"Just one more time." He wheezed out the words, his chest heaving, sweat glistening on his forehead. Shacking out his fingerless gloves that had become sodden from sweat, Yuuri whipped off his brow, pushing back his dark strands from his eyes, not unlike his competition style. He swallowed thickly at the thought, quickly sliding to the edge of the rink, unzipping his jacket. He could feel the open blisters rubbing against the inside of his skates, a familiar burn he had grown accustomed to over the last few hours. Slipping his gloves back on, he threw a glance out the Ice Castle Rink windows only to see night had fallen. He hadn't even noticed.

Reaching the banister, he shrugged off his sweater and threw it onto the benches that lined the arena. A flashing light caught his attention. He'd left his cellphone in his duffle bag which he'd abandoned earlier. The light flashed again, meaning to notify him of a text alert or a call. With a grimace, he pushed off the banister, skating back to the center of the ice. He didn't want to think about it.

Bunching the long sleeves of his shirt at his elbows, he took a stabilizing breathe. His legs shook beneath him from the simple effort of standing on his skates. The cold air of the rink burned his lungs.

"Again." He whispered.

He'd abandoned doing any jumps an hour or two ago, having met the ice face first in rather sad attempts at quads one too many times, sporting a series of small bruises along his jaw, his elbows, his knees, for his efforts. Instead, he pushed off into the first step sequence of his season's short program, skipping ahead of the intro in his head. The movements were ingrained in his body, dancing across the ice off of muscle memory rather than intellectual attempt. Thinking was the last thing he wanted to do at the moment.

The sharp sounds of his blades scraping the ice, and the soft silences as he glided across, echoed in the empty arena. He relished in the cold of the rink against his skin, his skating creating a breeze, cold friction relieving the heat of exertion. Step, twist, repeat, change directions, spot the turn. The edge of his blade caught the ice, and he stumbled, his hand touching the ice before he could regain his balance.

And he was back the grand prix, the ice like a freezing burn under his fingers, one that had cemented his silver medal.

He pushed harder, speeding through the next step sequence at twice the speed, the tempo of the music playing in his head increasing to match his erratic movements. Twist, step, step, turn, again. Another near miss as his ankle gave a lurch against a too-quick cross-over.

He could hear the startled gasps of the crowd, the burn of embarrassment creeping up his cheeks.

No, he struck his blade against the ice and propelled himself further down the ice, loosing himself in a frantic step sequence that no longer belonged to this season's program. Falling into the groove of a jump preparation, he remembered where he knew this choreography from. His first grand prix, the one he had miserably lost at. He felt the icy burn travel from his fingertips to his knees that had hit the ice after those faithful jumps, to his hip when he'd fallen out of his combination spin. Yuuri shook his head as if to dispel the memory physically, running a shaking hand through the wayward strands that fells into his eyes stinging with sweat. His skates hit the ice harder with every jerking push as he threw himself into a rapid sprint down to the other end of the rink. His legs burned with the effort, his lungs struggling to keep up. He heaved a heavy breath and lined up a jump, anything to get the sound of bated breaths and unearned applause out of his mind. His toe pick hit the ice and he was airborne. Arms tucked tight, legs wrapped around one another, he counted his rotations, breath stuck in his chest.

One. He's a kid again, too shy to talk to the girl with the chocolate colored hair who skated like the music sang to her.

Two. His first competition, he misses the warm up because he's crying in the parking lot from the anxiety eating at him.

Three. He's cradling his head in his hands at the kiss and cry after his disastrous performance at the grand prix the season prior, his coach is speaking in soothing tones he can't hear.

Four. He's beat the world record set by Viktor Nikiforov, his very own coach, but he still falls short of gold.

Again.

No matter how hard he tries.

He always falls short.

"Yuuri."

His fourth spin was under rotated and the ice caught his edge, sending him falling hard towards the unforgiving surface. He threw his hands out reflexively and the shock of the impact ran through his right wrist like electricity. It buckled and his shoulder meet the ice next, the brunt of the impact sending him sprawling onto his back. He'd tucked in his chin to avoid smacking his head yet again and lay motionless on the ice for a second, tense against the impending pain. There always was a moment there, where the adrenaline completely overwrote the agony. It never lasted long enough. Too quickly, it left his system and sharp pain radiated up his arm. His muscles, taunt with over exertion, also thought it the right time to be heard. With a groan, he let his head fall back against the ice and released the tension holding him stiff, the cold a stark contrast against his overheating head, his limbs thankful for the rest. This was it, the moment he ruined his career with a dumb mistake in practice, injuring himself without hope of ever returning competitively. It wouldn't be so bad. He had done well. Never good enough. But not everyone got to win. Maybe he was simply destined to never taste what gold medals felt like on chapped lips.

Any remaining strength, earned from his years of training, his natural endurance, seeped out of him, and he closed his eyes against the harsh neon lights that illuminated the rink. He felt the sudden urge to cry, but found himself unable to. Thoughts of dehydration plagued him momentarily, but he couldn't move if he tried, a mixture of exhaustion both physical and emotional. He couldn't take off his skates, gather his things, and face his family with a smile, not when a dark pit ate at his chest like a starved animal.

"Yuuri!"

His eyes snapped open at the familiar voice. The sound of frantic footsteps reached his ears put he couldn't fight gravity hard enough to lift his head. His breathes crystallized above his lips in intricate misty patterns, and he wondered if tears would turn to ice if given enough time. He closed his eyes. Knees hit the ice beside his head and shadows fell onto his eyelids. Something soft brushed his forehead, and supple, worn leather cupped his cheek. He winced as long fingers accidentally pressed on bruised skin, and the warmth the hands had brought left him as swiftly as it had appeared.

Clothing rustled and he head a phone dialing. He couldn't bring himself to face his coach, not like this, lying defeated on the ice that had taken everything from him.

"Hello? I need an ambulance at the Hasetsu ice castle arena -"

Ambulance…

"What? Viktor!" Yuuri practically yelled, all self-loathing momentarily forgotten. Jerking up into a sitting position, he spread his hands wide, waving, as if the motion would dissuade his coach's actions.

Viktor's eyes flashed, the terror lending itself to shock, transitioning to a cold glare. It shown with the kind of furor that stemmed from concern, filling them with tears. Yuuri knew then he should say something, anything, to comfort the man, but Viktor's frosty, worried glare had him nailed to the spot. Those ocean blue eyes had frozen over, and Yuuri was thrown head first into the icy landscape.

"Never mind. He was just pretending to be dead." Viktor coolly informed the operator, his voice like poisoned arrows, each imbedding themselves into Yuuri's already beaten and bruised heart. His coach finished the call with as much anger as one could hit a button, the tone ringing strangely loudly in the empty arena, in the empty space between them. Viktor turned away from Yuuri, his bangs hiding his expression.

"Dead?" Yuuri gaped once his wits returned, finally able to gather his thoughts when icy blue eyes weren't digging into his soul anymore, "I wasn't pretending to be dead!" But Viktor either hadn't heard the startled defense, or was ignoring him, as he stood in his city boots and started walking off the ice. "Viktor, wait! I-" but Yuuri's wrist buckled as he tried to push himself to his feet, and a pained groan escaped his lips as heat ran up his arm, radiating from the offending articulation. Had he been looking at Viktor, he would have noticed the moment's hesitation, the faintest of rustle of his long overcoat. But he'd closed his eyes and ground his teeth against the pain plaguing him. Stubbornly, he used his other arm to climb onto shaking legs and cradled his injured wrist to his chest. Unsteady, from the exhaustion, from the shock, he skated after his coach who'd already reached the gate which was still thrown open. The sound of his skates against the ice grated as his ears, jarring against the loud silence that stretched between them. As he approached, Yuuri noticed a slight tremble in Viktor's wide shoulders.

"Viktor..." He started, his good hand reaching out to touch his arm, to prompt him to face him. But before his fingers could brush his coach's characteristic coat, Viktor spun around, shoving away Yuuri's outstretched hand with a great sweeping motion. Yuuri, caught by surprised, practically fell back from the trust. He managed to stay standing out of sheer will and the beginnings of annoyance. Viktor's whole body was heaving with barely controlled breaths, his chin shaking, eyes obscured by his long bangs. Yuuri's gaze followed a single tear, as it crested on his coach's chin, and fell, crashing onto the ice at his feet. The annoyance evaporated. "Viktor-"

"I called you." The words were thrown out into the void between them, life lines attached to nothing.

"I didn't hear -" Yuuri protested feebly.

"All day. When you weren't at breakfast, I let it slide, assumed you slept in. But by lunch, I checked your room and you weren't there. I checked Minako's, but she hadn't seen you since the welcome home party after the grand prix." It sounded painful for Viktor to articulate the words, as if his jaw had been clamped shut too strongly for too long, as if the muscles didn't know how to move to form words anymore. His accent was harsher than usual, as if is emotions were felt in Russian and it was physically demanding to translate them for Yuuri's sake.

"I waited at the studio with Minako, and I called, but you didn't answer either of us. You have barely said anything since we got back from Barcelona." Yuuri cringed at that. He hadn't been that distant, had he? He'd just needed a bit of time to regroup, but he wasn't pushing anyone away. He didn't mean to. "Do you know how worried everyone has been?"

Yuuri tried to cut in, to explain, that he had needed a second to digest, to breathe, to come to terms with everything that had happened, not just at the Grand Prix, but in the last few months, since Viktor had showed up and decided to turn his life upside down. The last competition had brought a whole chapter of his life to close, and now everything was up in the air, his future as a competitive skater, his future with Viktor as his coach. He just wanted to lose himself in his short program and pretend it had never ended, pretend the scores had never been settled, pretend he had never let gold slip through frost-burned fingertips.

"I waited, and when you didn't answer, when you didn't come, I called Yuuko but she said she's closed the rink hours ago. She hadn't seen you either."

"I have a key..." Yuuri supplied softly, but even that felt empty.

"I went back to the hot springs, you still weren't back, no one had heard from you. You've been distant for days. Even Minako was worried sick. I thought… I got Yuuko to give me the keys. I wanted to…" Let off some steam, lose yourself in the familiarity of skating, not think, for one second, as you soar through the air and land an impossible jump. Yuuri had come for the same reasons. "I was so..." Worried? But the seconds dragged on and no words filled the silence. Viktor searched Yuuri's eyes for something he didn't find. He looked away, his lips pressed into a harsh line. "Do you know what time it is?"

"What?" Yuuri was caught off guard by the question, but from Viktor's clenched fists, took the hint to answer. He threw an unsure glance out the windows, at the darkened skies that gave no sure indication of the time. "Euh, like 10pm?"

"It's 2 in the morning." The words were flat, but they sent Yuuri reeling.

"No, that's not... That's impossible." He defended himself. He'd lost so much time with his mindless repetition of his short program, trying to drill that jump into his very bones. He hadn't even noticed the time slip by. Viktor's eyes landed on his again, burning with newly stroked embers.

"How long have you been here?" The words were steel.

"A- A few hours, no that-"

"When's the last time you took a break?" Grey eyes were steel.

"I… I didn't really-" That was the wrong thing to say, he saw the fury bloom in his coach's eyes like flowers in the middle of winter, unexpected, terribly resilient, tempestuous. For a second, had Yuuri not known Viktor better, had they been strangers facing off, in a different situation, in different circumstances, Yuuri would have been scared. But he knew Viktor, the other face of the coin they shared, and he knew he would never hurt him. There was nothing to fear in the tundra of his eyes, because he was not on the receiving end, he was the source. Viktor knew it too, because his shoulders sagged, his eyes softened as the ice melted to tears, and he brought shaking fingers to pull at his silver bangs.

"You're hurting me Yuuri."


A/N Hey! So this'll be a short, most likely two-part, ficlet. Keep an eye out for the part 2 which will be out eventually when I'm not drowning in work. In any case, I hope this soothes your soul in the wait for the movie...