Work Text:
Here’s how it starts: Victor is at the wrong place at the wrong time. Or vise versa, depending on who you ask.
He’s wearing sunglasses despite it being well into midnight. An unfashionable, multi-color neon beanie he stole from Yuuri’s luggage the day he began to settle into their apartment muffles the whipping wind against his ears, and the surgical mask he hadn’t thought to wear in public until Hasetsu is uncomfortable and scratches against his lips.
This may be a bit overboard, and he really does loves his fans and his country, but sometimes he just doesn’t want to be recognized on the street. If a passerby were to have their stare stolen by Victor’s striding figure, he’d hope it’s not because of his title as Russia’s living legend in figure skating, but by how well-coordinated his outfit is tonight. Barring the atrocious piece of fabric on his head.
Thankfully, the walk from the nearby grocery store to his and Yuuri’s apartment is short. The day had been long and he’d wanted to spend the night in front of the television with Yuuri and Makkachin keeping him warm. That did not happen: instead, he had forgotten to take out the milk that’d expired a week ago from the fridge, and Yuuri’s disgusted gagging that occurred once he took a sip had been one of the most horrifying sounds Victor has heard in his life.
The grocery store was still open so Yuuri kicked Victor out with a handful of rubles and a demand for milk bought this year. Victor’d vowed to buy out the entire dairy section in the store as an offering to Yuuri’s tastebuds, and Yuuri slammed the door on his face. Victor walked out of the apartment building sporting a large smile, content.
When he first hears the sounds of a scuffle he thinks nothing of it; it’s a Saturday and people are rowdy when they’re drunk. But then there’s the undeniable click of a safety catch and an audible gasp and—Victor’s ears lead him to a relatively accessible and lit alleyway, a couple of blocks away from his and Yuuri’s apartment.
He almost can’t believe it. The sight of an armed man emptying the pockets of a couple and their child at gunpoint is near ridiculous, something only seen in a movie. Is it because of the late hour? How stupid can you be to rob an entire family in such a open, visible area? There’s already a pair of spectators a careful distance away; Victor watches one of them talk urgently to her phone, hopefully relaying the scene to the police. He lives in a pretty affluent area as well, did the perpetrator take that into account? Victor shakes his head at the obvious signs of an ill thought-out robbery. It’s almost sad at how little thought was put into this plan.
He should walk away. Report back to the crime scene when it’s safe to give a witness statement—because from the way it’s looking now, the robber is definitely getting away before the police arrive. But the girl can’t be any older than eight, and her mother’s hands are shaking, clutching the child’s small shoulders as the father hands over their valuables, and the robber’s back is facing Victor, he hasn’t noticed him yet—
Victor doesn’t think (Yakov would say that he never does), and he does what his body tells him to do: rushes over to the robber with the grace of a figure skater and, using the element of surprise, dropkicks him behind the knees with the panic of a man who hasn’t been in a fight in his entire life.
The subsequent series of events is near comical in how it deals in Victor’s favor:
- The robber falls onto his knees and then his face with a gasping woosh of air, and Victor thanks fate, destiny, and his mother that he decided to become a professional athlete
- The gun falls out of the man’s grasp, and it doesn’t fire when it hits the ground despite that happening in every film Victor has ever seen that features a gun
- The grocery bag he has hanging around his elbow (he didn’t think to let go of it before his surprise jump attack) somehow does not tear and drop the three cartons of milk he purchased in order to appease his fiancé, even after Victor falls to the ground from his undeniably lacking plan of action
- “The police will be here soon!” one half of the spectating pair calls out, still at a respectable, safe distance, unlike Victor, who is an idiot
- The robber stays down, the fall knocking him out cold. Some blood starts to pool around his face, but later on, Victor nudges the guy’s head with his foot and finds that the robber had merely landed on his nose the wrong way. It looks broken, and Victor kind of feels bad about it
“Oh!” the nearly-robbed man cries out after the shock of what just happened dissipated. His wife lets go of her child’s shoulders and breathes a shaky sigh of relief. “Thank you, thank you!”
“It’s nothing,” Victor says, still lying with his back on the ground. The fall had knocked the wind out of him but at least he’s still conscious. He reaches over himself to prod the grocery bag still hanging from the crook of his elbow. Nothing is leaking. His milk is still intact.
The child walks up to him and lends him a hand. She looks much more put together than Victor feels despite having a gun pointed at her head not a moment before. “Oh, you’re so sweet,” he says. He’s wobbly on his feet, the adrenaline that pushed him through what was, in hindsight, a very stupid idea dribbling out of him like factory chemicals out of a drain pipe.
“Thank you,” the girl says. Before Victor can reply, she asks, “Are you a superhero?”
Victor laughs until he realizes that she isn't joking. “Oh, um. No, I’m not. Just a...good samaritan, I guess.”
“Are you sure?” She looks unconvinced. “You’re dressed like one.”
At first Victor thinks she’s referring to his well-coordinated outfit, before he follows her stare to the forgotten surgical mask/sunglasses pair that stayed on his face throughout the whole ordeal. “Well, uh—”
“You have a mask on,” she stresses, “and only a superhero would wear sunglasses at night. And that ugly beanie.”
At least she knows a fashion travesty when she sees it, Victor thinks, pulling said beanie down so it covers his ears and his hair. It’s ugly, but it’s Yuuri’s, so what can Victor do? “I happen to like this beanie.”
“Of course you do,” the girl says. “It’s part of your superhero costume. Because you’re a superhero.”
The next few minutes are dense in confusion as to what to do with themselves as they wait for the police to arrive. The spectating pair wait with them and kindly entertain the girl, who’s taking the entire situation the best out of everyone involved. They all pointedly ignore the unconscious criminal on the ground and the gun that had skidded out of the alleyway and onto the sidewalk.
“We can’t thank you enough,” the father says, shaking Victor’s hand. He’s pale and shaken but he’s putting up a strong face for his family, earning Victor’s respect. “Please, just tell us what we can do to make up for what you did for us tonight.”
Victor really just wants to leave. The milk is heavy and his back aches from the fall. “You don’t need to do anything for me except keep an eye on this guy until the police gets here. Don’t touch the gun and stay safe,” Victor replies. He glances at the direction of his and Yuuri’s apartment. “Actually, I think I’m just going to head on out.”
“You’re leaving before the police arrive?” the mother asks.
“If that’s alright.” Victor shrugs. “There’s no need for me to be here, right? The threat’s been taken care of and I have to get up early tomorrow, so.”
“You’re going?” a meek voice behind him says. He turns and kneels so he’s face-level with the girl, who’s jutting her bottom lip out in dejection.
“I have to,” he tells her, sincere. “Thank you for being such a good sport about this, you’re so brave.”
“I don’t want you to leave,” she says, putting her hands on her hips. It’s more endearing than assertive. “Why are you leaving?”
Victor blinks at the girl, who had stared up at him earlier with wide eyes and a mouth that had hero on her tongue. And then he does what he does best: make an absolute fool out of himself in front of children.
“I—the bad guy’s down and I, uh, need to get back home. Or, no! Not home. I need to get back patrolling the streets, and. Save people. Yeah. Er, you know what? Here. Have some milk.”
This seems to be enough to placate her. She holds the proffered carton of milk like it’s something much more important than a carton of milk, and thanks him as profusely a child can do when given a carton of milk by a stranger.
“At least tell us your name,” one of the spectators ask him, respectful, like he’s more than a stranger stupid enough to do what he just did.
He ponders taking a selfie with everyone, preserving tonight in his memories and Instagram story, but figures that Yakov would kill him if he found out Victor had nearly ended his career by going against an armed assailant with nothing but his feet and a bag of groceries.
“I’d rather not,” Victor asserts, and he waves his hand in goodbye as heroically as possible, heading home.
“I’ve been looking for that beanie, you thief!” Yuuri says when Victor returns. He laughs and plucks it from Victor’s head. “Hey, you were out for a pretty long time. Did something happen?”
“I took a more scenic route,” is Victor’s reply. He takes off his surgical mask and kisses Yuuri hello.
-----
“Have you heard?” Mila asks as Victor straps on his skates. “There was an attempted robbery a couple of blocks away from your apartment. How crazy is that?”
“I’ve not checked the news today,” Victor lies, because he doesn’t want to see how Mila would react if she were to know of his role in the very robbery she’d mentioned. She’d laugh at him, surely, before berating him for how reckless he had been.
“But here’s the even crazier part,” Mila stresses, scrolling through her phone as she leans against the rink’s sideboards. “Apparently the whole debacle was thwarted by a, and I quote, ‘mysterious masked figure’ who kicked the robber in the knees from behind. I guess the knees are a weak spot? Because the robber was knocked out cold after a single kick.”
“A mysterious masked figure,” Victor repeats, stamping down the feelings of giddiness from his expression. He hadn’t expected last night to circulate so quickly—or at all, to be specific. It’s almost like having a secret alter ego. Very exciting. “That doesn’t sound real.”
“That’s what I said at first,” Mila agrees. “But then Yuri sent me a video taken by someone who was there, and it looks pretty legit? Wait, lemme look for the link.”
“I too have heard of what happened last night,” Georgi says from where he sits beside Victor, who hadn’t noticed his rinkmate’s arrival. He looks especially inspired today. “Isn’t it romantic? Dramatic? From an encounter with crime in the dark hours blossoms a tale found only in allegories told by parents to their children before bedtime. A true modern-day act of heroism! Why, if only I could shake the hand of the masked vigilante who bravely stood his ground, protecting the innocents of St. Petersburg from a fate underserved, a constant presence guarding the gate of freedom from the perpetual hands of evil.”
“I don’t see how an attempted robbery could be romantic,” Victor says. “Someone kicked a guy in the knees, that's what happened.”
“I think you’re reading too much into this, buddy,” Mila says.
“Someone shut him the fuck up before it’s too late,” Yuri calls out from the rink, where Lilia watches over him with a keen eye.
“Found it!” Mila says, and she turns her phone around for Victor and Georgi to see. The recording is shaky and a good distance away, but it’s decent enough for Victor to recognize the scene as the alleyway from the night before. The recording must have been from one of the two spectators, he realizes. He hadn’t noticed that one of them was documenting what was going on.
The video has sound and Victor doesn’t need to strain in order to hear it despite the tinny speakers of Mila’s phone. The spectator’s voice is loud and clear in the recording’s audio, and he places it as the voice of the more eccentric of the pair.
“So this piece of shit is robbing an entire family in the open? What a stupid piece of shit. My girlfriend’s calling the police right now and—HOLY SHIT? WAIT, DID THAT JUST HAPPEN RIGHT NOW? BABE, DID YOU SEE THAT? AM I HALLUCINATING OR DID A GUY IN A DOCTOR’S MASK JUST COME OUT OF NOWHERE AND DROPKICK THAT BASTARD? I—OH MY GOD, HE’S OUT COLD. HE IS UNCONSCIOUS. I CAN’T BELIEVE IT. IT’S FUCKING MIDNIGHT AND A GUY WEARING A MASK AND SUNGLASSES JUST CAME AND KICKED A BITCH INTO THE THIRTEENTH CIRCLE OF HELL. 2017, PEOPLE.”
“It’s already gone viral,” Mila explains, taking the phone back. “The person who posted it must have a decent social media presence, because the video already almost has a million views.”
“A million?” Victor spits out, shocked. Because the video is so badly rendered and the lighting so dim, Victor’s form in it is nothing but a dark silhouette. As well as that, the sunglasses and mask conceals his face, and Yuuri’s beanie keeps his most recognizable feature from view. Still, people of the web are equipped with time, curiosity, and Photoshop, and Victor has learned to never underestimate the internet.
“And the family’s already stepped up and confirmed the video’s authenticity,” Georgi adds. “They were on the local news a couple of hours ago. The child seems enamored with the individual who came to her family’s aid.”
“When did this all happen?” Victor asks. He’s utterly confused. “It’s only just past twelve in the afternoon. How did all of this happen in less than a day?”
“The power of the internet,” Mila answers, not looking up from her phone. Georgi nods his agreement.
“What are you three doing?” Yakov scolds them from across the rink. “Get your asses over here, talk to each other on your own time!”
Ah yes, figure skating. Victor’d nearly forgotten that he’s supposed to be practicing for his eagerly anticipated comeback into the competitive scene as both a contender and a coach. Best to push accidental vigilantism and internet fame out of his mind, letting more important priorities take its place.
Mila sighs her discontent and puts her phone away. “Well, let’s just see how this story develops,” is her parting words before taking off her skate guards and gliding onto the ice.
Victor sincerely hopes that does not happen.
-----
“They already have a name for the guy from the robbery last night,” Yuri says out of the blue, after Victor locks the door behind them. Yuri had followed him after practice, citing hunger and boredom as his reasoning for inviting himself to Victor and Yuuri’s apartment. Victor hadn’t questioned it, finding his apartment much more colder when he’s alone. Yuuri had stayed at the rink for extra practice with Lilia, and Victor merely smiled when Yuri fell into step beside him as he headed home.
“The ‘mysterious masked figure’ that everyone seems to be obsessed about?” Victor clarifies, feigning ignorance. He’s already decided to distance himself from his internet-branded hero persona, not finding the inevitable aftermath that would occur if he would to forfeit his identity appealing. Everyone in the entire rink’d seemed to have heard of the events that transpired last night. Even Yuuri, who is still struggling with the language and isn’t prevalent in Russian social media, mentioned it during practice.
“Yeah,” Yuri says. Makkachin trots up to him and tilts her head to the side, her silent plea for attention. Yuri crouches down and complies. Despite being a hard-core feline lover, he’s always got along well with her—Victor would even say that, at times, Yuri seemed to like Makkachin more than her owner. “It’s so fucking stupid. The family posted this huge-ass Facebook post detailing the whole thing. The internet named him after a gift he apparently gave to the family’s kid before leaving.”
Victor’s stomach drops to his feet, breaking through his floor and the continental crust until reaching the molten core of the earth. Oh no. “Don’t tell me—”
“Milkman,” Yuri snorts in disbelief, running his fingers through Makkachin’s curly fur. “Can you fucking believe? The guy goes out of his way to save an entire family held at gunpoint and the internet decides to call him Milkman.”
Victor doesn’t know whether to laugh or lock himself into his bedroom and die of embarrassment. That settles it: he’s never going to give up his identity for as long as he lives. “I—” He needs to lie down. Victor does so on the floor next to Makkachin, too profoundly bemused to walk the extra five steps to his living room’s sofa. The wooden floor is cool against his cheek. “The internet couldn’t have picked a worse name.”
“If it were up to me,” Yuri says, “I would’ve picked a much more badass name. Like, I don’t know, Pain Train? One Kick Man? He knocked out a guy with one kick. Anyone that badass shouldn’t have anything related to dairy in their name.”
“You seem a bit invested in this whole Milkman situation,” Victor mumbles to the floor, not bothering to think about what he’s saying. “Have you a bit of an infatuation on him?”
Yuri splutters for a moment and swats Victor’s head with his jacket sleeve. “I’m an impressionable teenager, I’m supposed to latch onto batshit crazy news like this. And can’t a kid just admire a deadass good dropkick without being judged?”
“Little Yura has a crush,” Victor continues to half-heartedly tease. In reality, he’s just trying to avert Yuri’s attention from the fact that Victor is currently on the floor suffering from extreme secondhand embarrassment. But is it really secondhand when the person you’re embarrassed for is actually you, but no one knows that it’s you? Victor can’t wrap his head around it, he’s never been in this predicament before.
“Oh, fuck off,” Yuri growls. “Get the fuck up and make me some food before I roast up Makkachin over the stove as a last resort.”
This gets Victor off the floor in a flash. “You wouldn’t,” he dares him, eyes glinting with ferocious protectiveness over the one constant in his life.
“I wouldn’t,” Yuri confirms. “I just knew that, for whatever reason, that string of words would be the most efficient way to get my damn food. Can you even cook? Are you even a fully functioning adult? I have yet to see you prove your case.”
“I don’t know why I put up with you,” Victor grumbles to himself as he walks to his apartment’s kitchen. “Maybe if Milkman were to show up in my apartment he’d be able to teach you a bit about manners and respecting your elders. But you’d probably like that, wouldn’t you? Meeting your crush and all, that would be a dream come true.”
Victor successfully dodges the vase he knew Yuri would throw at the back of his head. It’s an antique, and, after some playful prodding, Yuri promises to pay him back for the broken shards it leaves behind.
Hours later, when Yuuri comes home, Yuri and Victor greet him from where they sit on the couch together with Makkachin crammed between their bickering figures, their familiar back and forth a good way for Victor to pass the time until Yuuri arrives. Yuuri joins them and Yuri stays for dinner. He once again brings up his dissatisfaction with the internet and its rash decisions regarding naming Russian vigilantes.
Yuuri laughs, his pinky finger absently stroking Victor’s thigh under the table.
Victor still has no idea what to do with this hole he’s dug himself into, but for tonight, he lets himself enjoy this moment.
-----
In less than a week the Milkman has already become one of the most wide-spread internet phenomena in Russia. Victor can’t check any of his various social media accounts without seeing a post pertaining to what may be the worst decision of his life.
The internet has taken a liking to speculating his identity, and for twenty four hours, “#IAmTheMilkman” trends nationally on Twitter, leaving Victor in a state of dissociation and disillusionment. The hashtag consists of Photoshopped pictures of celebrity faces pasted over his silhouette from the video; when Mila shows him a post with his face horrifically edited onto a still of his shadowed figure mid air and mid kick, he spits out his drink, creating a nice Gatorade shower over Mila’s head, of which she does not appreciate.
“Isn’t it strange?” Yuuri says out of the blue as they get ready for bed. “The whole Milkman situation. I’ve never seen something quite like it.”
“Not you, too,” Victor groans, throwing a pillow over his head. “Please, I don’t want to hear about him anymore. It’s been too long drawn-out and I could gladly spend the rest of my life never hearing about vigilantes and their dairy ever again.”
“You’ve never taken a liking to it, haven’t you,” Yuuri muses. “Which is weird, since it’s your type of humor.” He turns off the lamp and settles into a more comfortable position: on his side facing Victor, his hand comfortably resting on Victor’s waist under his shirt, as if it’s always meant to be there.
“And what is my type of humor?” Victor asks.
“Mind-sanitizing and childish,” Yuuri answers.
“Bah.” Victor squints when Yuuri picks up his phone and turns it on, it’s retina display the only source of light in the bedroom. “You always have your phone screen so bright, dear. How does your battery last the day?”
Ignoring him, Yuuri says, “This is my favorite,” bringing his phone to Victor’s face. It’s a Twitter post, and Victor marvels at the fact that it’s in Russian until he reads what it says.
dairy queen @thethirstygolfers・February 10
legend has it that if you say “milkman” three times into a bowl of milk he’ll rise up from the milk and dropkick you behind the knees
“Yuuri, stop,” Victor pleads, pushing Yuuri’s phone away.
“Oh, here’s another one!”
“Yuuri, I swear to god—”
He reads aloud: “Why are we so obsessed with Milkman when his cousin Silkman—omph!”
“Finish that sentence, I dare you,” Victor says, his hand clamped over Yuuri’s mouth.
“You’re no fun,” Yuuri complains, voice muffled by Victor’s hand.
Victor sighs and, after returning the phone to the nightstand, wraps his free arm around Yuuri. “No, I’m not: I’m an adult who doesn’t want to talk about memes in bed with my fiancé in the middle of the night.”
“And what do you mean by that?” Yuuri says. Victor feels his smirk on his palm.
“It would mean something else entirely if we didn’t have to wake up before sunrise,” Victor says. “Now, go to sleep or else Milkman will break into our apartment and dropkick us both in the knees.”
“We’d put up a fight,” Yuuri dismisses. He takes Victor’s hand and kisses it. “He can’t get both of us.”
In the dark, Victor smiles. “You never know,” he says.
-----
Just when Victor thinks the hype around Milkman is beginning to die down, the worse thing that can happen happens.
“Oh no,” he says to himself in abject horror, staring at his Instagram feed, “Americans.”
Everyone knows this, and Victor has been dreading it ever since he fully began to comprehend the viral success of his meme: when they catch wind of anything resembling a viral trend, Americans mean worldwide exposure. Americans mean a new wave of an overabundance of content. Americans mean the possibility of Victor’s identity becoming an inevitability.
Absently, Victor wonders why he’s reacting so negatively to his unexpected internet stardom. It’s your type of humor, Yuuri had told him the week before.
And isn’t it? The whole situation is hilarious, and if it were to have happened to anyone else he would gladly participate in the immature jokes the internet is known for. God knows the state of his Twitter a couple of years back when the figure skating community was obsessed with an especially unflattering still of Christophe mid-jump from the Grand Prix. He hadn’t let Chris live it down for months afterwards, and even had a shirt made with the picture on it to wear specifically to cheer Chris on during Swiss Nationals.
Maybe the timing wasn’t right. In such a trying time in his career, beginning his season after nearly a year off the ice competitively, along with the new responsibility of being a coach, Victor must not want something as stupid as a meme to break his focus off of the weighing expectations the figure skating world has for his comeback. Maybe that’s it. It has to be that.
It definitely has nothing to do with the fact that the internet has decided to name his vigilante counterpart Milkman. The most unglamorous title anyone can have. Of course not.
However, Victor’s inner turmoil does not deter the new onslaught of internet humor courtesy of the Americans. At least, he thinks, after the Americans are done with what they do with every other meme that comes their way—continuously beat it into the mud until nothing about it is funny anymore—Milkman’s reign over the internet will be over. He taps on the link on the Instagram post and it leads to an article from, of all American new sites, The Wall Street Journal.
HERO OF ST. PETERSBURG: MASKED MAN STOPS ATTEMPTED ROBBERY, GIFTS MILK BEFORE DISAPPEARING INTO THE NIGHT, BECOMES INTERNET DARLING
If there’s only one chance to recuperate American and Russian foreign relations, maybe this is it.
He doesn’t bother to read the rest.
-----
“Have you seen this?” Mila asks him the second he walks out of the locker room, changed and ready for another session on the ice.
“If it has something to do with Milkman I swear I’m going back into retirement,” Victor says without stopping to give Mila the time of day.
“You’re no fun,” she pouts, grabbing his arm to stop him from actually doing his goddamn job. “Why do you not like Milkman? He’s a hero. And even if you don’t agree with the whole vigilante thing, you can at least appreciate the memes.”
“I have a bit happening in my life right now,” Victor replies. “Like making a comeback into the figure skating world after being gone for most of the season, choreographing my own programs, all while coaching my fiancé.”
“That can all wait,” Mila dismisses, shoving her phone in front of Victor’s face. “Just read it.”
Victor is much too old for this. He sighs and skims over what looks like a Facebook post.
If he had been drinking something he would’ve spat it out.
“I—what?” he sputters, grabbing the phone and scrolling through the post again to make sure he read it right. “Five million rubles? ”
“I know, right?” Mila agrees happily, and she takes her phone back from Victor’s twitching grasp. “Who knew the family that helped birth Milkman had that much money to spare?”
“But why?” Victor asks. “Who would offer five million rubles for the identity of a meme?”
“I mean, he did actually save them from a guy with a gun,” Mila reminds him. In the distance, Victor can see Yakov ready to pounce at them for idling around instead of heading over to the rink for practice.“The little girl seemed pretty adamant about meeting Milkman again when the story first popped up. I’m actually more surprised it took them so long to put up the offer.”
“What the hell are you two doing?” Yakov questions when he reaches them. “Victor, you were supposed to be on the ice ten minutes ago.”
“It’s about Milkman,” Mila explains, as if that itself was a reasonable explanation for Victor to be unpunctual.
“Ah,” Yakov says, “that idiot. What has happened this time?”
“Y—you know about Milkman?” Victor stutters out. He had always assumed that Yakov has no interest in social media, spending his life outside the rink doing whatever senile old men did in their free time.
“Who doesn’t?” Yakov shrugs. “If you ask me, he is nothing but an idiot who thought it smart to go against an armed criminal with a lucky hit. Nothing to be hailed for, but Russia is doing it anyway.” He shakes his head, mumbles something about millennials, and walks back towards the rink.
Didn’t Victor predict exactly how Yakov would react about his decision to play hero the night it happened? He must know Yakov and the inner workings of his mind much more than he thought.
“Idiot or not,” Mila says to Victor, “What matters is that someone is giving out five million for his identity. You have any leads? We can split the reward!”
“Of course not! This is horrible!” Victor says. “If Milkman had wanted to reveal himself he would’ve done so by now. Why would they do this?”
“Point taken,” she agrees. “Thinking about it, this is a pretty shitty move. But, that doesn’t change that in the next week or so we’re going to find out who Milkman is.”
Victor groans. “Great.”
-----
Yuuri keeps stealing his fries, and Victor is oddly okay with it. This is what true love is, Victor thinks in a daze as he watches Yuuri snatch another from his plate despite having a perfectly fine side of fries for himself.
“They taste better if they’re from you,” Yuuri answers, replying to Victor’s unasked question.
“Marry me. Right now,” Victor says.
“Please, I’m going to vomit all over my Big Mac,” Yuri says from across the table.
“Someone please explain to me why we’re at a McDonald’s at one in the morning,” Yakov says. For the many years Victor has known him, he has only now learned that his go-to order at McDonald’s is a Filet-O-Fish. Somehow Victor’s respect for Yakov has lessened.
“Because you love us and we’re a perfect case study of some found family shit?” Mila suggests.
Yakov glances at Georgi, who stares at his Caramel Apple Parfait with tears openly streaming down his face. It’s one of those nights again. “Doubt it,” Yakov says.
“I thought we were professional athletes?” Lilia, who ordered two Mcflurrys, asks.
“Everyone can have a cheat day,” Mila dismisses, too busy stacking all twenty of her McChicken Nuggets in an oddly elegant structure to look up. It’s almost mesmerizing and definitely impossible for anyone that wasn’t Mila. Victor has never seen an arch made of chicken nuggets before.
Victor oversees the scene with a feeling of comfortable satisfaction. The familiar bickering is a calming buzz in his mind. Yuuri is a searing presence by his side. He understands that for this moment, being in these people’s presence is all that he can ever think of wanting.
And then Yuri opens his mouth.
“Holy shit. Hoooly shit,” he says. Victor glances at him.
Yuri is staring at his phone. For some reason, Victor knows where this conversation is going.
Taking the bait, Yuuri says, “What’s up?”
“It’s about Milkman,” Yuri says.
This unsurprisingly gains the attention of every person in the table. Victor feels betrayed when Yakov and even Lilia perk up in interest at Yuri’s announcement.
“Did they find him?” Mila asks in excitement.
“No,” Yuri tells her, holding his phone up, “but some genius brightened up a still from the damn video enough to see part of his face.”
“Ohhhh,” Mila says.
Fuuuuck, Victor thinks.
“The race to expose Milkman’s identity really has increased tenfold since the monetary reward was announced,” Georgi discerns.
“Lemme see that!” Mila demands, and she swipes the phone from Yuri’s hands to get a better look. “Well, shit. The quality is still horrible, I can’t make out anything distinguishable about his face.” Dejected, she passes the phone around the table, with each person agreeing with Mila’s sentiment.
When the phone reaches Victor his heart is threatening to shoot out his throat. He stares at the picture—a back shot of him behind the robber, about to jump, a good half of his face facing the camera—and breathes a sigh of relief. Yes, the scene is more bright and the colors are more distinguished, but the video quality is still shaky, and the mask and sunglasses obscure the part of Victor’s face that’s visible.
“I guess this mystery will never be solved,” Victor says as he passes the phone to Yuuri. “What a shame.”
Yuuri brings the phone close to his face and squints the way he does when he’s reading very fine print. “Hey,” he says. “The beanie he’s wearing. It looks exactly like one I own. Like, the same pattern and everything.”
Victor squeezes the fry he’s holding between his fingers, processed potato dripping onto his sleeve. Curse Yuuri and his keen eye.
“What a weird coincidence,” he says, trying and failing to keep it cool. “I guess even Russians are susceptible of wearing such atrocious headwear.”
“Yeah,” Yuuri murmurs. “But that beanie was handmade, a gift from a friend back in college. I swear it’s the exact same pattern as this.”
“How can you even tell? ” Victor speculates. But he is ignored, because it’s a stupid question. The neon brightness and unflattering colors of the beanie contrasts against the rest of the picture’s palette, making it the sharpest image in the still.
The others stare at Yuuri curiously. Even Georgi drops his habitual state of relationship angst to ask, “What do you mean, then? Are you saying that someone stole your hat and decided to wear it while faulting a crime?”
Yuuri shakes his head. “I still have it,” he says. “I remember; Victor found and wore it when he headed out one night to get some mil—”
Yuuri stops. He looks at Victor. Everyone else does, too.
A long staring contest (Victor v. Team Russia et al) ensues.
“I have a confession to make,” Victor announces, no longer able to withstand the weighted stares the entire table is shooting at him, “and I’m sorry I didn’t mention it earlier: I am the Milkman.”
Surprisingly, it’s Lilia who reacts first. She sets her second Mcflurry down and almost looks proud. “I always knew you were destined for something great,” she recounts. She turns away from the table to inconspicuously wipe a tear from her eye.
“What,” Yuri says. At Lilia’s or Victor’s confession, Victor doesn’t know.
“Are you shitting me,” Mila says. Victor shrugs at her helplessly.
“Victor!” Georgi pronounces. “My dear old friend! How have you kept the secret of your crime fighting ways from us for so long?”
“I—” The color drains from Yuri’s face. “I looked up to you. I thought Milkman was a badass but it turned out to be you.”
“Did you not look up to me before?” Victor asks, already knowing the answer. Yuri does not reply, too busy with his existential crisis to respond.
“How did I not realize?” Yuuri mumbles to his own phone screen, having pulled up the original video. “Those are your shoulders. I could recognize your shoulders a mile away. How did I not recognize your shoulders?”
“You are all reacting to this situation very well,” Victor observes.
“I’m not,” Yakov counters, voice seething, and Victor is inexplicably reminded of the reason why he chose to keep everything a secret in the first place. “Are you fucking serious right now? Do you want to give me a fucking heart attack? What if you weren’t so lucky? What were you thinking, doing something so reckless like that?”
“Nothing happened. It’s not like I can’t compete or anything.”
“Proud of you,” Yakov says. “Didn’t ask.”
Victor scoffs. “I didn’t get shot, I can still skate, so what’s the big deal?”
“The big deal is you could’ve gotten hurt, you buffoon!”
“Everyone hold up!” Mila rises, holding up her hand in a “let mother speak” gesture. “I don’t think we’re asking the real questions right now. Now, for clarification: Victor, are you really Milkman?”
Ugh. there it is. “Yes,” he confesses. “But I’d appreciate it if you didn’t call me that.”
“Nope, you don’t have a say in anything after keeping us out of the loop for so long,” Mila rejects. “Next question: where did you learn to do such a clean dropkick?”
“Um,” Victor ponders. He genuinely doesn’t know; he’s never been in a fight before. “Instinct?”
“Oh my God,” Yuri says. He rests his head on the table.
“That’s an important question to you?” Yakov snarls, getting spittle all over his Filet-O-Fish and Georgi, who was unfortunate enough to have chosen to sit next to him. “How about asking why he’d risk his life with no regard for it? And you!” He points at Yuuri with an accusatory finger. “Aren’t you his fiancé? How are you not freaking out right now? ”
“Honestly, I’m still trying to register everything,” Yuuri answers. “Give me a few hours; I’ll probably get around to being angry when we get home.”
Victor visibly pales at that.
“So,” Georgi interjects as Lilia tries to placate a red-faced Yakov, “I’m taking that you don’t want us to expose you?”
“Oh, God no,” Victor affirms. “Please. I know five million is a lot but I’d rather not.”
Mila discreetly puts her phone away.
“Why, though?” Yuuri asks. “Why don’t you want us to? You don’t want the recognition, is that it?”
“I have too much going in my life right now to deal with the media storm that’s bound to ensue if that were to happen, dear,” Victor explains. It’s not like it was a rash decision, and it’s not like he hasn’t thought about outing himself before. He’s put thought into it.
"That can’t all be it,” Yuuri argues. “Tell us the truth, Victor.”
Damn him. Victor can never tell him no.
“Because—ugh!” He raises his hands in the air. “Milkman! That’s why! The internet decided to call me Milkman!”
Yuuri stares at him, a picturesque expression of a question mark on his face.
“Please explain,” Mila adds. Throughout all of this, her arch of McNuggets still stands tall.
“I don’t want to be remembered as Milkman for the rest of my life.” He drops his arms and slumps in the chair. Of all places, why did this have to take place at a McDonald’s? “Milkman has jumped Russian borders and is known throughout the world. I’m pretty sure the amount of the people who know Milkman outweighs the amount of people who know Victor Nikiforov. Who would want their legacy to be a meme? About dairy, of all things?”
“Are you being serious right now?”
“Absolutely.”
“You.” Yuuri looks positively scandalized. “You dork! Your legacy won’t be of this. Have you forgotten that you’re the greatest figure skater alive?”
“Victor ‘Milkman’ Nikiforov: legendary Russian figure skater and legendary meme,” Yuri mumbles to the table.
“Exactly. That’s going to be the first line of my Wikipedia article if people found out who I am, and I am not okay with that.”
“You’re the greatest meme of 2017 and it’s only February. Who wouldn’t be proud of that?” Mila interrogates.
“Me.”
“I think you’re overreacting,” Georgi throws in, which, coming from Georgi, says a lot.
“So we’re not collecting the reward money?” Mila clarifies.
“Wha—no! Please no.”
Mila sighs, as if this is a great disappointment. “Fine. But only if you choreograph my short program for next season.”
“You’re blackmailing me.”
“If you want to look at it that way, I can’t stop you.”
Victor loves her enough to have choreographed her routine if she had just asked, so this turn of events is appalling. “Whatever, fine.”
Mila leans back into her chair, satisfied. “Well, I think the most important thing we’ve taken from this experience is that Victor could have been a great professional wrestler if he hadn’t stuck to skating.”
“I want to leave,” Yuri adds.
Realizing that Yuri is a child and shouldn’t be in a fast food restaurant a quarter past two in the morning, the group disperses. Yakov promises Victor he isn’t off the hook; Lilia squeezes his arm and nods approvingly; Mila wriggles her eyebrows at him and is excited to see what Victor has in store for her program; Georgi sniffs back tears and congratulates Victor on his heroism; Yuri can’t look him in the eye (Victor isn’t bothered; he’s sure Yuri’ll be over the embarrassment by tomorrow); Yuuri holds his hand and is silent the way home.
“Why didn’t you tell me, at least?” he asks from their bed when Victor exits the bathroom. “Do you not trust me?”
Victor at Yuuri blinks in disbelief. “Of course I do,” Victor denies, settling beside him. “I trust you more than anyone in the world, dear. And I’m not ashamed of what I did, I really was just trying to help, you know? But—Milkman.”
“You’re so embarrassed by the name the internet has christened you with, you didn’t think to tell your fiancé how you nearly died on a grocery run.”
“Well, if you put it that way.”
Yuuri huffs and turns away, staring at the ceiling. Victor thinks he looks lovely.
“Are you mad at me?” he asks apprehensively. He reaches for Yuuri’s hand. When he feels the cold metal of Yuuri’s engagement ring hit his palm, a part of Victor settles.
Yuuri pauses. “A little,” he confesses. “I just wish you’d tell me things like that.”
“I will, I always will.” Victor nods and shifts closer. “I’m sorry I didn't with this. I should’ve known better.”
“You should’ve,” Yuuri agrees. “But it’s okay.”
For a while they’re silent, Victor evening out his breath as sleep overtakes him. Then:
“So, like, in this context, am I sort of like your creator?”
Confused, Victor rubs his eyes. “What?”
“Because I’m the one who made you go outside that night,” Yuuri adds on. “If I hadn’t, none of this would’ve happened. Does that mean I made you? I’m the Doctor Erskine to your Steve Rogers?”
Victor stares into the dark, wondering why they aren’t asleep yet. “I don’t understand the reference.”
Yuuri pats his head in sympathy. “Of course you don’t. We can watch the movie later. But the bottom line is that I’m the reason Milkman exists.”
“Yuuri, go to sleep.”
He does not. Instead, he giggles. Victor’s heart sings in delight at the sound. “I’m your origin story, Victor.”
It’s three in the morning, they have to be at the rink by eight, and Victor is completely enamored. “Yes," he says, "you are.”