The gift presented itself in a number of ways. Yuuri's appeared when he was just an infant. Swaddled against his mother, draped in wool, he'd raised his pudgy little fingers toward the stuffed animal his father had brought him and, upon touching it, encased the toy pig in a thick coating of ice. According to his parents, always excited to relay the story for the umpteenth time, that's when they knew. That's when they called Celestino, the chief elder of the Eastlands to oversee his training. He was deemed a dancer. Hand of the Goddess. Protector of his people.

Yuuri read enough about Victor to know that his story had gone a bit differently… No one had been present to see his gift's first efforts. Victor's parents abandoned him early on, leaving him to an ailing grandmother and the mercy of the arctic streets. He hadn't been discovered until age eight, dancing in the lonely corridors of an orphanage, ice crystals forming and jeweling his silvery tresses as he twirled in the dark. But Victor was no ordinary dancer.

Victor was 'chosen' as they called it. Primaja. The dancer all dancers hoped to one day be. A Primaja only awakened every ten years or so to do the highest bidding of the Goddess. To dance the ritual at her shrine and keep the Fire God at bay. Near the end of their tenure, they helped to train the next in line. Once retired, they were revered and celebrated by all, often retreating into comfortable, secretive lives after spending so long in the public eye. Yuuri wondered how Victor would retire…

His fingers curled roughly into the arm of the sofa, eyes downcast. In his innermost daydreams, he imagined himself as the one Victor would pass the torch to. The shining new Primaja who would excel and flourish under his tutelage. Part of him had always known it couldn't be… He and Victor were far too close in age— a mere four years apart— for him to awaken as Primaja so soon after him. He was too old to present now and he couldn't even properly use his gift anymore. Not after what happened... He'd known all of this and yet still, he felt a deep, aching disappointment as he stared up at the television screen, the spunky blond smirking back at him, green eyes aflame.

Yuri Plisetsky, 14, of the capitol city, had just been named this decade's Primaja.

Yuuri shifted about uncomfortably from his place on the sofa and he felt a firm but gentle grip on his shoulder. Yuuko. He tugged at the pendant around his neck.

The press conference commenced. Yuri Plisetsky sat all suited up beside Victor whose soft blue eyes showed no envy or animosity at his looming retirement and the one who would eventually usurp him. Only his usual politeness and a teasing fondness for the boy at his side. His humility didn't seem to rub off on his companion, however.

"Yuri Plisetsky," one of the reporters addressed their panel. "What was your awakening like?"

Yuri gave a smug grin to the cameras. "It was insane," he shrugged as if he presented as Primaja everyday. "The lights went out for miles! Pine trees uprooted! Probably the strongest awakening in like a century."

Victor chuckled softly into his hand and the boy glared up at him.

Another voice called from the crowd. "You're only 14 years old. If the Goddess calls to you early, are you prepared to assume an undertaking of this magnitude?"

The blond scoffed, a look of pure arrogance tinged with agitation twisting his delicate features. "Prepared? I've been dancing since I was four." He folded his arms behind his head, leaning back against the conference chair with his legs open in the most ungentlemanly manner. "My mother was a Primaja? It's in my blood, dumbass."

Victor leaned forward, all smiles, long silver hair falling forward over his shoulders. "Yuri shows a lot of promise, but like any Primaja, he can stand to improve. He will be training with me to do his very best for the Goddess over the next year."

Yuri Plisetsky obviously did not like this. Seething, he scowled up at his mentor. He kept his voice low, but the mic on his lapel picked up the venomous "I don't need you, old man!" The video promptly cut to a clip of Victor gliding about an ice rink, the announcer speaking overhead about his tenure as a dancer. And a skater of course.

Unlike any Primaja before him, Victor chose to skate the ritual dances across the ice of the shrine. He said it gave him better movement and speed and allowed him to be closer to the ice covered shrine than his predeccesors. Yuuri watched, as he always did, hypnotized by the motions. Victor danced in the sheer, colorful robes donned only by the Primaja. They billowed beautifully around him as he soared over the ice, arms opening wide, hair fanning out behind him in silvered waves.

As always, the world disappeared around Yuuri, the living room, his parents, Mari, Yuko, the rectangular outline of the television— all gone. Only Victor remained, beckoning him with his body alone. Calling to him and only him. He lifted his hand slowly toward the screen so that Victor skated across the outline of his fingers, twirling over his thumb and gracefully toe looping onto his palm. His fingers curled in to possess him when all the color quickly seeped away from the screen, leaving it black and blank.

"That's enough of that," Mari sighed, eying her little brother from the floor cushions. Yuuko's grip on his shoulder tightened and he avoided her gaze.

"It should have been you, Yuuri."

"It's fine." He shrugged away, eyes still trailing the fibers of the red carpet at his feet. "It wasn't realistic for me to…" He took a deep breath before starting again. "I think we all saw this coming." Putting on a lopsided grin, he stood from the sofa. "I'm sure Plisetsky will do an amazing job."

"Kid seems like a nightmare," Yuuko's husband, Nishigori, put in.

Ignoring him, he turned to his parents. "Mom. Dad. Can you call Celestino and let him know I won't be needing his services any longer?"

Their features tensed in surprise and then they finally nodded rapidly to compensate for the pause. "Yes, of course, Yuuri."

Nodding with the same wavering smile, he turned toward the wood paneled staircase that led to the second floor. "I'm gonna turn in early." He moved to climb the first step and then the second, his back and neck burning with stares. Finally he paused to utter the tiniest of whispers, eyes shadowed.

"Sorry."

By the time he'd made it to the second landing, he was trembling, fat tears streaming down his cheeks. He'd failed them. Everyone in his hometown had rooted for him since he was just a child. They'd called him the Hasetsu Prodigy, the one whose gift appeared straight out of the womb. Rarely could a dancer claim that. Unfortunately, he'd peaked early, only to be replaced with a younger dancer of the same name. He snorted. Was it the Goddess's cruel idea of a joke? He buried his head in his hands once in the safety of his bedroom, the door shut behind him. Releasing a guttural sob, his back hit the wall and he slid down onto the floor. Dozens of blue eyes stared back at him, the color of endless, open sky, the color that painted all of his hopes and dreams for the past ten years.

He forced himself to gaze back at his favorite likeness of the bunch, the Primaja just before his first dance, bright eyed in robes of purple, rose and blue draped over his shoulders, a crown of ancient jewels resting atop his silvered head.

Victor, he thought, the image blurring as fresh, hot tears obscured his vision. I'm sorry.