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“Skating to the catchy notes of what might well be the most clicked mix of the weeks to come, yet another round of applause for the one and only Russian fairy, gold winner of the GPF, Yuri Plisetsky!”

I should have posted that piece online last night, then, I regret for a split second before I forget to care. Yuri is still lying down on the ice in his play-dead pose, panting, after I shot him. Metaphorically. My index finger still locked in that very shape, pointing down, mindlessly waiting for another culprit to murder.
I don’t know what to do with myself, so I stay away from the cones of attention and make the rounds to pick up the remains of Yuri’s improv stripping session. What was he even thinking, I’d ask, but truth is it did the job, so I won’t - to be unforgettable was the whole point, for as much as I’d like to think he doesn’t really need such extreme, flamboyant tricks for the public to notice him.
Well, he did live up to my request of seeing a whole new Yuri come to life on stage. Definitely.
Even though I don’t recall having ever talked about the getting gradually undressed part while discussing choreography and details with him the night before.
Neither did we agree on the outfit itself, in fact. We had picked these clothes together only a few days back, on the same day when I got my new pair of sunglasses - borrowed (stolen) by Yuri for the show - and now forever lost to the audience that promptly swallowed them whole, like some tasty treat worth killing for.
I’ll have him get me new ones eventually. I liked those.

I head for the piece of clothing furthest away from me to work in reverse towards the exit, and hopefully meet Yuri at the changing rooms after the necessary evil of rabid fans and even greedier journalists.
We exchange an upside-down fleeting glance before he stands up again, the ripped vest trying really hard to do its job but failing miserably.
I don’t even want to begin to think about the amount of creepy fanmail he must be receiving by old perverts on a daily basis. Something about this thought made my teeth clench hard enough to grind and make me shudder.

When the lights go out before turning back on to their default softer ambience state, I manage to capture a glimpse of blue and pink embracing on the stands and walking away together to the familiar sound of clapping - Katsuki and Victor Nikiforov in their matching clothes. Had they stayed to watch us? Had they cared for Yuri’s performance at all in the first place?
Would Yuri care to know, now it’s all said and done?

“The hero of Kazhakstan”, the voice of the commentator coming from my left forces my eyes to go from dark to blinding light again, and I squint to our faces on the screen of the device she’s holding, “Otabek Altin! We weren’t expecting to find you on the rink tonight, but given the enchanting spell you two cast upon us, I doubt anyone would complain at such an unannounced surprise. You were both absolutely mesmerising. Were you expecting such positive feedback? No need for modesty, please, you deserve all the attention you’re getting. You’ve suddenly conquered everyone’s agenda for the next months.”
The blurred image of Yuri surrounded by photographers burns itself onto my retina.
“No”, there is a reason why my coach begs that I’m kept away from interviewers. The utterly disappointed look on the lady’s face compels me to add, “I also wasn’t expecting to find myself on the rink tonight”, I really dislike it when I am dead serious and people laugh as if it were a joke.
“That is very funny, Otabek, please tell us more”, no way out of this interrogatory, “Does it mean our fairy hadn’t planned this performance in response to Katsuki’s breath-taking couple act with none other than the former five-times champion, Victor Nikiforov? We love to believe in such magic as fate, but it seemed very unlikely.”
A few of the paillettes embroidered on Yuri’s jacket crunch between my fingers.
“He doesn’t appreciate that nickname”, and the reporter did not appreciate my dry response in return, “and neither of us knew what Katsuki’s session entailed precisely. Yuri asked me to join him in his routine literally last night. We didn’t have time to plan ahead enough, so we mostly improvised.”

A blatant lie, of course. I can’t have them know that their golden boy would make his cat skate in a sparkling tutu without a shred of notice if it meant the audience would keep their eyes away from Katsuki Yuuri.
“Last night, you say. May I be nosy and ask what you were up to? Do you spend a lot of time together? You two seem very close as of late”, damn the idea of picking his clothes up, “might you be set on a quest to snatch the pink spotlight away from our lovey-dovey couple, besides the actual podium, perhaps?”

Actually I am half glad that they did not ask this very question to Yuri, for the self-entitled ice tiger can prove itself unforgiving in the face of those who dare to mention Katsuki’s and Victor’s romantic development.
Truth be told, the correct answer would indeed be yes. We have been spending quite a bit of time together, be it due to a series of circumstantial coincidences or properly planned encounters, throughout our days in Barcelona. Trying food places, going clothes shopping, checking out famous landmarks, taking selfies upon selfies despite my reluctance. I did not mind all that much, though, at the end of the day. Yuri seemed to be having genuine fun, and to say it as he himself would, this place is in fact very instagrammable.
It goes without saying that someone as devoted to social-networking as him would have answered in purposely vague detail about this or that rendezvous, so to make the interviewer question him further and hopefully forgetful of his sworn rival’s sentimental affairs. Or, at the very least, get sponsored by some store or restaurant we had been at.

Me? I am dissatisfactory by default, and see no point in spreading rumours just for the sake of popularity. It is an ephemeral, double-edged weapon. Not the kind of attention a professional athlete would want to be remembered for.
“Yuri is a dear friend to me”, the words come out after a pause that meant nothing but mere annoyance, yet the woman deliberately interprets it as the typical hesitation of a culprit caught in flagrante delicto.
I should have seen that coming.
“Nothing short of knightly from the Kazakh hero, of course”, I think I saw Yuri wave at me amidst the sea of predators, “Discretion has always been your best quality and our worst enemy, Otabek, but your demeanour throughout the piece spoke for itself, didn’t it? Let’s be honest. Intimately suggestive, to say the least”, someone just took a picture of my pissed off face. “It’s no secret that Yuri likes to play the alluring game.”

And by the time my eyes recover from being blinded by the flash, Yuri magically appears besides me.
Or rather, around me. His arm around my waist. Not sure how or when he got here.
And I am also not sure I want to know what he’s trying to communicate with such a hard pinch, but his nails dug into my side so brutally it makes me squirm.
Everyone notices but I still have zero clue what he meant by it. Sometimes I’m oblivious of my surroundings, he says. I say he’s just expecting too much from others.
“I was just telling them, Beka”, why is he speaking in his murderous tone, “about the news, our news I mean”, what on earth is he on about.
Another pinch, another hint flying right over my head. Perhaps he’s pushing it a little so to come out of the iciness of his towering throne, to show that he does have friends. I’m pretty sure the audience had guessed as much already, though.
I try to read the room but all I see is demanding eyes and shapeless people. Yuri is the only one not looking at me directly and he does that when he knows he’s in the wrong. Bad omen.

“We thought our hero to be apprehensive about sharing private matters with the fan base, but might he actually be... just a little bit shy? Seen as you’re so enthusiastically open about it, Yuri, mind telling us more?”, he giggles like a schoolgirl about to make confessions at a sleepover. More flashes, another pinch, more laughter.
What in the everloving fuck is going on.
“Oh he can be timid”, did he just nuzzle his bare chest against my arm purposely to be caught on camera, “but yes, we are indeed.”
Shocked open mouths and then there’s me, looking for shooting targets in the dark aiming at random.
Ohs, Ahs and I’m hoping to be enlightened to no avail.

Then “Dating”, says Yuri.
“Dating!”, says the reporter.
“Dating?”, says me, earning the gold medal at the Gran Prix Finale of fools who refused to believe Yuri Plisetsky would go to such illegitimate lengths out of sheer spite for the enemy.

Dating.
At first, the word doesn’t resonate with me and I instinctively think that it must be a joke I’m just too slow to catch on. This whole show had been staged for the sole purpose of making Yuri stand out against Katsuki and I’m not going to act as if I had never known. While some parts of it had been incredibly awkward especially in an improvised context - seriously, he could have at the very least told me he intended to strip, I would have looked less idiotically confused on camera - I was under no illusion that I had been picked to co-star at his side for some special merit. I had been the only one there. I was the obvious choice.
And I had gladly accepted the consequences, for Yuri. There is only one answer, I remember saying, we are friends, aren’t we? Why would I refuse, after all. Who would ever have the heart to say no to someone like him, I had wondered the night before. Someone heartless, maybe. Someone as motivated as he is, and I definitely am not.
But, dating? To pretend that we are something that we are not, just to counter-attack them newlyweds and chase after their popularity? Just to be more intense than them? It must be a joke. I must have misunderstood. Yuri is not that desperate to prevail and be noticed. Is he?
Is he?

“That’s amazing news, Yuri, Otabek. We’re ecstatic to be the first to hear about it, however, we can’t help but ask - are you not worried about the popular opinion on this matter? You two are a few years apart, aren’t you? Isn’t that a bit controversial? How serious is this relationship, Yuri? The counter tells us more than two thousand people are with us as we speak. One last declaration for the followers watching you live on Instagram?”

If this were a twist on the classic game of Russian roulette, right now Yuri would be standing in the dark, at the edge of the ice rink where I stood earlier, our roles reversed - the cylinder of his gun spinning - ready to pull the trigger and see if I end up dead this time round.
He french-kisses me live in front of two thousand people, the clicking of the empty chamber echoes in my head, and this is how I end up tragically, irremediably, still alive.