"Tell me the damn truth," I muttered.
He shook his head, unable to look me in the eye. His face ranged between shocked and upset.
I narrowed my eyes. "Don't pretend. This is already a fake relationship. Don't make yourself fake in the process. You are not a happy guy. It's obvious."
"How can you tell?" He whispered.
"I'm an actress. I act. That's my job. It's what I do every day of my life. I can tell when somebody is acting. I knew from the day I met you. You're depressed."
This time, he looked up. He shook his head slowly. "I can't believe you noticed. How?"
I frowned at the table. "Your eyes," I muttered. "I looked you straight into them, and I just saw straight away."
He closed his eyes. "I didn't even know you at all," he muttered to himself. He couldn't believe that he had been found out. "You had only just met me."
"I know. But your eyes were so tired and sad. It was hard not to notice actually."
He opened them again. There was a small pause as we both looked at each other, dead in the eyes.
Why was my heart pounding?
"You're... You're the first person who's ever told me to stop pretending. You're the first to notice." He was blushing. I wonder if his heart was pounding as much as mine.
"Seriously? Well, I'll be the first to say, as well, that you're really bad at acting," I added.
He nodded, then made a noise that almost resembled a laugh. "Yeah, I know. I'm such a fake. I'm sorry."
"You don't have to be sorry. It's okay. But please don't lie to me. I want the truth, and nothing but the truth."
He nodded. "Okay."
"You put on a metaphorical mask every time the press get near you, to keep a good image and to hide your personal life I take it? You put on a fake smile, in the hopes that they won't know the truth."
He nodded. "And until a few days ago, I could do that easily. You're the first exception."
"So, no more lies. No more masks. No more acting. We don't even know each other."
He nodded. His expression was vulnerable. But he still had a surprised look on his face.
"Listen. Can we, umm, can we start this again?" He asked.
I nodded. "Yeah. Sure. Hi," I said.
He blushed. "Hi. What's your name?"
"[F/N] [L/N]. And yours?"
"Yuri Plisetsky. I'm 17."
"Same here. Now, Yuri. Tell me a bit about yourself."
He shrugged. "There's not much to know really. I've been skating since I was young, I'm a junior and a senior champion, and now I'm part of the Russian Winter Olympic Team."
I nodded. "Yeah. I've read a lot about you in articles."
"And I you," he added. "What about you?"
"I'm just an actress."
He continued to look at me with intense eyes.
"There must be more than that," he said.
I shrugged. "Well. Not really."
"I saw one of your films the other day," he muttered. "You're really talented.
I blushed. "Umm, which one?"
"That historical one, about the Jewish people in Nazi Germany. The one that won all the awards. You were really good in it."
I nodded. "Thanks."
He had something on his mind, and was still in shock that I had figured him out.
I cleared my throat. "So. Friends?" I asked, reaching my hand out. He looked at me fondly.
"Yeah." We shook hands.
"We can work out the whole fake relationship thing later."
"Of course."
A small pause. A waitress walked over and asked if we wanted any drinks. Yuri smiled at her and asked for a jug of water, and two elderflower cordials.
He turned back to me.
I sighed. "Why do you do it? Pretend to be somebody you're not."
He bit his lip. "You've already figured it out. Nobody wants a depressed celebrity. That image will stick with me forever. Yakov always tells me not to let my emotions get in the way of my talents. People always used to call me the "Russian Punk" because I was scowling all the time. Nobody wanted to interview somebody who looked like they were going to punch the interviewer. So I changed my personality. Everybody thought I was kind and fun. So everybody likes me."
"That's where you're wrong. I don't like you when you're like that. I'd rather know the real you that the fake you."
He smiled to himself. "You're the only exception."
I smiled at him. That last comment seemed to really stick with him, and he looked unhappily at his fork.
I opened my mouth, ready to tell him something. But I changed my mind at the last second. If I told him that I saw what happened that morning, he would feel even more insecure. I didn't want him curling more into his shell, when I was so close to opening it.
"You know, you're an incredible skater."
He looked up, and frowned.
"It's true. I've seen you. It's beautiful," I said.
"You're b-" he started, but then looked away, blushing bright red and biting his lip.
I helped him out by changing the subject, even though I was as red as he was.
"Umm, so. What do you think we should do when the paparazzi comes?"
"I don't know, act natural I guess. I'll try and pretend like I've been on a date before, and you can just treat me like a fellow actor in your films."
I raised both eyebrows. He looked away, out of the window.
I caught a nice view of him, looking out on the street, as a car light went past and hightlighted his face.
"See. You look nice. You don't need to pretend you're happy. You don't always need to be smiling to look the part," I said spontaneously. I mentally beat myself for saying something so cheesy, but he just turned to me and smiled.
"You're a great person. You know that?"
I smiled.
Yeah. We're going to be fine.
Let the press come. I'm sure that whatever they throw at us, we'll be ready to face it, under one big mask together.