for other skaters' work, and something more: life, and love.

It's 5am, and Viktor's phone is humming at the bedside table. He reaches across his student, arm fresh with the cold air outside of their comforter. He shuts it off, his lover stirring in the warm nest. Viktor shifts to stand. Yuri's warm arm slings across him.

"Don't go yet."

Viktor smiles and snuggles into his lover, who's all chest and warm arms. He kisses his forehead, watching a sloppy smile drag across his features.

Every morning is like this. Warm. Soft.

"Just five more minutes."

It's 8 am and Viktor has already been on the ice for two hours. His back is slick with sweat when he bends at the waist to catch his breath. He stands straight again, and smiles. He feels amazing, if not a bit tired.

The past year had been incredible. Viktor had the privilege of remaining Yuri's coach, despite talk of Yuri retiring after the last season. Apparently, Yuri was more of a sore loser than everyone made him out to be.

By the Grand Prix final, Viktor and Yuri had grown into each other like young vines intertwining on a warm spring morning. Life had settled. Viktor would wake up each morning knowing he had open palms and four shining eyes there, unconditionally. Yuri's there, and he admires Viktor's skating scores and his instagram posts and the way he snores a little when he sleeps. In turn, Viktor loves Yuri for his warm arms, how his eyes twinkle under the starlight, and how his palms are always open, willing to hold. The two of them are more than two week cycles. Life was always lighter: fuller.

Viktor made his way to the edge of the rink, still empty because the sun barely peeked over the horizon. He wiped the sweat off the back of his neck, and smiled to himself as he heard Yuri shuffling around in the back, wrestling with his shirt.

"Viktor!" Yuri cried out, still a bit dewy eyed from sleep.

Viktor raised a genial hand. "Good morning! How did you sleep?"

"You know the answer to that." Yuri leaned in for a gentle peck on the cheek. Viktor felt his heart stumble, far clumsier than he'd ever be.

"Right. So let's get to work, shall we?"

Yuri's normally smooth brow creased. "You don't want a break? I feel terrible that you're getting up so early to work on your own program, just to help me with mine."

Viktor had to wake up before the sun to train for his competitions so he could continue coaching Yuri. Most days, his body would be jello by dinner time, but he'd go to sleep satisfied each night. Truthfully, he wasn't too concerned about his program at all. Don't get him wrong; Viktor loves to win. But for once, he wants to see someone else win more. He wants to serve.

He swats Yuri's concerns away with a waving hand. "No no no, I can handle it, Yuri. I'm your coach, aren't I?"

Yuri nods, but doesn't seem convinced. He wraps his arms around Viktor's waist and pulls him close. Viktor feels home course through his veins. "You're my fiance, too. Of course I'm going to worry."

Viktor hugs him back. He doesn't say how much he adores Yuri, or how he feels human for the first time in years. Whenever Yuri touches him, he gets butterflies in his stomach. Whenever Yuri laughs at someone else's jokes, he smiles, but feels a twinge of fear of being left behind. Whenever he thinks about the Grand Prix Final, Viktor fears that he'll steal the gold medal from his deserving fiance.

"Don't worry. I will be careful."

I'll be careful. That was a lie. This program was his most technically challenging one yet. One wrong move, and he could be living for fame once again.

-and we're coming up on his final jump

-a quadruple lutz! Immediately into a triple toe loop!

-just incredible! Adding another jump in the second half, to incredibly advanced moves right after another

-But then, this is Viktor Nikiforov. It seems he's approaching a sixth win by yet again a large margin

-I wonder what surprises he will have left for the Grand Prix

Every night they go back to the room. It's not a two week cycle; Yuri is always there, always open armed and warm hands and words. He's there, admiring Viktor for everything in the media and the way he snores a little when he sleeps. In turn, Viktor loves Yuri for his warm hands and how his eyes twinkle under starlight and how his palms are always open, willing to hold. They're more than two weeks.

He's delusional around him, yet it feels like he's seeing clearly for the first time in ages.

It's the day of the Grand Prix Final, and Viktor's heart is leaping out of his chest. He's well stretched and too comfortable with his program. Yuri seems less anxious than usual, and chats with Phichit and Yurio easily, both having already skated wonderfully.

"Yuri, I think you're almost on. Let's prepare a bit." Viktor says. Phichit wishes him luck as Yuri approaches Viktor.

"If it's almost my turn, that means it's almost yours. Why don't you go stretch more?" Yuri says, and Viktor knew he'd noticed he was off.

"I want to see you off. Don't worry, I'm fine."

He couldn't have been more pleased with Yuri's performance. He always skated with passion, and seemed to write the music with his body. This time was even more poignant, however. Viktor saw the art that he and Yuri had created together. It was faithfully executed and deserving of a gold medal.

So when Yuri stepped off the ice with bouquets of flowers and other gifts from the stands, Viktor embraced him. It was his turn.

"You are beautiful, Yuri. That was everything I wanted to see today."

"Yeah, I'm really happy about it." He kissed him, but was ever aware of time and the buzzing around him. "It's your turn, now. Make me proud."

With that, everything sank. Yuri's performance was the result of the two years they spent working together, and how each of them grew. It was artistic, and beautiful, and deserving of the gold.

But Viktor's routine had more technical potential than Yuri's did on account of his performance anxiety. His program had a special surprise just for the Grand Prix - a move no male figure skater ever landed on one foot. And Viktor could do it. He could win and shock everyone watching and take the golden glory once again.

As Viktor let go of Yuri's warm hand, body numbing as it moved toward the center of the arena, he realized something that had been eating away at him for the entire season.

If I win this one... Yuri has to lose.

He saw the millions of faces, the cameras, the fans. He heard the announcer gloat his many accomplishments. He picked up his hands, and felt the missing gravity. He felt the weight of his first few metals, their taste on his lips, and watched them disappear. A new weight, the mass of a ring of gold around his finger.

The stadium went silent, and his eyes met Yuri's. His fingers were crossed, his face bright with excitement, admiration, and love.

The music started, and Viktor dropped his hands. He didn't move. The music stopped, and he heard distant, underwater voices. Yuri's expression changed to concern, and he seemed to shout some sort of encouragement.

Silly man. Like I'd ever be nervous.

An ear splitting ring, and Viktor saw them again: the faces, all staring at him.

He skated to Yuri, and grabbed his hands. He felt their weight, and relief.

"Viktor, what happened? What's wrong?"

Viktor, left as joyously speechless as he was during his first victory, simply said:

"I'm too old for these competitions."

When they head back to the hotel room, Yuri is still fussing and eyeing Viktor carefully. Viktor simply pulls him in, kisses his temple an inappropriate number of times, and watches the rose petals creep across his pale skin. Yuri fumbles with the key, and leads Viktor in like a precious, but fragile, glass.

Yuri places his gold medal on the bedside table, smiling at it with pride and conviction. But, so much better than Viktor in every way, he turns away, and moves to snuggle into Viktor's side. Viktor loves him for it.

"Congratulations, Yuri. You deserve that medal more than anyone."

Yuri's all kisses and coziness. "I'm really happy, Viktor. But...what happened?"

Viktor wraps his arms around him, and tucks him under his chin. He doesn't say, "you've made me a better person". He doesn't say, "I chose you, baby." He doesn't say he's afraid to spiral into giving his life away again. He doesn't say he wants to create, not entertain. He doesn't say, "I want to finally be able to enjoy skating for me." He doesn't say, "I like my art better when you're my medium." He doesn't say that Yuuri makes him feel warm, full, and light. He doesn't say, "how could I possibly want more gold medals when I have you?" He tells him the truth, but keeps some of it to himself.

"Life is full of surprises."

Viktor's gold is all wrapped up in Yuuri's skin, his bones, his breath, his arms. When the cameras flash and the microphones harass him, Viktor doesn't need a round object around his neck to feel less stale. He turns to Yuuri, and kisses him instead.