Author's Note:
Note: For those unfamiliar with the anime, in Future Diary, god is dying. So he devises a game to choose his successor. 12 random people receive a diary in some form (cellphone, notebook, etc) and each diary has a special power. They're then encouraged to use these powers to take out the other diary users. The last remaining user becomes the new god. If there is no victor and the sitting god dies, the universe collapses.
"Yuuri?" Yuuko looked as though a specter hovered before the counter in the vacant Ice Castle lobby, her mouth open in a silent scream. The imagery wasn't too far off.
"Where have you been?" Her voice faltered on the last word. "Why are you…" She trailed off, frantic hands reaching for what words couldn't make sense of.
He tried to give a reassuring smile and it went slack, deflating like a punctured balloon. He wasn't the best at these, wasn't usually the one giving them.
He knew he looked odd, his jet black hair shaggy and unkempt, an oversized parka draped over his shoulders to hide his true stature. But it had been necessary. If just one person noticed them and thought to post it to social media…
His grip on the countertop tightened. "I can't explain right now. "But can we stay here? Just for the night? We'll be gone by morning."
Yuuko just gaped at him, mind clearly running through endless possibilities—none of which likely even approached the truth.
"This is… that doesn't make sen-"
"I know." It was an abrupt reply. Almost rude. But he didn't want to go down that rabbit hole again. It didn't make sense. It was crazy, in fact. Why them? Why now? He'd thought it all before, let it smother his mind until he scratched crescents into his arms and screamed in his sleep. "Just…" His tone softened again. "Don't tell my parents. Or Nishigori. Or anyone, okay?"
"Yuuri…" Yuuko bit her lip. "I heard people were after you. Did you get in trouble?" She leaned in, lowering her voice to a whisper to evade the ears of the only other person in the room. "Is it like a Russian mafia thing?"
He surprised himself with a short burst of laughter. "No. Listen." He caught her by the hands, eyes burning into her confused features. "I'll be fine," he lied." But you can't tell anyone. It's important."
Her brow wrinkled.
"Promise me, Yuu-chan?"
She held his gaze for a moment, searching for something. He started to think this wasn't such a good idea after all when she nodded. A familiar smile smoothed over her lips, reminding him of lighter childhood promises. Of stolen cookies and schoolyard crushes. "I promise."
"Thank you," He gave a relieved sigh, draping his arms over her shoulders and pulling her toward the lapels of the old, worn parka. She gasped in surprise. It wasn't like him to reach out, to do anything but suffer in silence. A lot had changed since Victor first landed in Hasetsu a year ago…
When Yuuri approached, he stood hunched over a magazine rack, the most recent edition of IFS Magazine in hand. The dark wig and lengthy puffer jacket didn't suit him and once upon a time, he wouldn't have been caught dead in the ensemble. He stared, through brown tinted sunglasses, at a sprawling article just a few pages in: 'Figure Skating Federation of Russia on Thin Ice After Victor Nikiforov's Disappearance'.
Russia's star team has taken a hit for the worst with the disappearance of Victor Nikiforov and his student and Japanese medalist, Yuuri Katsuki. Yuri Plisetsky has been floundering in the Nationals, his performance sinking after the disappearance of his rinkmates. Sources say they were close.
"Bullheaded as he is, Victor would have told me. And it certainly isn't like Katsuki", said a clearly frazzled Yakov Feltsman, long time coach and, some say, father figure to Nikiforov in a Tuesday morning interview. "I always told him to be more careful-
The article went on, but Yuuri's nerves flared and he fixed his gaze to the lobby floors. Reading about it just made it worse somehow. Made it real. "Victor."
Victor wouldn't turn away. He'd read to the last. Take it all in and let it fester and froth over inside.
"Victor." Yuuri placed a hand over the text, slowly prying the magazine from his hands and returning it to the rack. Their own likenesses smiled out from the cover, oblivious and glittering in sequins, the article's title hanging dauntingly over their heads. "Let's go in."
Victor's lips curled into a vaguely familiar smile, but bitterness crept in at the edges now, twisting and distorting it. Guilt stabbed across Yuuri's chest.
"My greatest surprise yet," he said, walking past the magazine rack and toward the empty ice stadium. "A vanishing act."
"We could maybe send them a message," Yuuri followed, feeling the unease rise up even as he mentioned it. "Something different from last time," he added immediately. "That can't be traced?"
Victor remained silent as they crossed the rink, LED floodlights glaring down on them. The guilt clung like tar in Yuuri's throat. Victor was silent a lot nowadays.
Yuuri found himself fumbling for the smartphone inside of his parka and checking the face. It was on Airplane Mode per usual to prevent tracking. But that didn't stop the diary. Nothing did.
'11:30 PM - Victor Nikiforov walks through the Ice Castle in Hasetsu, Japan.'
As always, the diary was perfectly efficient in giving him Victor's exact actions and whereabouts and disappointingly useless when it came to his moods. They sat their bags down in the stands without a word and removed the heavy coats. Victor pulled the brown wig from his head with a sigh and silver bangs fell in rivulets to frame his face. Yuuri still couldn't help staring at him, even after the image of the untouchable god had washed away, even with the bitter lines around his mouth and the deep shadows beneath his eyes.
"You were right."
The whites of Yuuri's eyes expanded. "Huh?"
"About sending messages," he murmured. "It's too dangerous."
It had been Victor who suggested sending a message last time to reassure Yuuri's family. Something brief. From an old email address. It wouldn't give their location away, he'd promised. Yuuri hadn't been so sure, but he'd done it anyway. Because it was his family. Because if he hadn't lamented over not being able to tell his mother he was alive, Victor would have never suggested the idea in the first place.
They hadn't expected another diary holder to trace them. Or maybe her diary specialized in digital footprints. He wouldn't know. He'd never seen it.
Regardless, they'd ended up face to face a few days later, the pistol Yakov had given them before they'd escaped Russia, jerky and unsteady under his trembling fingers. He'd tried to steel himself. 'Just like in shooting practice'. He'd repeated the mantra over and over in his head until it bled into nonsense.
But this wasn't an impassive tree in some lonely area they'd scouted in the woods. There was a living breathing human, barely 20, standing before him. Mirroring his frightened, saucer wide eyes with hers. When he failed to pull the trigger, she charged forward with the saw, screaming. It was Victor who snatched the gun from him and hit her square in the chest. It was Victor who draped the body, who dragged Yuuri, incoherent and sobbing apologies, from the scene. It was Victor who saved them.
Like so many times before, he'd talked himself up and practiced until his skin chafed, but when it came down to it, he hadn't been able to perform. Only now, their lives depended on it.
Victor had gone quiet after that…
"Are you sure about her?" Victor asked, snapping him out of his stupor. His aqua eyes wandered toward the rink lobby where Yuuko packed up for the night and then back to Yuuri.
He nodded. "I trust Yuu-chan. She won't say anything."
Victor wrestled with his luggage, roughly pulling an Adidas sports bag from the top.
"You sure that's not your childhood crush talking?" he asked with a tight sneer of a smile.
If Victor's genuine smiles had grown tired and fatigued, his concealing ones were splitting at the seams, the venom seeping and spilling out around the edges.
Yuuri drew in a deep breath to squash the growing anxiety in his chest. He rose from the stands with the softest grin he could muster.
"Don't tell me you're jealous." He snatched the abused sports bag up. Leave it to Victor to be petty under the threat of an apocalypse.
"What were you whispering about?" Victor asked, fixing him with a cold stare that seemed more and more frequent as of late.
Yuuri clenched his fists. "She asked if the Bratva was after us," he replied with a straight face, gauging Victor's reaction. Sure enough, the solid ice of his eyes melted, a snort escaping his lips.
"You should have said yes," he laughed. "It would have been easier to explain."
"Yeah…" Yuuri breathed, his shoulders relaxing.
Victor sobered, gloved fingers threading through his bangs as he leaned forward onto the rink partition. "Sorry."
Yuuri shook his head. He should be the one apologizing.
"Hey." He reached out instead, folding their hands together. Tired eyes gazed up to meet his. "It's getting late." He winked. "I said I'd take you skating, remember?"
Victor blinked at him and smiled. "Of course," he whispered, pressing a kiss to his palm.
They gathered their skates in better spirits than usual. Victor insisted on lacing his up and it brought back phantoms of happier times.
When he finally removed the skate guards and placed them on the partition top with his glasses, he noticed for the first time in a long time how the blades sparked beneath the floodlights, deathly sharp. He glanced back at Victor a few spaces down, still fiddling with his own guards.
It would be so easy…
They hadn't set foot in a rink since Russia. The past two months comprised of bounding from place to place and keeping the lowest profile possible. Not the easiest thing when you're Victor Nikiforov and the guy he chose to shack up with for reasons Yuuri still couldn't entirely discern…
It was Victor who coached him to silver at the Grand Prix and then gold at the World Championships. Victor who shared his upscale apartment with him in St. Petersburg. Victor who possessed a diary that wasn't completely useless. Who pulled the trigger and then held him through his tears.
It was always Victor.
So when the thought occured to spend a night at his home rink, Yuuri leapt at the idea. It was the least he could do… Victor always seemed most relaxed on the ice. They had that in common at least.
They danced around each other for what bled into hours, performing tiny pieces of routines they'd competed with over the years. Victor made small corrections and suggestions and Yuuri let him because it felt normal and Yuuri missed normal more than anything in the world.
He gave in to the fantasy, gliding without a thought about the rink, enjoying the cool wind teasing his hair and ruffling his black tee until it seemed he was the only one on the ice. Something tapped at his nose and he flinched, blinking to see a rain of golden droplets cascading from the ceiling. Confetti.
"Victor?!" he called, snapping around toward the control booth as tiny golden bits clung to him from every direction.
Victor waved at him, exiting the tiny booth and making his way down the stands to remove his skate guards again. He gestured at his phone. "Looks like my diary isn't completely evil."
Fittingly, Victor's diary specialized in the element of surprise. Sometimes it allowed them enough distraction to find an opponent's diary and destroy it. Other times… well…
"You realize we're going to have to clean this up," Yuuri said, blinking a gold square out of his eye.
"Well…" Victor tapped at his chin, eyes travelling up in faux thought. "You're going to have to clean this up." He winked. "Wouldn't want to disappoint Yuu-chan!"
Yuuri nearly snorted, despite himself. Instead, he offered an arm, the other hand massaging at his face. "Help me out from under this? I'm not wearing my glasses."
Victor immediately took his hand and Yuuri lurched backwards. Together, they skidded to the center of the confetti storm.
"Hey-!" Victor cried out, tripping over his toe pick and landing them both on the ice, laughing harder than they had in a long time.
"Victor…" Yuuri groaned through laughter, a warm body at his chest, hard ice at his back and a flurry of gold flecks everywhere else. "I really don't want to clean this up."
"Then don't," Victor mumbled into his neck. "You always look amazing in gold. You should wear it more often."
Yuuri caught the slight in the compliment and met his eyes defiantly. "I wore it at Worlds," he challenged, cheeks flushing. He still couldn't believe it. "You were in silver, right?"
Victor smirked, the pride of a coach and a competitor fighting for dominance behind his gaze. "Fair enough," he said. "But let's see how you fare at…"
He trailed off and the fantasy plummeted, crashing around them, the last of the golden specks whittling like embers to the ice. They didn't know when their next competition would be. Didn't know if they'd survive to make it to the next. They'd only outwitted three diary users- the last by a hair. And even if they were the only two users left, a choice had to be made…
Yuuri couldn't help shuddering, the ice suddenly chilly beneath him. He winced when Victor pulled away, the newly recovered light in his eyes rapidly dimming. He was detaching again.
"Victor," Yuuri caught him by the arm in an almost panicked motion and Victor faced him with conflicted eyes.
Please stay with me. "Let's skate 'Stay Close to Me'," Yuuri said in a tone he was sure trembled with a smile that most certainly faltered. "You remember it, right?"
Victor nodded slowly, giving his best middling grin in return. Together, they stumbled from one fantasy to the next, leaving the golden confetti remnants behind to drift into movements too familiar, too fond to ever forget.
Yuuri skated as though he were being judged, every motion fluid, every flick of his wrist perfectly articulated.
It's not enough, he thought, feeling Victor's eyes on him as he sank into a sit spin. But at least let me give you this much.
Victor pulled him close when he rose again, the sound of blades splitting the ice ceasing in a quick halt. A bowed grin curved his lip, worth one hundred flawless marks, but a sadness still lingered deep. Deeper than Yuuri could ever reach with pretty dances and sound jumps. Victor nestled his chin into Yuuri's hair, eyes drifting out over the rink's expanse as reality settled over them. Victor tensed, unmoving, and Yuuri didn't have to look to know his eyes had dimmed to dark, frozen in the moment when he had failed to act. When Yuuri made a killer of him.
Victor's arms traveled up his sides, one firm hand coming to rest around the small of his neck to draw him closer. He gave him a quick squeeze and Yuuri couldn't help thinking it.
How it would be so easy.
'1:30 AM - Victor Nikiforov eats a riceball.'
They shared the little meal Yuuri had cobbled together from the rink vending machines in silence. A nest of stretching mats and blankets sat in the center of the dark equipment room at the rear of the rink, their bedroom for the night. The dark, cotton blankets were ridden with fuzzballs and the mats smelled vaguely of sweat and detergent, but Yuuri thought it an improvement over some of the motels they'd slept in…
He had laid across the makeshift bed after his third riceball. Victor had barely finished the first, rolling it in his hand and toying absentmindedly with it as he stared forward into the black of the room, brow set. Yuuri cursed his diary for its lack of introspection, 'Victor Nikiforov eats a riceball' still taunting him from the screen. Improvisation would have to do.
"The door is locked, Victor," he sighed. "I checked it three times. So you can come to-"
"I was just thinking..." Victor ran a finger under his chin, eyes set downward. "If we stopped running," He looked up. "If we started seeking out the other users, this would move much quicker."
Yuuri's pulse sped up instantly, a cold sweat breaking over him. He drew in a deep, quaking breath. "Seek them out?"
"I'm tired of waiting," Victor cradled his head in his hands. "Of running like this." He peered at him through silver curtains, eyes narrowed. "Aren't you?"
"Y- Yes, but…" he stammered, trying to keep his breathing under control. Self defense was one thing. But hunting people down? "We can't… we aren't-"
Murderers.
Where he could once say that with conviction, the line was smudged and greying to black. He'd destroyed two diaries, tearing one and tossing the other into fire. Of course it was Victor who always checked the bodies, made sure they were dead.
(It was always Victor.)
Victor pulled the trigger. Victor could detach. Could kill.
You could too, he told himself. For survival. For Victor. He pictured himself behind the gun again, fingers firm and ready against the trigger. Then she appeared, staring him down over the barrel with wide, quivering eyes, her pleas high and shrill on his ears. A tremor passed through him.
"What if they're like us?" he asked, his chest noticeably falling and rising. "What if they don't want this? If they're running too?"
"How long do you think it would take them to get the same idea?" Victor moved forward, closing the space between them. "We're professional athletes. The moment we come out of hiding, we'd be easy targets."
Yuuri's expression crumbled and he bit his lip to keep it from shaking. He was right.
"I…" he paused, hating to admit it. "I don't know if I can."
"Of course you can." Victor smiled, but the cold ambition never left his eyes. Five time gold medalists didn't get that far without a certain level of ruthlessness. How could Yuuri ever hope to approach it? "If it comes down to it, I'll pull the trigger. You just have to-"
"No!" Yuuri cried, the word leaving his mouth before he could catch it, fingers digging into Victor's arms. "You shouldn't have had to… I can-!" He cut himself off, not wanting to make promises he couldn't keep. He pushed his forehead against Victor's chest, fingers bunching into his shirt, tears threatening to spill. "You can't, Victor."
After a while, slow bitter laughter started overhead and Yuuri winced.
"You don't know if you can, but I can't?"
It sounded about as stupid as it had coming out. Yuuri muttered an incoherent apology into his shirt, the familiar, piny scent of their apartment in Russia trapped within the grey fabric. He closed his eyes and he was there, sunlight pouring through the living room windows, Makkachin curled into the sofa. They'd left him with Yakov. Yuuri wondered if he was being good…
"I miss Makkachin," he mumbled into the shirt.
"Me too." Soft lips pressed against his forehead. Then he felt himself being eased down.
"Come here," Victor whispered. "You're tired. We'll talk about it more in the morning."
Yuuri grimaced. He didn't want to talk about it more. Arms draped around him, pulling him in closer and closer still until they pressed together, Victor's head tucked under his chin.
"Ai shiteru yo," Victor whispered and pressed a kiss to his collarbone.
Yuuri curled into him, his own lips pressed against his hair whurl. "Gomen," he returned, thankful that Victor couldn't see the tears fall.
This was ridiculous. He should be the one comforting him.
Neither of them wanted to bring it up, to be the one to say it, but this wasn't the way they should be handling things.
He needed to tell him.
Yuuri nuzzled into the silver mane and Victor hummed in response.
He'd tell him in the morning.
He didn't know when he nodded off. Only that when he woke, Victor's bags were packed and the man himself was no where to be found among the bed of mats and blankets in the stuffy equipment room. He immediately reached for his phone.
'4:20 AM Victor Nikiforov examines knives.'
His stomach dropped low and heavy, blood ice cold. They didn't carry knives- save for one boxcutter. Where had Victor found them? Why was he examining them? Why would they need more than a gun?
You should find him and ask, he told himself. Instead, he sat and waited for the next notification.
'4:30 AM Victor Nikiforov sharpens knives.'
Yuuri's pulse began to rabbit. He wrapped his arms around his knees and curled into himself, rocking steadily. It was fine. Victor just liked staying prepared. He would come back, hand one to Yuuri and they'd leave together. Like they always did.
Yuuri eyed Victor's gear bag sitting just next to the door. Saw the imprint where the gun pressed outward from the black nylon. He swallowed hard.
The next ten minutes felt like an eon passing.
'4:40 AM Victor Nikiforov carries knives to the rear of the Ice Castle.'
When Victor entered the room, all dressed in his grey puffer coat, the wig unceremoniously stuffed in one of the large pockets, Yuuri lingered near the back.
"Yuuri?" Victor blinked, eyes widening by a small fraction. "I didn't expect you to be awake."
Yuuri moved forward in tentative steps into the light bleeding from the open doorway. He searched Victor's hands and person for the knives. No sign of them.
"Good morning." He managed to keep his breathing steady.
"Good morning."
"You packed your things already." Your things.
Victor gave a slow nod. "I couldn't sleep." He shrugged. "Not much else to do."
"What were you doing?" Yuuri asked, nearly stumbling over a mat.
Victor narrowed his eyes and took a step forward. Yuuri instinctively took one back.
"Just getting a few things ready," he replied, eyes traveling downward toward the mats. "Nothing important."
"Oh…" His mouth went dry. Nothing important. Then why was he hiding them?
Victor stepped forward again and Yuuri took one back into the shadows. Victor took two steps forward and Yuuri, two back. Yuuri didn't realize he had run out of space until his back collided with the wall. Victor caged him in, palms slamming down on either side and he flinched, pupils dilating, mind going white.
He'd known it would come to this for months now. They both had, ambling along, putting off the inevitable. But it didn't make it any less terrifying. Less gutting. At least Victor seemed to be having less trouble than him…
"You read about the knives in the diary?" Victor asked, jaw set, eyes sparking with derision.
Yuuri could only nod, heat filling his eyes little by little. He wanted to say he understood. That it didn't have to be like this, forceful and angry. Victor deserved to be the last one standing. He was better at this. Yuuri would only hold him back.
"And now you think I'm going to kill you."
"You can kill me." Yuuri forced a quivering grin across his lips, so unnatural it probably seemed grotesque, but he didn't care. He could be the strong one for once.
Victor drew in a quick breath, his features loosening, surprise softening over the disdain. "What?"
"You can, Victor," he said, inwardly cursing himself as tears flooded down his cheeks. "There can only be one of us at the end and you're better at this. So if you want to-"
He cut off when Victor's hand dipped into the insides of his coat, pulling two objects from the folds. He recognized them as the knives Yuuko used to sharpen rental skate blades. He wanted to suggest Victor do this in a less messy way, leave him in a place his family couldn't find him. Wanted to tell him everything he'd never thought to say, a lifetime's worth.
Shouldn't they have talked about this? Would it have been too much? His mind went blank, eyes ballooning as Victor reared back, knives in hand…
... and tossed them both across the room.
He trailed sluggishly after the motion, numbness prickling over his skin. "Wh- What?" he croaked through cracked lips.
The shadow over him receded as Victor made his way to the front of the room again. He turned back to him, gaze harsh and accusing. "That's why you keep checking that thing?" He motioned to Yuuri's diary, still lying among the mess of mats and blankets.
Yuuri bit his lip, his heart still relentless against his throat. "I thought…" He glanced at the knives again. "You didn't-"
"Mention knives first thing in the morning?" Victor's mouth curled up in a sour smile. "That would have went over well."
Something erupted and swelled red hot in Yuuri's chest. Something that, among all the fear, guilt and regret, he hadn't felt in a while. He clenched his fists. "What's that supposed to mean?"
"I didn't want to scare you." Victor took a half empty water bottle from beside the mats and tossed a third of it back. His features remained cool, but Yuuri saw how his fingers dented the plastic. "I was trying to keep it together. One of us has to."
A blend of anger and shame rushed through him. Victor wouldn't kill him. Not now anyway. He was too kind for that. But he was beginning to resent picking up the pieces all the time, beginning to resent Yuuri. Watching Victor allegedly plot to stab him had been painful. More painful than he'd fabricated in his most wretched nightmares. But watching Victor continue to suffer for his mistakes… Watching him grow to hate him, his soft blue eyes hardening over time… Yuuri couldn't bear it. He nodded, firm and resolute. He'd been a coward to put the weapon in Victor's hand again. He'd make it up to him now.
"Sorry," He managed a more believable smile this time, pacing the floor to meet him. He reached up to clasp both hands over Victor's cheeks and willed him down to plant a kiss against his forehead. "I overreacted."
Victor's eyes cleared, the resentment seeping out to leave nothing but fatigue. "Yuuri…" He leaned in, arms closing around Yuuri's waist. "I shouldn't have said-"
Yuuri pressed a finger against his lips and blinked back tears. "I'm going to protect you from now on, okay?"
Victor's brow creased.
"Just let me take a shower first." He pulled out of his grasp and lifted his duffel bag up before starting toward the door. It held most of his clothes, identification and a little cash. It would be enough. "Can you get everything cleaned up in here?"
Victor blinked at him, apparently still registering the sudden mood shift. He finally nodded with a short sigh and bent down to retrieve a mat from the ground.
Yuuri remained in the threshold, watching Victor sift about the makeshift bedroom for a while longer before tearing himself away. He walked quickly past the field of the rink, keeping his head down to resist the ice and the phantom memories it held. Nothing would deter him. He was done being a coward.
He walked to the showers, as promised, but he didn't stop there, continuing through and into the dark hallway on the other end. Not many people knew about this exit- a benefit to spending half his childhood in the Ice Castle. He pushed through the double doors, chilled air gusting in, and found himself standing in the far left back alley of the rink, early morning snow drifting from above. He held the door ajar for a moment.
It felt strange being alone. Not because they had nothing to say to one another. Not because Victor had detached. But truly, honestly alone. A shiver passed through him and the weakest parts of his consciousness roiled through, urging him to return. To break off in a mad run back inside, down the dark hall and into Victor's arms.
"No," he replied, forcing his hand away and letting the door close with a click. That was it. Locked.
He lifted the diary to his face. At least he could keep an eye on him this way.
'5:30 AM, Victor Nikiforov packs Yuuri Katsuki's skates at the Ice Castle.'
He smiled, blinking away tears. Take care of them.
He faced the blinding white ground as it sparkled beneath the sun, towering mountains in the distance. He concentrated on the flakes as they kissed and melted against his skin, the snow crunching underfoot. Anything to distract himself, to keep from receding inward where separation anxiety waited for him at every turn.
It was so quiet…
He willed himself forward, one step after the other, putting more and more space between him and Victor.
Victor would be fine, he told himself. No more covering for Yuuri's weakness. No more excuses and coddling. No more deadweight. He'd be a god… And Yuuri…
He swallowed hard, rounding the building and heading for the stairs. Someone would find him eventually… He eyed his duffel bag, suddenly feeling naked without the gun or the boxcutter. But this is how it had to be. This is what he wanted, right?
Darkness fell over the ground at his feet and he snapped up. Beady, dark eyes peered out at him from underneath matted black hair. The man's dry, cracking lips curled into a crooked grin.
"Katsuki?" He squinted. "Katsuki Yuuri?"
Yuuri's heart leapt into his throat, vision pulsing in and out. "Wh…" he tried. "Who…"
"Hey." The man leaned forward, breath rancid. "I asked you a question."
Yuuri took a few quick steps back before turning on his heel and moving toward the stairs. "Excuse me."
"Hey." He heard the man following him and quickened his pace. "Hey! I was talkin to you!"
He was running by the time he'd reached the stairs, legs flying over the concrete steps, skipping them in fours and fives. He reached the main road and dove across the street, thankfully devoid of cars at this hour. Throwing himself into the first alleyway he came across, he darted in the direction of the beach. If it had to be Hasetsu, that seemed like a fitting place for his end. Better than the dingy equipment room under Victor's knife anyway.
Victor. He should at least warn him. He stopped to pull his phone from his pocket only for strong arms to tackle him from behind, the weight of the man's body pinning him to the ground. His glasses flew from his eyes and skidded over the gravel.
"They're lookin' for you," Foul breath stung the back of his neck and he cried out, white hot panic fraying at his edges. The weight of his situation crashed down on him in perfect clarity. He didn't want this. Didn't want his family to find him lifeless and bleeding in an alley. To leave Victor abandoned and confused. He didn't want to die on a selfish god's whim.
Yuuri forced himself onto his back, fingers digging into the man's shoulders. He started to knee upward when he noticed large, blinking eyes hovering over them.
He went still. The man's grip on him loosened and he turned over his shoulder to see the young boy, dressed in the same school uniform Yuuri had worn growing up. Letting out a cry of surprise, he instantly pulled back, falling onto his rear and hobbling away down the alley. Yuuri and the boy remained locked in a silent stare.
"Uh…" Yuuri reached up and the boy pulled back, clutching his backpack to his chest.
"Y- You're…" the boy stammered, shy brown eyes peering out at him from under a mop of jet black hair. "You're Katsuki Yuuri…"
Yuuri bit his lip. Shit. "Um…"
"Wow!" He gushed, eyes glowing. "You're like my favorite skater! I thought you were missing!"
"Hey!" Yuuri sprang to his feet, raising a calming hand toward the boy. "Not so loud!"
"Why are you fighting hobos in the alley, Katsuki-sama?!" he asked, just as loudly.
Nervous laughter bubbled out of Yuuri as he moved forward down the alley. His new companion hopped right after him.
"It's a secret," he said, sparing a small grin at the boy as he fixed his glasses over the bridge of his nose. "So promise you'll keep it between us, okay?"
"Okay!" The boy gave an excited nod. "I'm Kioshi!"
Genuine fondness spread onto Yuuri's lips as they walked along. Kioshi reminded him of a smaller Minami, glistening eyes fixed upward as he went on about his own burgeoning figure skating career. A part of Yuuri worried that he wouldn't be as good at keeping his secret as Yuuko, but it was nice having something normal again. To talk about something that wasn't shooting practice, hide out locations or plans for murder.
They reached the edge of the alley and Yuuri stared down to their right, up the mountains and at a familiar building, large with a flat roof and sprawling gardens.
"You go to Karatsu Academy, right?" He gave the boy's uniform a once over. "You better get to class." The sooner he lost Kioshi, the sooner he could warn Victor about the man who'd attacked him.
"Um…" The boy shuffled his feet. "I still have some time before school starts… Can I…" He forced himself to face Yuuri with fiery eyes. "Can I have your autograph?!"
Heat flooded Yuuri's cheeks. He glanced up at the building again. He supposed it was a little early for school to begin… And he could spare a minute. "Sure." He nodded with a grin.
The boy rummaged through his bag with clumsy fervor, books and mechanical pencils with animal heads spilling onto the ground.
"Here!" The boy finally produced one child's white leather ice skate, pristine and barely used from the looks of it.
Yuuri took it, a wave of memories washing over him at holding the skate alone. "How long have you had these?"
"Um…" He flustered. "A couple of months now…"
Yuuri chuckled as the boy handed him a black pen. "You have to skate more often to get better," he advised, cradling the skate in arm as he tugged at the pen cap.
"Right." The boy nodded, taking a step back, hands clutched together in a nervous ball.
Yuuri tugged harder at the pen cap. "This is really…" He clenched his teeth. "Stubborn…" It finally popped off and an explosion of dark ink and something thick and acrid erupted in his face. Before he could register what had happened, a sharp pressure plunged into his thigh, drawing a line across the flesh.
"Ah!" he cried out, dropping the skate and stumbling onto his uninjured leg. The world slowed, a dark substance oozing over the cotton of his grey sweatpants, hot and wet. Kioshi stared at him with a manic curiosity, tiny hands cupped over his mouth.
"It worked," The boy whispered as though he couldn't believe it himself. "I used Youtube to make it."
Yuuri glanced down at what was left of the pen and realized it was difficult, his eyes burning and watering. He moved to touch his eyelids and cringed instantly. His hands were covered in ink and the same acidic substance that erupted from the pen. It burned like hell.
He forced his eyes closed, his last image, a blue notebook and the second pair to the white figure skate in Kioshi's arms, the blade shaved ragged and dripping with blood.
"My diary tells me the exact location of the closest user," Kioshi told him, his voice more calm than before, the enthusiastic fanboy act retired. "I'm young so I can't move around a lot…"
"No…" Yuuri half sobbed, pulling his leg in to himself. A deep, throbbing pain followed, wringing a gasp from his throat.
"I can't believe you came to me." Kioshi moved closer, fingering at his pockets. "Where's your diary?"
Panic jolted through Yuuri. His diary was a log on Victor's every movement. He couldn't let anyone see it.
"Stop!" He shoved Kioshi away, trying again to open his eyes and failing. He scuttled backwards, his back slamming into a dumpster.
"You should be dying!" the boy called after him, cursing to himself. "Did I hit the artery right?"
Yuuri didn't stick around long enough to find out. He pulled himself half way up, using a wall to guide him as he limped his way out of the alley and rounded the corner.
"Help!" he cried, hoping it would discourage Kioshi from stabbing him again. He grabbed for the phone in his pocket with shaking fingers. He just had to call Victor. Had to warn him…
His foot hit something hard and he stumbled forward, landing on the wrong leg. Blinding pain spasmed through him and he collapsed, tumbling down the mountainside road. He opened his burning eyes momentarily and a blur of sky, snow and concrete greeted him before he retreated into blackness again. He landed on his side, bruised and freezing. A shadow passed over him and he struggled to move, but the pain in his thigh screamed through the nerves and he sobbed instead, crumpling back to the roadside. A hand fell upon his leg, pushing in and he cried out again. This was it.
He held his own diary in a vice grip and took the phone at both ends, summoning all the strength he had left to bend it in two. It would kill him. But at least without it, Kioshi couldn't find Victor as easily. His eyes clouded with tears and the burning subsided with them. As easily…
He never should have left.
The masking began splintering under his fingertips and he choked on a sob.
"Victor…"
Two strong hands tackled him by the wrists and he dropped the phone instantly.
"No!" he struggled against the hands, thrashing back and forth despite the pain.
"What are you doing?!"
Yuuri stopped moving, letting his arms fall limp in his assaulter's hands. He squinted up through red, puffy eyes. "V- Victor?!"
Wide blue eyes peered down at him, darting from his face to the cracked glasses at his side to the circle of blood at his thigh as though he were a particularly difficult mess to clean up. "Yuuri."
Yuuri's throat was closing, tears gushing before he could help them. "Victor!"
"Can you stand?" Victor asked, one arm already slipping under his shoulders and lifting him. Yuuri grunted, accommodating the height with his good leg. The dull throbbing in his thigh razored again and he bit his lip, grasping at Victor's shoulders.
"Barely," he bit out.
"Lean on me."
Yuuri squinted again, the world blurry without his glasses. He could make out the beach in the distance, seagulls crying overhead. "Where's Kioshi?"
"I didn't see anyone." He clutched at the bend of his arm. "A homeless guy said you'd run into the alley."
"Ah…" He ceased to try keeping his eyes open, content to let Victor lead him. He lay his cheek against his shoulder blade and nosed at his neck, taking in the familiar scent of him, musk and the faint remnants of cologne. This was perfect. Why had he ever left?
"I missed you," he breathed mindlessly. Victor didn't respond.
When they'd reached the damp confines of the beach's public bathrooms and sequestered themselves away in the corner of the largest stall, Yuuri began to remember why he'd left in the first place.
Victor was quiet again. Only now, wetness clung to his cheeks in rivulets as he emptied another cup full of peroxide onto the wound.
It burned worse than anything. Yuuri sank his teeth into the insides of his lips, one hand digging into the stall sink and another squeezing the cool water out of the damp cloth he held over his stinging eyes. He wanted to cry out, to sob, but how could he? With Victor kneeling there crying without a sound?
Victor didn't cry like anyone he'd ever known. It was almost as though he didn't realize he was doing it. And he certainly didn't like being reminded. It was unsettling in a way so Yuuri remained silent, watching as he tied a pile of clean cloths together and applied them to the wound. When Victor's narrowed, wet gaze fell on him, he nearly flinched.
"It's not as deep as I thought," he said. "Had they hit an artery, you'd be dead."
"Oh…" Yuuri replied, wanting to breathe a sigh of relief, but Victor's words didn't sound congratulatory or grateful. They echoed off of the bathroom walls in a harsh, pointed tone.
"You lied to me," Victor said, squeezing the cloths around his leg until the skin dimpled on either side.
"Victor..." He hissed
"Left me stranded in the middle of fucking-"
More tears welled up and Yuuri just stared despite the pain screaming through his leg at Victor's rough ministrations. He never cursed.
Victor faced him directly, fresh tears pouring, expression oddly serene. Save for the downward arch of his brow glaring daggers into Yuuri. "Why'd you leave?"
Yuuri blinked at him, more fearful than he'd been under the threat of the sharpening knives, the foul breath of the old man and the skating blade combined.
"Yuuri-!"
"I didn't want you to hate me," he blurted, voice cracking.
When Victor's brow furrowed in confusion, he drew a deep breath and went on.
"I'm not…" he started. "I've been holding you back. You're always compensating for me and..." He dug his fingers into the top of his sweatpants where they bunched above his injured leg. "I thought if I left, you wouldn't have to waste so much energy-"
"That doesn't make any sense," Victor snapped.
"Yes, it does!" Yuuri leaned forward and immediately winced at the pain. "I keep messing up! Don't tell me it doesn't bother you!"
"It bothers me when you decide to give up and run away!"
Give up? Yuuri's eyes widened. Is that what he'd been doing? He thought back to earlier that morning, to Victor's aggravated, tired eyes, the pervasive silence that hung over them as of late. "You always seem out of it. Detached," he said. "So I thought-"
Victor scoffed. "You always assume what I'm thinking."
Annoyance swelled within Yuuri and spilled over. "You never tell me!"
Victor blinked at him and, like color fading to stark white, the urgency seeped from his features. "Fair enough."
He returned to tend to Yuuri's leg, his hands more gentle over the cloth now as he wrapped it.
Yuuri still drew in heaving breaths, his features flushed and tear stained, while Victor carried on as though he'd never been riled up in the first place. Damn him.
When he finished, he leaned down to place a ginger kiss upon the bandage, sparing a slight grin at Yuuri, who yelped in surprise.
They sat quietly for a moment, listening to the leaky faucet drip, to the sound of ocean waves in the backdrop.
"Would you want to kill me, Yuuri?" Victor broke the silence. "If I broke my leg? Or decided I couldn't shoot anymore?"
"No!" Yuuri lunged forward to seize his hand. How could he even ask? "I'd protect you." His cheeks flushed. "The best way I could."
Victor smiled back, the glaciers in his eyes thawing to a soft ripple and Yuuri's heart melted.
"But I'd be holding you back."
Yuuri squirmed in discomfort. That wasn't a fair comparison. It was different with him…
"If this had happened a year ago, before I came to Japan, I might not have cared as much," Victor admitted, leaning against the grey brick wall.
Yuuri turned to him, mouth plastered in a frown. Victor shrugged.
"I didn't feel like I had anything to lose," he went on, expression sobering. "It was the most detached I've ever felt."
Yuuri squeezed at his hand, saying nothing. It was a hard portrait to reconcile with his prior image of the five time gold medalist. Victor at the top of the skating world and hating every lonely, miserable second of it.
Victor's hands slipped over his cheeks and he pressed their foreheads together.
"I need you alive," he said. "So I don't detach. Do you understand?"
"Mm." Yuuri nodded, placing his own hands over Victor's. A shudder passed through him. "But at the end, if you have to…"
"If you say I can kill you, I might shoot you for real, Yuuri."
"The rules said-"
"The rules said I couldn't coach and compete at the same time." He challenged with a smug grin.
"You fractured your ankle, Victor."
"That was a sprain!" A pout folded Victor's lips under. "And that's not the point! You never listen to me, but you're going to listen to some dying god?"
Yuuri laughed, palming at still falling tears.
Immortal or not, the diety who devised this sick game was still a god. And they were human. When the time came, they might not survive. He knew that. Victor had to know it too. He was just being strong…
They'd made careers out of being strong. Faking confidence in an unpromised victory before crowds of thousands. Smiling as though they knew this wouldn't be the meltdown or the life shattering injury that ended their careers each time they stepped onto the ice. Picking up the pieces when they failed and doing it all over again. That's how they lived. Pushing their limits. Feigning invincibility.
He supposed he could stand to be invincible with Victor for just a while longer.
Victor's pout deepened and Yuuri smiled. He hadn't seen that face in so long...
"I do hate to lose," he admitted.
Victor beamed. "There's my Yuuri," He leaned in to nuzzle into the curve of Yuuri's neck. He pulled him in, squeezing so harshly Yuuri struggled for breath. "Don't ever leave me again."
"I won't," he whispered back, tilting Victor's chin up to meet his gaze. "I'll make it up to you." He pressed a kiss to his lips. "I promise."
Victor looked as though he might smile, but his breathing hitched suddenly, eyes narrowing.
Yuuri gulped. "What is it?"
"Shh." Victor stood, removing something from his coat pocket. The pistol.
Footsteps pattered softly on the cream tile outside the stall.
"Don't move." Victor told him as he pressed against the stall door. "I'll be quick."
Yuuri nodded, drawing in a deep breath and letting it out in stagnated, shaky gusts. Of course Victor would be quick, he reassured himself. Victor was quick before with the girl… Not like Yuuri's own hesitation earlier with Kioshi. But then, he hadn't actually expected… His heart dropped.
"Victor."
Victor was already stepping out into the main area.
"Victor," he hissed. "He's just a-"
"Mister?" a tiny, trembling voice came in Japanese. "Why are you pointing that at me?"
Victor stared down the gun, eyes going wide.
"Are you Victor Nikiforov?" Kioshi asked and Yuuri already knew the trap without looking at him, the tiny balled fists, the glistening eyes, reminding him so much of himself as a child. He had to do something.
He positioned himself forward with a wince at the throbbing it caused in his leg and scoured the ground.
"You're my favorite skater!" More footsteps.
"Get back!" Victor said.
Yuuri turned over multiple blood tinged cloths, tape rolls and antiseptics before he found what he was looking for. He picked up the diary and read the text printed there.
'DEAD END'.
"No…" he choked snapping toward the door. 'Dead End's weren't written in stone. He had to change this one. Scrolling back through the diary, he found another message Victor had received and ignored just seven minutes ago. It could still work… He shifted his gaze to the bottle of toilet cleaner in the corner and a lighter sticking out of Victor's bag.
Taking both in hand, he used all of his upper body strength and his good leg to hoist himself onto the toilet seat. Teeth gritted through the pain, he gripped the divider wall and peered down at the toilet in the next stall, adjacent to where Kioshi stood.
"My family can't afford a skating coach," Kioshi whined from outside in his best English. "So will you be my coach, Victor?"
Anger flared through Yuuri as he poured the cleaning solution into the next toilet over. He flicked the lighter on, shut his eyes and dropped it into the open bowl.
The resulting explosion forced him backwards before he could even retreat to his own stall, blowing the door before the toilet open. Kioshi's surprised cry was only drowned out by his own yelp of pain as he landed on the injured leg. Rancid smoke blew in from under the stall walls and he crawled out into the main area.
"You!" Kioshi stood, balancing himself against the wall, shrapnel induced cuts bleeding bright red all over his face. "You should be dead by now!"
"Yuuri!" Victor's finger still rested on the trigger, a slight tremor in his index finger. "Just… I can handle-"
Kioshi's palm came down flat on Victor's wrist and the pistol fell from his grip, clattering to the tile.
"No!" Yuuri reached for it, but Kioshi dashed straight at him, a piece of toilet shrapnel raised high. He tackled him by the thigh and brought his hand down. Yuuri caught him by the arm and tried to maneuver the boy onto his back, but Kioshi lifted his boot and stomped the toe of it directly into the bandaged gash.
Yuuri's anguished howl filled the bathroom and a shot rang out.
They both went still, the sound ringing in their ears. After a moment, Kioshi looked up to blink at Victor, pale in the dim restroom light, chest heaving.
"I thought so," Kioshi smirked, though his voice betrayed a tremor. "Adults can't hurt kids. That's why my brother takes me out on hits," he said in a proud little voice.
Yuuri's eyes widened. Yakuza.
"That explains a lot," He wrestled Kioshi onto his side, the school backpack slipping from his shoulders.
"No!" he cried, reaching for it.
Yuuri kept him rooted in place and Kioshi kicked at the wound again, digging in despite Yuuri's screams of agony. He climbed back on top, jamming the sharp edge of the toilet piece at the base of Yuuri's neck. Yuuri caught it just above his adam's apple and Kioshi leaned forward, all of his strength focusing into the leg above the wound and his makeshift knife. Yuuri's vision blurred with the pain, the urge to vomit overcoming him.
"Victor!" Why was he so quiet all of a sudden?
Kioshi leaned in further, the knife blade pressing against Yuuri's trachea and his attention snapped back to the boy overhead, his cherubic gaze maddened, teeth gritted in exertion. Panic rose and washed over him in waves, blending with the searing pain in his thigh and the urge to vomit. He might die like this. The boot dug into his wound again and he gagged, sweat breaking all over.
"Please."
"Don't be a bitch about it," the boy taunted through clenched teeth. "It's you or…" He stopped suddenly, eyes going dark, his grip on the shrapnel softening until it fell with a clank upon the tile. His head lulled forward, bangs tickling at Yuuri's chin.
Victor stood overhead, a mess of ripped blue and white paper in hand, bits of loose-leaf drifting to the ground where water leaked from the exploded toilet. Kioshi's diary.
The boy's body suddenly felt as though it were crushing into his chest and he squirmed out from under it. Kioshi crumpled with a sick thump to the tile, vacant eyes peering straight into Yuuri. A tremor began in his hands so he clasped them together. The shudder spread to his arms and then his shoulders. Soon he couldn't stop shaking.
It wasn't fair...
Cursing, he took the empty bottle of toilet cleaner and flung it, cracking a mirror above the sinks.
"Yuuri!"
How many diary users were left? He clutched his head in his hands. How many more times could he do this without losing it?
"We have to go."
Victor was always so calm. Yuuri drew in a deep breath. "Right…" He nodded slowly. "R…"
His eyes went wide, the scream not reaching his lips fast enough. A familiar face floated behind Victor, beady eyes narrowed, stained teeth snarled. The man from the alley was upon him before Yuuri could get out the warning, arms wrung around his neck.
"What the hell?!" the man barked.
Victor cried out, already grappling at the man's arms to no avail.
Yuuri gaped at them, the panic that overwhelmed him with the ridged porcelain at his throat roaring through him again, buzzing in his ears. He pictured Victor unmoving on the tile, blue eyes as lifeless as Kioshi's were now. He pictured himself, alone. Truly, honestly alone. He couldn't face it. Couldn't keep going after that. It wasn't an option.
His hand wrestled the toilet shrapnel from the ground before he could register his own movement.
"Child kill-!"
The blade went in clean, blood gushing through the tattered, military green pants and around the man's ankle. He let out a cry and toppled to the ground on top of Yuuri. Yuuri pushed him onto his back, clamping his hands down over his lips when he began to sputter, arms moving wildly. He didn't want to hear it. The begging. They always resorted to that, as if it made up for trying to murder them moments before, as if it meant this could end any other way.
"Stop talking!" Yuuri blubbered, tears rushing down his cheeks, eyes squeezed shut.
A few seconds later, the man went limp and he let out a sigh, pulling his hands back.
Silence passed through the area, the water dripping and the ocean waves taking precedence once again. If Yuuri kept his eyes closed, he could pretend he was in a different time.
A hand jolted from the ground, clutching Yuri's shoulder, dirty nails digging in deep.
"Please-"
The panic screeched and Yuuri's hands were on him again, this time tightening around his neck. The more he squeezed his eyes closed, the harsher he gripped until the man's pleas were nothing but croaks. Then twitching. Then silence.
Just die, he begged silently. Please just die.
"Yuuri."
This wasn't so hard. It was like taking spoonfuls of fish oil as a child. He just had to close his eyes and push. Push it all down.
"Yuuri!"
Victor's voice echoed through the room and he felt himself coming back, dazed, the cream tile and grey brick of the beach restrooms settling back into view.
"Victor?" He started to gaze down, but Victor was guiding him backwards, spinning him around and into his arms. He rested his chin against Victor's shoulder and took in his scent again, now thick with sweat.
"I did it," he mumbled into his neck, a sense of pride settling over him. Reality still felt fuzzy at the edges, but he supposed that wasn't so bad. It was nice even. "I did it, Victor."
"Oh, Yuuri," Victor sighed, gathering him in closer, arms nearly smothering him at the waist as he stared at something over his shoulder.
"Is he…" Yuuri started.
"Yes."
"We should check his diary to make sure."
"I did," Victor whispered. "I checked."
Yuuri sighed, burying his face in Victor's neck again. It was over now.
Victor asked him to sit guard near the door while he took care of the bodies- which basically entailed pouring some liquid over them as far as Yuuri could tell. Yuuri didn't mind. He sat in silence, staring at the patterns the toilet water made across the white tile. The way it bled in with a deep red in some places. Then the water became pinkish. He almost smiled at the swirling colors. All that panic from before seemed silly.
He thought he might understand now. Victor's detachment.
His duffel bag fell at his side.
"Are you ready?"
He glanced up in a slow tilt to see Victor standing over him, both their gear bags strapped on his back, a strange arch to his brow. Why did he look like that? Yuuri wasn't crying or falling over himself. He was being braver than last time. Than ever before.
"Mm." He nodded, using Victor's arm to pull himself up, his back against the wall of the narrowed entrance. Victor paused when he'd stood completely to his feet, that same concerned look in his eye as he squeezed him at the elbows.
"Stay with me."
Yuuri frowned. Why did he have to ask? "I'm here." He took his hand, calloused and covered in reddish splotches, to press a chaste kiss into his palm. "Always."
It earned him a smile.
Victor lit a match and tossed it toward the center of the room. Yuuri couldn't turn to see with Victor's hand trained rigidly on the back of his neck, but from the shadows licking against the opposite wall, he could guess how rapidly the flame would spread. Yuuri took up his duffel bag and leaned onto Victor, arm over arm. With one last glance at the growing flames, they stepped out into the freezing cold together.