Yuri felt a wide grin creep over his face as the text came through. Mila had come down with a cold she didn't want to aggrevate or spread, so he'd have the rink to himself. He didn't mind Baba, she was fun to tease... and though he'd never admit it to her face, he did like her. But there was something freeing about having the rink to practice alone.

With the championships coming up in a week, they'd both been on the ice almost constantly. He wasn't surprised she would rather take a day off than skate, though. Better to fall behind a day in practice than risk pushing the cold into something with a fever that would drain all her energy.

They had both moved temporarily to St. Petersburg so they could practice in the actual rink they'd been competing in, and he'd been here for a week. It was busier than he liked, but being a gold medalist in the last Games came with the perks of being able to demand an hour of ice to himself. He shared it with Mila, because... well, mostly because of how pleased his grandfather had been when he'd mentioned it, actually.

So while there had been people in and out all day, and there were still a few people in the stands, doing repair or electrical setup or cleaning or something else Yuri really didn't care about, he was the only one allowed on the ice for the whole next hour. He tugged on his laces, wiggling his feet to make sure the skates were tight enough on his shins, and stood up, grumbling to himself as his earphones tangled.

Yanking them out of his ears to untwist the cord, he heard an odd hiss, like air was leaking from somewhere. Sounded like it was coming from the bank of lockers to the right... probably someone's frozen waterbottle defrosting or something. Shoving his earphones back in, he headed out to the ice.

The next thing he was aware of was an awful, strangled sort of yowl, like someone stepping on a cat. He realized he was facefirst on the ground, pressed awkwardly up against the boards. And then he realized HE was the one making that sound, and then the pain washed through him, and he stopped being aware of anything.


It was all over the news. Radical anti-Russian terrorists had bombed the St Petersburg ice rink where gold medalist Yuri Piletsky had been practicing. Surely it was a plot to keep Russia away from the gold again. Other official sources speculated that it was an act of Ukranian spies, determined to strike fear and pain into the hearts of Russian citizens.

Quieter stories went around, about how maybe it wasn't as politically charged as all of that. Word spread that someone on the forensics team had been heard saying the IED had been very amateurish, constructed of commonly available materials and put together inexpertly. The timing system probably hadn't even worked properly; it was likely supposed to have gone off during the actual Championships and was just placed early when security wasn't tight.

Even quieter whispers said that it HAD been personal, that someone high up in their own Government had made the decision that the prestige of having Piletsky as one of their athletes wasn't enough to balance out the unnatural femininity of the boy. After all, Victor Nikiforov had left the country of his own free will, since he knew Russia would not tolerate his relationship with Japan's Yuuri Katsuki.

The Russian Championships were moved to Beijing, who had courteously offered use of their world-class centre after the news. They were a subdued affair, with good, if not outstanding, performances, and of course, no Yuri Piletsky.


It seemed to take forever to wake up. Yuri could hear things, voices he didn't recognize, voices he did. His grandfather was around often, his coaches too. He even heard his mother once, he thought.

Eventually he started to notice other things. Periods where he could see light through his eyelids, periods where it was dark. The voices became more distinct, and he could understand enough to realize he was in a hospital. He couldn't feel any pain, and that worried him somehow, and right about the time he realized that, the itching started in. Terrible itching, under his skin, but he couldn't seem to DO anything about it, no matter how hard he tried to speak or move.

Some of the lethargy finally faded one night, and he started to scratch. It was glorious, and terrible, because the itch never went away, no matter how satisfying the scratch. The first person to walk in was very excited, although it was hard to understand everything she said. He tried to protest when she grabbed his hands, forcing them away from his skin, but his voice didn't seem to work past a faint moan.

There was a flury of activity, and someone bundled up his hands in something soft, someone else smeared something pleasant and cool on his skin, but it didn't... really seem to stop the itch. That finally started to ebb sometime around the sun coming up, the itch draining out of him a bit at a time while the pain he'd been expecting started to blossom.

It was all across his right side. It started as a faint ache on the back of his shoulder and spread, radiating down his arm, up the side of his head, down onto his thigh. It was like petals unfolding, getting bigger, and brighter with every minute, except the brightness was pain, and holy SHIT now he was awake.

"Yuri." It was his grandfather, and he drew a shuddering sigh of relief. "You are finally awake."

"I... I hurt," he said, his voice cracking through lips that felt dry and cracked. "What..."

"You're in a hospital. There was... an explosion. You were caught in it. They've been keeping you in a medical coma while you healed... it was not a process anyone would want to be awake for."

There was something at his lips, a straw. He sucked greedily at it, and the cool water was the best thing he ever tasted. A gentle finger dabbed something soothing on his lips too, and now it hurt less to talk. He even tried opening his eyes, and decided immediately that it was too bright and he'd have to ease ito that. "How big of an explosion?"

"Not large," he said. "The police said it was not very professional, and the damage was mostly confined to the change rooms. Had you been a little slower... But you were the only person on the ice that day, and the only person to be badly hurt."

So at least that was one worry gone. As much as he wouldn't admit it out loud, Yuri hardly wanted to see anyone else hurt. And as much as he wanted to ask more, the pain was making it hard to focus. "I... why do I hurt so much now? It wasn't this bad before..."

He snuck a peek over at his grandfather, who looked more lined with worry now, but still as solid as ever. "When they brought you out of the coma, they started you on morphine. It turns out you have an allergy to it, and they did not want to risk another drug while it was still in your system."

"Well, I'm pretty sure it's out now," he groaned, and he almost wept to see a nurse enter the room, a vial of something in her hand.

"Mr. Piletsky, it's good to see you awake. I have something else for the pain, if you'd like-"

"Yes!" he didn't quite sob. She inserted the needle just below an IV bag, which he just now realized was attached to his arm, which looked pretty normal, not exploded or anything. The relief was gradual, like the petals were folding back in again, and he drew a shuddering sigh of relief.

"You're progressing quite well, despite what I'm sure it feels to you," she said in a soothing voice. "Because of your excellent health, you've healed much faster than usual for someone in your situation. Just rest now, the worst is over."

He didn't want to rest, he suspected he'd been resting for a very long time, but... he realized the pain had been the only thing keeping him awake. "Grandpa?" he whispered, his eyes fluttering closed against his will, and he smiled slightly to feel the familiar hand take his.

When he woke up, Yakov was there instead of his grandfather, and he blinked in surprise. Surely he hadn't been asleep that long, had he? But the window was dark when he looked over that way, grimacing at the stiffness and ache it took to turn his head even a tiny bit. "Yakov... how long have I been out?" At least the pain wasn't as sharp as it had been. Still annoying and achey all up his right side, but not awful.

"Yuri!" He started up out of a light doze, jerking forward to take his hand. Yuri let him. He could use a little bit of comfort right now, even if he wouldn't ask for it. "It's been about six hours since you spoke with Nikolai. Lilia finally took him for some dinner."

"Oh... that's good." he said vaguely. "Wait, that's not what I meant."

"I know," he said heavily. "It's been almost exactly a month, Yuri."

"A... a month?" he said, feeling like his stomach had just been dropped off a cliff. "But... but the Championships... Without a showing there, I can't qualify for Worlds. Yakov, the Olympics are a year and a half away, I..."

"Yuri..." he said, and the careful gentleness in his voice was terrible to hear. Yakov was gruff the way Yuri was angry. The fact that he was trying to be nice made it work. "Yuri, you were very badly hurt. You won't be on the ice in time for Worlds."

"WHAT?" he shrieked, and he hated how weak his voice sounded.

"Please, stay calm Yur-"

"No! No I am not going to stay calm!" he snapped. "I have to get back on the ice! This isn't good enough, you have to find better doctors!"

"There ARE none." As usual, Lilia Baranovskaya's icy sharp tones cut through his ranting, and his eyes flicked to the door. "You have already been tended by them. The foremost specialist on skin grafting in the world was flown in from Sweeden to consult on your case." She strode in, as stately and elegant and powerful as always, followed by the slouching, familiar, incredibly comforting form of his grandfather.

"It's true, kotyonok," his grandfather said, looking like he was holding back tears. "The doctors told us you had third and fourth degree burns to much of the right side of your body. They said..."

"That you have recovered to this point is a testament to your physical health and fighting spirit," Lilia overrode him. "And it will continue to serve you as you recover further. I will not tolerate one of my pupils succumbing to pointless anger. Your strength will be needed for much more important things than ranting uselessly."

He responded to her sharp tongue in a way that gentle words and softness never got to him. It cut through the rage and panic that was starting to rise in him, and he took a deep breath. "Alright. How bad is it?" he asked, his eyebrows drawing down in a glare when nobody spoke up. "I need to know!" he barked.

"There was some muscle and tendon damage to your right arm and back," Yakov said after another moment. "And burns from your thigh up to your head. You've had some donor skin grafts, and the doctors think that because you are so young, you will be able to regrow... much of it."

"Much of it..." Yuri echoed, his hands coming up. His right hand didn't want to move properly, it was so stiff all along his shoulder and the back of his arm. He brought his left hand up, feeling tears prick at his eyes when he felt his hair cropped almost to a stubble; what wasn't hidden under gauzy bandages anyway. Stupid. Stupid to care about losing his hair when... His mind skittered to a halt, refusing to go farther. "You... you cut my hair..." he whispered.

Lilia rolled her eyes, but his grandfather came forward, a gentle hand brushing his cheek. "It's alright, Yuri. You're still beautiful."

"No I'm not!" he shrieked, his good hand now frantically exploring over his body. He couldn't reach (couldn't reach? He could reach any part of himself he wanted what the hell?) his back, he couldn't seem to twist around. The parts he could feel horrified him, though. There was so much bandaging, it seemed like it covered half his body. And myriad fresh scratches, which he realized were self-inflicted when he'd woken up the first time trying to scratch the morphine out of his body. It seemed like every part of him was either scratched bloody or burnt off. "I'm hideous! And I can't move!"

Yuri!" Lilia snapped again, but it didn't cut through as well as it normally did. He looked over at her, and her lips thinned even more than usual as she saw his panic. "Yuri, you will be fine. This is a first step. You are young and healthy, and you will not be in this bed forever."

"But I'll never skate again."

"Of course you will!" Yakov said gruffly.

"I'll never dance," Yuri said more quietly, and none of them had the heart to lie. He knew he'd never get the flexibility back for his spins. Never have the range of motion to throw himself into a jump. "I think... I think I'd like to sleep now," he said, and since he couldn't turn away from them, he just closed his eyes and willed them to leave.