Chapter Text
Capital Indoor Stadium (Beijing, China) - late afternoon of February 9, 2022
And so a legacy was born (born)
To help me through this winter storm (storm)
Found a reason, a reason to hold on
Exhilaration thrummed to the very ends of Phichit’s fingers as he spun faster and faster, now nearly to the halfway point1 of his program. Those three lines in particular always made him emotional, as they were the ones that had struck him most deeply when he’d first heard Jordan Rakei’s beautifully complicated and compelling song.
It had been a day in early March, last year, and he distinctly remembered that his thoughts that morning had been plagued by worry for Yuuri, who was still struggling with ankle pain from his Four Continents’ injury. The Japan Skating Federation hadn’t yet announced if he’d be in good enough shape to compete at World’s, and Phichit had been wrestling with the two parts of him – intertwined so tightly that they couldn’t be separated, as much as he sometimes wanted them to be – that itched for prognosis updates.
Because the shameful truth was, that even as the ‘friend’ side of him wanted Yuuri to feel empowered to skip the competition if it meant he’d save his ankle from further stress, the ‘competitor’ side of him wanted his best friend to push through, regardless.
Even if that meant that Yuuri would be in pain.
And how selfish was that???
Only two weeks prior, Yuuri had told him, Leo, and Guang-Hong in their group chat that he likely wouldn’t make it to World’s in 2022, instead opting to retire right after the Beijing Games. It had been far too early to tell, but Phichit hadn’t even been confident that he’d be making it to World’s; it was pretty common for skaters to end the season early in a Olympic year.
Meaning, if he wanted to stand higher than his best friend on a World’s podium, the competition in Stockholm might be his last opportunity. Deep in a guilt spiral, he’d allowed his mind to wander absentmindedly, but had been brought back to reality by an unfamiliar catchy, jazzy beat on his Spotify radio interface. When he’d started it over from the beginning, the opening lines had sunk into him, the words burrowing beneath his skin and setting it alight.
If a friend or a foe, or least someone that you’ve known
Disappears from the soil of this sphere
Then only then will you know that a version of yourself
Will fade away and never re-appear
The yearning that it conveyed – and not even in the romantic sense – was something Phichit could deeply relate to, and indeed, believed that any athlete who’d ever “chased” after a fellow competitor could relate to. As he knew all too well from Viktor’s retirement in March 2018, whenever a hero/rival exits the field… well, a part of you truly does disappear.
His subsequent explanation to Celestino around just why he’d been so drawn to a song called ‘Friend or Foe’ had been pretty clumsy; he’d uncharacteristically tripped and stumbled over his words while making sure his coach was very clear on the fact that he obviously didn’t think of Yuuri as a “foe”.
He was his very best friend!
Even still…
Phichit wasn’t so poetically-inclined as to say that Yuuri’s command of the field in the last few years defined him; their friendly rivalry bore no traces of the hero worship that Yuuri and Viktor’s early beginnings had.
However, once the reigning Olympic Champion and 3-time World Champion retired, it was an unalterable truth that his own career would be deeply affected. It’s not as if he’d no longer be motivated to “fight” – his own fiance made sure of that – but he’d sometimes wondered if his drive to best Seung-Gil would ever compare to the fire that burned inside of him when he thought of what it’d feel like to win gold, outright2, over his best friend. (And incidentally, he’d been so consumed by rumination at times that Celestino had urged him to reach out to Christophe. The numerous conversations in which he’d picked the ex-skater’s brain about his mindset before and after Viktor’s retirement had helped a lot.)
Hey, whatever it is, yeah, ha, whatever you said
Will it hurt to reach out here to make amends?
Running out of time, out of time for a godsend
I’ll show my love to the very end
Coming out of his Level 4 flying sit spin, Phichit tried to keep his mind from leaping ahead to what would be occurring in just 23 seconds: a surprise that he’d been teasing for months, but hadn’t even fully made his mind up about before stepping onto the ice to kick off the final group’s performances.
He let muscle memory take over, contorting his body into varying transitional steps. His mind went blank, more or less. Having completed nearly all of his choreography by the time the end of April had rolled around, last year, Phichit had been running this program for close to a full year.
His comfort with it was now at its peak.
Hey, however it goes, however they leave
Do they deserve to hold on to a part of me? Yeah, hey
That line…“Do they deserve to hold on to a part of me?” It was one that Phichit imagined so many of his peers on the Senior circuit could relate to. Indeed, it was what had won Seung-Gil over, when he’d first had him listen to the song.
Given the scars from PyeongChang, Phichit knew it was a thought that often crossed his fiance’s mind: did the Korea Skating Union (KSU) deserve to hold onto him, especially when he’d fought so hard to heal from the last Olympics?
When he’d poured all of his resolve and then some into building a new life for himself in Thailand?
And if Seung-Gil podiumed here at the Games, would everyone truly recognize his medal as an individual win, something that was just for him and Coach Byun, and not one that he’d won for his homeland?
Even though the KSU/Korean Olympic Committee were banned from exhibiting any presence here at the Games, there would be far too many people that wouldn’t see the need to distinguish between the two: Seung-Gil, the skater who just happened to have been born in Korea but was competing for himself vs. “Team Korea” skater Seung-Gil Lee.
He imagined Yuri Plisetsky would be in a similar boat if he podiumed, and spared a brief moment of sympathy for the Ice Tiger.
He’d seemed quite overcome with emotion towards the end of the 6 minute warm up. Given how Phichit had been first up to skate, he hadn’t been in a position to try to comfort him, and could only hope that Madame Baranovskaya and Viktor had been able to help him get his head on straight.
As he came out of an outside spread-eagle, which led into an Ina Bauer and then finished off with a fan kick, he begrudgingly thanked Celestino for the extra flexibility exercises he’d insisted on over the last several months. It now dawned on him that the transitional interval after his combination spin had passed in the blink of an eye. Suddenly, he was just seconds away from setting up for the jump combination that spoke to the very core of his music selection: admiration and envy…respect and rivalry…homage and challenge.
Running out of time, out of time for a godsend
When putting his choreography together last year, he and Celestino had gone over their options time and time again.
If Phichit were to actually land the ‘Katsuki Combo’ that he’d been training since the 2020 off-season, where in the routine would be most impactful? For one thing, due to the back-loaded jumps multiplier effect, he and his coach had wanted it to come after the halfway mark.
This choice always presented a grueling test to his stamina, his legs screaming no matter how proficient he’d grown in completing the endurance exercises that Yuuri had recommended.
Secondly, the placement of the combo needed to feel deliberate, because his successfully landing a jump that no one besides his best friend had ever cleanly managed to was meant to send a clear message: Yuuri was a formidable competitor, rival, and legend in his own right, but he wasn’t the only one adept in surprising the audience.
Phichit was just as capable in keeping everyone on their toes.
His own family, included.
No matter how much mae and phaw, Latda and Noi had begged, he’d insisted on not spoiling the surprise ahead of time, and tried to visualize the faces of elation they’d make once he’d pulled it off as cleanly as he intended. His left foot tingled just the slightest bit and a heady sense of rightness washed over him as he picked into his entry.
A collective inhale rippled throughout the stadium.
Phichit knew the question that was running through most everyone’s mind: would he play it safe, keeping to the triple flip/triple-toe-loop he’d been doing all season?
Or, would he fulfill the challenge he’d first set for himself just shy of two years ago, a challenge he’d begun to hint at during his Grand Prix series press obligations?
Even as he propelled himself through the air, Phichit grounded himself in the promise he’d made to pay tribute to Yuuri as the fearsome motivating force that he was. He hoped the attempt of his signature jump would be a clear enough acknowledgment of the deep impression that his best friend had left on the field over the last four years.
I’ll show my love to the very end
Phichit’s blades made contact with the ice right as the word “love” rang out.
Schick!
An electric thrill rocketed up his spine as a distant part of his brain noted that the timing of his quad flip had been perfect.
Just a split-second after landing it, he was launching up again to complete his triple-toe-loop.
Once again, his timing was precise, and Phichit spared a fleeting moment of elation over the sharp shock of his blades absorbing his weight on the word “end”.
Yuuri was up immediately after him, so he knew that his best friend couldn’t have seen it; he was likely holding Meni and had his back to the ice. But even as he acknowledged how unfair it was to hold that against him, the knowledge still stung, ever so slightly.
I did this for you!, he wanted to shout, something akin to desperation clawing at his insides.
But as soon as the rankling, intrusive thought entered his mind, it left, just as easily replaced with the wash of dizzying relief that stole over him. A ground-rumbling roar of approval split the air as the audience caught up to what had just occurred.
He had done it.
No matter how the rest of the competition went, Phichit knew that he would be able to remember this moment, always. Pride coursed through his veins in steady pulses, and it was all he could do to focus on the remaining portion of his performance.
Exactly 57 seconds later, he was a bit stunned to find himself in his ending pose.
Logically, he knew that he’d made it through the tone shift that had preceded his 44 second step sequence, but couldn’t recall a single detail of how it’d gone.
Dropping to his knees in exhaustion, Phichit brought his forehead down to the ice, allowing himself to shake and weep, freely.
As he lifted his head, his blurred vision swirled white, blue, and red as his country’s flag waved back and forth in the hands of his rabidly joyous fans. Euphoric screams punctured the air in a massive wall of noise on either side of him, and it was the awareness of this that prompted him to get up.
Somehow, Phichit stood on jelly-like legs and took three shaky bows before attempting to make his way to the boards.
Several tearful giggles burbled forth as he was pelted with Gwihan plushies: a reality that always made him beam, knowing that it was not only his fiance that now received stuffed animals bearing resemblance to their adorable husky. He picked up the largest he could find – one that featured her scarfing down her favorite bungeoppang that they got Jitae to mail them every month – and began making his way over to the boards.
His tears began flowing even faster when he spotted the matching jubilant (and teary-eyed) expressions on Celestino and Seung-Gil’s faces.
“YES! THAT’S HOW IT’S DONE!”
Phichit laughed as his coach shouted the refrain over and over while enveloping him in a bone-crushing hug.
A flashreel of various training and competition moments over the last few months played in his mind, all of them sharing the throughline of Celestino’s steady encouragement around his various goals for the season. When he’d been discouraged after failing to podium at the Grand Prix Final in Osaka, his coach had changed his plans and returned with him to Bangkok, shifting his schedule around so that he could train in-person with him for a week. It wasn’t the first time that Celestino had opted to switch up their usual remote coaching arrangement, but it certainly felt like the most impactful; he’d been able to go over video footage from his Grand Prix Final performances and troubleshoot Phichit’s problem areas in detail.
“Thanks for believing in me, coach,” he mumbled, nearly swallowing some of the other man’s long ponytail as he formed the words.
Celestino shook him vigorously, but instead of responding verbally, he pushed him directly into Seung-Gil’s eager arms. Phichit sort of wanted to scold his fiance; he’d told him several times that he should focus on prepping for his own performance instead of watching him, but he now felt secretly pleased that he’d decided not to listen.
“I knew you could do it,” Seung-Gil whispered, just before claiming his mouth in a bruising kiss that took him very much by surprise; his fiance wasn’t normally big on PDA.
A few moments later their mouths parted, and Phichit blinked a bit dazedly at the other man, feeling warm all over not just because of the very public kiss, but also because of how Seung-Gil was looking at him.
There was more than just love in his slate-gray eyes: there was fierce pride and hunger , too. It was clear to see that his skating had fired him up, and he basked in the knowledge of it.
“You were stunning, nae sarang3,” his love said, both of his hands cupped around his (wet) cheeks.
Phichit smiled, but his gooey train of thought was interrupted by Celestino’s signaling; they were due in the Kiss and Cry ASAP.
“Promise you’ll make me cry in return?” he joked, the line having become something of a ritual for them over the course of the past three-and-a-half years.
It had started up in August 2018, when he had skated to a song and routine centered on his and Seung-Gil’s early friendship for his gala exhibition skate at the rescheduled PyeongChang Games medal ceremony4. Though the other man had very understandably chosen not to attend, Phichit had been a little bit stunned when he’d called him only a half hour afterwards, with obvious tears in his voice (which Seung-Gil had tried to play off as having a cold).
“You know I will,” his fiance replied, giving a final squeeze to his shoulders before nudging him in Celestino’s direction.
Phichit grinned and nodded, leaning into the strong arm his coach slung about his shoulders. As they began making their way over, he could see in his periphery that Viktor and Yuuri were standing in a close huddle just a few feet away. Strange, though…Meni didn’t look to be anywhere in sight.
Once again, that earlier (absurd) feeling of desperation came over him, and he wished that Yuuri would look over at him, even if only fleetingly.
He shook his head, realizing how silly he was being.
This was the nature of what it meant to be right at the top of the field: they were often competing just before or after one another, and he was reminded of the struggle that Viktor and Yuuri had faced, back before Viktor had retired. On more than one occasion (beginning with the 2017 World Figure Skating Championships), Yuuri had been strictly forbidden at times from watching his own coach perform so that it wouldn’t detract attention away from his own focus.
This isn’t a new thing, he told himself, firmly.
“So?! How do you feel?!” Celestino asked him, excitedly, shaking his shoulders once again and practically vibrating with excitement.
He grinned, moving his own arm to wrap around Celestino’s back as they walked, shuffling together a bit awkwardly, considering his tired legs.
“I’m happy, coach! I can’t say I remember all of it, to be honest, but what I do remember felt really good.”
He followed up his reply with a scan of the stands, immediately spotting the 6 family members that had been able to come watch him: his parents, two sisters, and his maternal grandparents, all 6 of them holding up a gigantic poster of him in the middle of a quad flip.
Noi was fully jumping up and down and he laughed, a split-second vision of her tumbling down the stands in excitement invading his head, involuntarily.
He grinned and hugged the Gwihan plushie to his chest, and gave a short wave to the cameras that were set up on either side of the Kiss and Cry.
It seemed pointless to try tabulating his own score considering that he didn’t remember the entire last minute of his performance. But, as he took a seat next to his coach, he was aware that his skate had been one that had gotten his message across: Phichit Chulanont was here at the Games to win.
End of Chapter 1
In Chapter 2, Phichit watches Yuuri debut a surprise of his own during his Short Program performance
Footnotes:
1. If you listen to ‘Friend or Foe’, you’ll likely realize it’s too long without edits. Thus, the first 25 seconds of his program are set to 00:00-00:25 of the song, and the next 33 seconds elapse from 00:37-1:10. The remaining 1 minute and 50 seconds occurs from 1:30-3:20. This means that the halfway point of the program – when the multiplier effect for jump elements comes in – takes place at the 1:56 point of the song (which is right after the words “a reason to hold on”)
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2. To clarify: it’s not as if Phichit has never beat Yuuri (like at Four Continents, or at Grand Prix series events), but once he realizes that the 2021-2022 season will be his best friend’s last, I think it’s natural that he might feel like he’s “running out of time” to do so in a circumstance where the victory is outright (i.e. where he wins gold over Yuuri, and neither of them are at an unfair advantage). To this latter point, you might remember that at the 2021 World Figure Skating Championships, Yuuri was still struggling with his ankle injury from Four Continents
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3. Romanized form of the Korean endearment translating to “my love”. This term can be used for both genders
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4. As a reminder, I made a brief mention of this in Chapter 10 of the main fic
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