Author's Notes: Inspired by a comment thread I had with possibleplatypus on AO3 on a somewhat unrelated fic, and obviously inspired by Yuri's Exhibition Skate, "Welcome to the Madness". Basically my thoughts on why I think Yuri made this thematic choice for his performance. Also: I enjoy writing in Yuri's voice.

Unbeta'd stream of consciousness that's fresh off the presses, but I hope you'll still enjoy it! As always, let me know your thoughts!

Who is Yuri Plisetsky?

Yuri Plisetsky is not fucking Agape.

Innocence? Unconditional love? Please. Like he's some kind of blindly devoted little puppy, running around, begging to love everyone around him. Ugh. He agreed to take on the piece because it's Victor's choreography, because it was the only way to drag the forgetful, lying bastard back to Russia, because he wanted to wipe the floor with that piglet.

And then he lost, and he was stuck with the stupid performance, sans Victor. Sure, Victor had a point about him being too young and inexperienced to choose his own image, about breaking the boundaries he had unwittingly set for himself. Sure, he learned a few things through performing this song: that he can pull this sort of sappy shit off on the ice, that he can be innocent, that he can and has unconditional love for another. He broke the fucking world record with this performance.

But just because he can doesn't mean he is.

Yuri Plisetsky is not a fucking "prima donna" ballerina.

Classical music? Piano concertos? It took him, what, a million years to pronounce the title of the fucking song right. (Allegro Up-Your-Goddamn-Ass.) The only time Yuri ever listened to classical music was when his grandpapa took him to the Russian ballet because the old man thought he might enjoy it – bless his sweet, ageing heart – but once was enough for Yuri to know he hated it.

But he gamely took it on, because it's Lilia's choreography, because it was rife with speed and intensive technical difficulty, because he sold his soul to win gold. So he listened to the stupid music, day and night, trained to it, lived it, breathed it. And he pulled it off: beautiful and magnificent, a real "prima donna" of the ice.

But just because he can doesn't mean he is.

So who the hell is Yuri Plisetsky?

"Hard rock. Maybe heavy metal."

Yuri pulls out his earplugs to shoot a glare at Otabek. "What?"

"Deciding on the genre that defines you," the dark-haired boy replies, unfazed. He offers an ear bud. "Tell me what you think."

They're sitting on the carpeted floor of Yuri's hotel room, surrounded by a scattered mess of music CDs, the only light coming from the glow of Otabek's laptop. When Yuri had asked Otabek for help with his gala exhibition, Otabek pulled out all the stops and went totally old school, bringing out his CD collections and entire music playlist. Who the hell even owned CDs anymore?

("You carry this shit around?" Yuri asked incredulously, picking through the CDs.

"I'm a DJ," Otabek said, as though that was the answer to everything in the universe.)

Taking the earpiece, Yuri sticks it in, sinking into a full body bend to reach forward and tap idly at the laptop keys. Almost immediately, his mind is flooded with noise. Behind the rapid, heart pounding drumbeats and shrieking guitar riffs, there's some sort of incoherent screaming in the background. It's loud. It's angry. It's in his headspace, fills it, stimulates it, crashes straight in like some desperate hobo invading someone's backyard – he's here to stay and there's nothing you can fucking do about it.

"It's perfect," Yuri breathes, and Otabek flashes him a smirk that sends a bolt of electricity through his veins.

After (not) listening to Yakov and Lilia lecture him on his image and blahblahblah lips moving, whatever. Yuri doesn't give a shit about his image, because oh, right, he almost forgot: Yuri Plisetsky is no fucking fairy.

"Hm," Otabek grunts noncommittally. "Turn around."

Yuri spins slowly, showing off the tight, leather crop top clinging to his skin.

This time, Otabek agreed to go out shopping with Yuri for the perfect clothes to match the perfect music. Otabek's awesome in that he somehow always manages to find all the best and affordable rock slash grunge slash dark and dirty clothing stores with just the clothes Yuri's looking for. ("I'm a DJ," he explained, and Yuri wonders why the hell he even bothers asking.)

"Not loose enough."

Yuri turns his head to look past his shoulder, green eyes slanting. "You better be talking about the top, Beka."

Otabek crosses his arms. Looks up at the ceiling contemplatively. Shrugs. "I was talking about the top."

"Then what was the fucking pause?"

Otabek snorts. "You're the one who wanted to 'show the Katsudon true Eros'."

"Yeah, but it's gotta be me, you know, not some random sex-depraved street walker looking for his next rich fuck."

"There's a difference?"

"Asshole." Yuri rolls his eyes, secretly drinking in Otabek's light, airy chuckle, before storming through the curtains of the fitting room and wrenching the fabric to the furthest edge so he could try on the next top. The pants were easy: leather, leather, leather, and black, of course. It's the top that they're struggling with, and that's because Yuri wants it to send a message, like, look at me, I ain't no child and I ain't no fucking lady. (Eat that, JJ.)

After much browsing, twirling, and strutting about the corner of the store, feeling like a complete idiot – stupid Beka and his stupid sexy "walk for me, kitten" – they eventually settle on a top that exposes his back, and his stomach, and is loose enough (shut up, Beka) to slide ever so gracefully up the length of his chest when he arches a perfect bridge on the ice.

When Yuri demonstrates a tiny segment of the choreography for his coaches, Yakov practically foams at the mouth while Lilia's perpetual prune-in-the-mouth face actually looks scandalized. (Score one for Yuri Plisetsky.)

"You are sixteen," Yakov yells after he's gotten a handle on his weak-ass emotions, "Put on a damn jacket."

So he drags Otabek out again to find a jacket. And he does put on a jacket.

But no one said anything about keeping it on, and by then, Yakov can't even get the words out, so distressed that Lilia has to whip out the brown paper bags.

As the gala exhibition draws near, with Victor and the piglet getting more and more giggly and disgusting with each passing day, Yuri still feels something's missing. Yeah, the music speaks to him, the clothes fit, the choreography's on point, and yet… something is missing.

It's not fully Yuri Plisetsky; it's not all of him.

Victor and the Katsudon are no help, telling him shit like "oh how you've grown" and "but it already looks so risqué". (No, assholes, for the last time: stop talking like my goddamn parents.) Georgi thinks it's the make up and basically badgers him to no end about adding "spice to his eyes", so yeah, fine, Georgi can do his damn make-up, if it'll get the lovesick psycho off his back. Then Mila insists on quality checking his make-up after hearing about their agreement, nagging at him and body lifting him like he's some human barbell until he agreed to that, too.

(All he learns from talking to his team is that he needs a fucking new team.)

Otabek slips a pair of sunglasses over his eyes, startling him out of his reverie.

They're sitting across from each other at a café near the hotel, catching a small break in between practice and from the pair skating duo's disturbingly accurate reenactment of his grandpapa's favorite soap opera romances. Otabek's coffee is black, a cup of pure, unadulterated caffeine, which Yuri totally respects. Yuri's choice of drink is tea, because tea is amazing and healing, and his grandpapa always makes him a cup to go with his delicious pirozhki. Oh, and he takes his tea plain too, because he's also a grown-ass man.

Except he doesn't quite feel like one right now, with the foreign eyewear sitting on his nose, unsure of what the hell his reserved friend - okay, fine, more-than-friend - is trying to say this time.

"Uh," says Yuri intelligently.

"Thought it'd add to your look," Otabek says, lips quirking in that imperceptible smile of his.

It takes him a moment.

And then, for some reason, looking at the handsome Kazakh through the darkened lens of his new gift, Yuri finally, finally sees the light.

"You," Yuri says, "You get me."

Otabek raises an eyebrow, which is silent Otabek speak for: have you gone cuckoo on me?

Yuri takes off the sunglasses and leans forward across the table. "Who am I, Beka?" he asks, eyes burning with fierce intensity.

Otabek meets his stare calmly. "You're Yuri fucking Plisetsky," he says, and Yuri knows then that he's found his missing piece.

So who is Yuri Plisetsky?

Yuri Plisetsky is an angry, loud, in-your-face, motherfucking Russian tiger who will take to the ice and give you a goddamn brilliant gold-worthy performance you will never forget.

And, thinks Yuri as he whips round to fling his sunglasses at the screaming crowds, locking eyes with Otabek's penetrating gaze, those strong, deft hands working at that portable "I'm-a-DJ" turntable:

He has the unforgettable eyes of a soldier.

Welcome to the madness, bitches.