Viktor Nikiforov was always first.

First at competitions. First at ice skating. First at perfection. Always always first.

And this was his pride. Number one. The best. The first. This was what allowed his nose to be held high. This was the helium to his ego that people constantly tried to pop.

He was always first.

So why didn't this irk him?

"Why am I ok with this?"

The question pounded over and over in his mind, eating away at his sanity little by little as he stared out into the rink, chin resting in his open hands.

It was 5 am. Practice wasn't due to start for another 2 hours.

This was the time when Viktor would shine. When he was alone, without a care in the world. It was always just him and the ice.

Any normal person who would watch Viktor's training sessions when other people were around would see a goofball. A man child. A person without the slightest care in the world. Somebody who didn't take their training seriously and saw his coach's advice as old news. A child.

That's because they never saw him. They saw Viktor Nikiforov, 5 time gold medalist, the emperor of the ice. An Angel sent down from the icy heavens above. Inhuman. A beast of perfection who never took these practices seriously because there was nothing to practice.

This was Viktor Nikiforov. The epitome of perfection.

They never saw Viktor.

They never saw the man who arrived to the rink hours early to practice. They never saw the man who flubbed his quad flip six out of ten times, only to get up each time to try it again. They never saw the man who ran out of breath halfway through a sit spin. They never saw the sweat, the blood, even the tears that would stain his cheeks weekly. They never saw the man who would choke on his own sobs in the safety of his bedroom. They never saw the man who has everything in the world, yet he had nobody.

They never saw that VIktor. The eyes of the world were plagued with a disease that masked insecurities as insights, flaws as fame, grime as grandeur.

Pain as perfection.

Sometimes Viktor wished he was the Viktor Nikiforov. Sometimes the man would watch Viktor Nikiforov dance on screen, and long to be in his perfect shoes, with perfect hair, and a perfect life.

Oh how he longed to be Viktor Nikiforov. The man who was always first.

But he knew Viktor Nikiforov wasn't real.

Viktor was first too. Sometimes. He was first to piss off Yakov. Always. He was first to make a witty remark. Most of the time.

He was first to practice. Every single day.

But today he wasn't. Today he has beaten to the rink. By a newcomer. Today he had come is second.

So again, the question in his mind banged on his skull.

"Why doesn't this irk me?"

His cerulean eyes followed a figure in the darkness, skating about the rink in a serene silence. At first he'd been unrecognizable. Here glided a mid-sized well built man with impeccable posture, noir hair softly brushed to the side to reveal black eyes staring intently at the ice. His skin was glowing with a healthy flush from the chill,  a cracked smile at his lips. Earbuds fell from his ears and ran down into the pocket of his black track jacket.

Had he not spotted the blue half-framed glasses resting on the boards, the man probably would have continued to go unidentified.

But as Viktor's eyes followed the man lazily, they fell upon said accessory, just a blob of shadow in the darkness of the room but still very much identifiable.

And his brain put two and two together.

That man was Chocolate. The new rinkmate with horrendous posture and a reserved demeanor was the same as that skater, skating tall and strong with a confidence made of steel.

Viktor's mind almost refused him the pleasure of believing it. How could this tall glowing man be the same as the silent spectator yesterday? Surely a glow-up this drastic was impossible in such a short space of time. At least, if it were, he'd have to ask what cream he used. In the dim light that streamed through the large window behind him, his skin looked to be soft as silk.

The room was silent, making way for only the sounds of blades scraping against the ice and the faint commute outside. He didn't know for how long he was watching Chocolate sway back and forth. His limbs had itched to skate out onto the ice, to join him in his training. But he couldn't bring himself to break the blissful silence. So he watched, the only indicator of time passing being the light that streamed through the window shifting to a warmer brighter hue. The man slowed to a stop without warning, eyes rising from his gaze at the ice to take in his surroundings. The Russian death-dropped to the ground as if his clothes were on fire and he were stopping, dropping, and rolling. His head swirled at the sudden movement after a long period of inactivity. He remained there for a while, scrunching his nose at the foul odor of the sweaty carpet desecrating his holy skin. And he listened. Listened for a shout. Listened for the sounds of ice skates approaching him. Listened for any sign that he had been discovered.

No such sounds came, and, holding his breath, he slowly rose from his position and peeked over the boards.

The room was empty, Chocolate having completely disappeared from sight. The only indicator of him ever having been there being the stray droplets of sweat glistening on the ice. His brows furrowed as he rescanned the room, searching every inch in pure confusion.

"I'm not even going to ask what the hell you're doing." A surprised yelp escaped from his lips at the sudden gruff voice as he fell over, rolling back and forth on his back before coming to a complete stop. Sighing, he let his head fall back and eyes look straight up... Into Yakov's furious glare.

"...hi."

"Get up." He snapped, stepping away to give the man ample room. Nibbling the dry coating on his lips, he slowly lugged himself to his feet, shifting to avoid Yakov's eyes like a child being reprimanded. The coach just stood there, shaking his head slowly in disappointment. "Your practice doesn't start for another two hours, what are you doing here?"

Viktor's chewing stopped and he blinked at the balding man (again not himself). "What?" Yakov slowly shook his head and sighed as he let his head fall into his hand.

"Either you somehow forgot in less than half a day or you didn't check your email last night, and I can guess which one it is." He mumbled to himself. "I moved your practice. It starts at nine now."

The room once again fell into total silence, save for the increased thrumming of Viktor's heart. Though the words had fully sunken in, it took just a bit longer for the meaning of them to make itself know. But once it did, the realization was almost overwhelming.

"WHAT?!" VIktor yelled the word in a tone 5 notches higher than he'd meant it to be, almost immediately clamping his mouth shut. His mind was a volcano of thoughts. He loved his morning practices. He adored the crisp untainted smell of fresh ice, the sound of blades leaving scratches and marks swirling around the frozen water. The slow increase in the faint sound of the morning commute not too far away. It was something he treasured. To think that it was very suddenly being taken away from him, well he refused to think about it. It was a concept that seemed so alien to him.

A small gasp from behind alerted him to a presence, and he slowly turned to see Chocolate standing just on the other side of the boards, eyes wide and jaw clenched. Viktor was dragged out of the slumps of thoughts and slapped into reality, as he was forced to meet empty charcoal eyes. He'd been discovered. His small wave and forced smile went completely disregarded.

"Damn.. cold."

"From now on..." Yakov butt in with an absolute disregard for Viktor's attempt at a greeting. "...I expect you here at 8:30 am sharp. No exceptions."

Immediately upon hearing the militaristic tone, the Russian's posture straightened, and he turned his head and gave a curt nod, all hints of his usual amiable demeanor now swallowed with the rare appearance of seriousness.

"I understand." He muttered just loud enough so Yakov could hear, keeping it just out of Chocolate's earshot. His lips aching with a forced smile, he turned and walked towards the benches without another word. Yakov eyed him.

"You're not going home?" He asked, coming an eyebrow. Another blow to Viktor's happiness. Still, fighting to keep is bright mask on, he smiled.

"Do you mind if I stay?

"That's not up to me." Yakov muttered, turning to face Chocolate, who was back in the loop of skating laps around the rink. It seems like the gazes caught his attention, and he looked up only to dart his gaze back down to the rink almost immediately. The walls that held Viktor's smile crumbled, and he lowered his gaze as well.

Yakov noticed this, and pursed his lips, crossing his arms and falling into thought. This would not do. No this would not do at all.

~~~

Yuri grunted in frustration as his shoulder collided with the ice, knocking the breath out of his lungs in an abrupt blow. A shrill chill creeped up his limbs as he layer there, panting. Growling, he bit the inside of his mouth once more, taking satisfaction at the slight sting and the taste of a droplet of blood. What had started out as an accidental occurrence had now become an anxious habit of his that, though he was sure it wasn't the best thing ever, was now done without a second thought to its name. Yuri stared up at the ceiling, disregarding the dampness of his clothes or his blond hair resting against the ice or the skaters that passed by. He layer there, and listened, continuing to chew on his mouth lining. And he thought. Thought about his failure. Thought about how fall. Thou get about how he just couldn't seem to land this jump. The thoughts were overwhelming, and he yelled out in frustration, pressing his palms to his eyes and watching the swirls of color swarm in the darkness.

"GAH why can't I do this?!" He burst, not caring that he drew the attention of everybody around him. Why should he care? They were all adults, didn't they have other....adult...things to be working on? They could surely ignore him, and though this was what his mind pushed for, the thought was almost saddening.

It was very quickly replaced by a replay of his each and every falls, followed by a disappointed look from both Yakov and Lillia, who, though he'd never admit it, he'd grown quite fond of.

These thoughts were suffocating, they were, and doubt began to swallow him up.

Yuri wouldn't consider himself an anxious guy; in fact he'd probably beat up anybody who called him such. His pride was his confidence; he knew he could make it to any final, and he knew he could win. It was these thoughts that drove him forward, pushed him to try and go through the hours of tortuous practicing and repetition. This was Yuri Plisetsky. The Russian Punk. The ice tiger. The all confident teenage ice skating prodigy.

And his mind was at war with itself.

He hadn't landed a jump all week; and for that, he blamed the newcomer.

The newbie, who he absolutely refused to refer to as the name agreed upon, threw everything off balance. Before there had been 4 skaters: Him, Viktor, Mila, and Georgi. Four. Even number. A perfect square. What wasn't there to like?

But now there were five, and he hated it. he Hated having less rink space; he hated having to share his practice with yet ANOTHER person. They'd been perfect before, and now that perfection was going to be tainted. It was change, and he despised every aspect of it.

Grunting, he swung his legs forward and sat up, tugging the hairband from his wrist. His hair. That's what it was. It was distracting him, that's all. He could land this jump, no problem. Immediately the world became multiple shades brighter at the absence of hair covering his eye. A shallow satisfaction washed over him as he rose to his feet, wiping the forming beads of sweat from his forehead and eyeing the ice in front of him. He could do this, couldn't he? Just a triple flip. Easy. Landed multiple times before.

His glare began to wander from the gray surface of the ice to anything around it. The slices in the surface. The blades of the skaters around him. The skaters themselves.

His eyes landed on one in particular, standing parallel to him, and his expressing deepened. There he was, the man that had become the bane of his existence for the past two days. He was staring ahead at the now-emptying rink, he's focused on the free space before him. His skate twitched, and Yuri noticed his stance was that of one who was about to attempt a jump. Narrowing his eyes, he forced himself to look away.

"I'm better than him. There's no way I'm going to let a...a... a pig beat me." And he entered a state of mind that he hadn't entered in seeming;y forever, though really it had only been just a week. The world faded away, and it was just him and the ice. Him and the rink. The air crisp like a fresh apple. The problems that plagued humanity nonexistent. In his head, the chords of the song he was to skate to echoed like faint footsteps in an empty mansion.

And he listened. And listened. And listened.

His foot inched to push off, to feel the exhilaration of gliding on ice. Still, he waited.

Somewhere besides him, the breath of skates moving against ice broke through the silence. His eyes snapped open, arms he pushed off.

Speed? Good. Trajectory? Good. Feelings in general? Awesome.

He spotted the gouge in the ice where he decided he'd launch, and began to prepare himself, lifting his leg and whirling so he was skating backwards.

It was at that moment that his breath began to falter, and not from exhaustion. Thoughts of 'what if's' began to swarm inside of him like bees, attacking his every move.

'What if I fall again?'

'What if I get hurt?'

'What if I fail?'

...

'Then he wins.'

Yuri took off.

~~~

The second Yakov opened his mouth to call that practice was over, he was off the ice, undoing his laces and slinging his skates over his back without so much of another word. He didn't make it far this time; he'd only stepped one foot out the door before he was yanked back, unnecessarily aggressively. A yelp escaped his lips, and he whirled quickly to glare at his kidnapper, only to be taken aback when it was no one other than Yuri who had restrained him. The blond's glare was focused somewhere else, his face drawn into a scowl. His face immediately grew hot with embarrassment.

"Oi." He muttered loudly, expression unchanging. "Viktor wanted me to tell you that we're going out to eat afterwards and he wants you to come with us." The words fell out of his mouth in a jumbled mess. "Viktor's words, not mine. He wouldn't shut up about it." He snapped quickly after, as if hoping it would make a point. Chocolate's eyes rose to glare at the man behind him, who was staring at the two intently. The platinum haired man turned away quickly upon noticing his gaze, sloppily occupying himself with his nails in a half-axed effort to seem occupied. Chocolate shook his head slowly.

"Why didn't he ask me himself?"

"I don't know, he was probably too shy or some shi-..." Yuri trailed off, snapping his head to stare at the man, eyes wide. "So you aren't mute!" The words had been soft, so quiet they could have been drowned by a small gust of wind. But they were there. And they had been heard.

...

And that was it apparently. Pulling his arm from the teen's grasp, he walked out without saying another word. Yuri just stood there, letting himself get accustomed to the shock. The outside was calm, but his brain was a hurricane of questions and emotions. And in that eye of the hurricane, there was one specific thought that wouldn't stop nagging at him, even as slowly turned and began walking back towards the bouncing man.

"Why me?"

"Tell me tell me tell me!" Viktor whined, shaking the boy's shoulders with a fervor that was slightly concerning. "Is he coming?" Yuri opened his mouth to answer, but caught on his words. Why did he care? So what if he had spoken. He was a person after all. That's what people do; they talk.

This one had just happened to talk for the first time in their presence. And to him, nonetheless. It slightly irked him, the one man he wanted to have a rivalry, and already partially did, the one man who had indirectly pushed him to land his first successful jump of the week, was the one man who had just spoken to him for the first goddamn time.

"Dammit how am I supposed to hate him now?"

"Uhh....Yuri?" Viktor's annoying voice broke through his thoughts, and he frowned.

"He said no." He muttered simply before walking off, refusing to wait for Viktor's answer. Said man made it known to him anyways, trailing behind like a puppy.

"Did you even try? You have to ask more than once, you know that, rig—" Viktor's trailed off as he considered Yuri's words. "Wait..he said no?'

Yuri had already stormed out of the room without bothering to reply.